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“When she turned away, he caught her hand. He waited until she looked back at him. “I need my weapons. Just in case.” “You won’t shoot me. Or stab me. Or throw one of those thingies at me.” “No.” She snorted. “How would you know? You don’t know what you’re doing half the time.” “Still.” She sighed and began stacking weapons on the bed beside the pillow. “Fine. But I’ll be royally pissed if you try to kill me again. It’s getting old.” — Christine Feehan
When she turned away, he caught her hand. He waited until she looked back at him. “I need my weapons. Just in case.”
“You won’t shoot me. Or stab me. Or throw one of those thingies at me.”
“No.”
She snorted. “How would you know? You don’t know what you’re doing half the time.”
“Still.”
She sighed and began stacking weapons on the bed beside the pillow. “Fine. But I’ll be royally pissed if you try to kill me again. It’s getting old.