It had always been Killian Stone’s go-to for the situations where dammit was too specific and fuck too broad. While I’d always jabbed a firm thumb up at his warrior spin on the word, I never imagined letting a woman drag me to a place furious enough that I’d be yanking it up for myself. With an embellishment. “This is enough, princess.” I bit out every word though, hardly worried about anyone acknowledging them. Standing at the corner of Ash and Seventh, close to sundown on the third of July, was a crash course in noise levels of every kind. The crowds were thick, everybody from hipsters in bowlers and families with strollers to loudmouthed frat boys and off-duty military out to enjoy the festive feel of the approaching holiday. The air itself was already on board with the party, a tangle of terrace barbecue, ocean breeze, sidewalk vendor tamales, and yeah, beer. Lots and lots of beer. The go-with-the-flow vibe did shit for mellowing my impatience—this after I was so damn certain I’d secured a handle on the stuff this morning.
