CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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For your foes are fierce and ruthless,
False, unmerciful, and truthless. . . .
—Ibid, Act II
“You, sir, are a poop.”
“I may be, but you love me. You, madam, love a poop.”
I glared at the man who alternately made my heart soar with joy and left me with an almost overpowering urge to throttle him. “We are not discussing personal things like emotions and who loves whom, although I’d like to point out that you declared your love for me first.”
“Keeping score, are you?” he teased.
“No. But it makes me go all warm and fuzzy that I didn’t have to pry it out of you. Back to the subject at hand—bringing an end to the blockade and providing supplies to my poor, starving townsfolk.”
Corbin leaned back in one of the chairs in Bart’s library, steepled his fingers,
