Nothing says you're sorry like a dead bunny.

For Adam, screwed-up bonding thing or not, I’d wait forever.
“Really?” he asked in a tone I’d never heard from him before. Softer. Vulnerable. Adam didn’t do vulnerable.

“Really what?” I asked.
“Despite the way our bond scares you, despite the way someone in the pack played you, you’d still have me?”
He'd been listening to my thoughts. This time it didn't bother me.

“Adam,” I told him, “I’d walk barefoot over hot coals for you.

He stepped back with exaggerated courtesy. But when I walked past him, he swatted my rump. Hard enough to sting.
“You need to be more careful,” he growled. “Keep interfering in my business and you might get hurt.”
I said sweetly as I continued to Jesse's room, “The last man who swatted me like that is rotting in his grave.”
“I have no doubt about it.” His voice was more satisfied then contrite.

Adam has always had . . . heroic tendencies.”
I touched Adam’s arm. “He’s my hero.”
There was another pause. . .
“That is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Bran said. “Be careful, Adam, or you’ll turn her into a real girl.”
Adam looked at me. “I like her just the way she is, Bran.” And he meant it, greasy overalls, broken fingernails, and all.

Cheeses crusty, got all musty, got damp on the stone of a peach.

He was like Superman, but with fangs and oddly impaired morals.