Myra Danvers

“We’ll never be done, you and I.” He pushed off her desk. Closed the distance between them with prowling steps, clenched fists, and oh, so much determination. “Too much unfinished business to ever call it over.” He stopped a few steps away from uncomfortably close. Braced his palm on the wall behind her head, forearm brushing the side of her throat. “’Sides”—he licked his lips, glanced down her shirt—“we never got our hate f**k, baby girl.” Iris knows he’ll come. He’ll come lookin’ for what she stole, what she refused to give up when everything went to hell. Won’t find it, of course. There’s nothing left but a pipe full o’the good stuff and the dregs of the past that refuse to die.

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