My most noticeable physical trait is, hands down, my hair. It's big, unruly and curly, and you can spot it from a mile away... literally.

Religion?” I asked more firmly. Patch dragged a hand thoughtfully along the line of his jaw. “Not religion … cult.” “You belong to a cult?” I realized too late that while I sounded surprised, I shouldn’t have. “As it turns out, I’m in need of a healthy female sacrifice. I’d planned on luring her into trusting me first, but if you’re ready now …

This ring belongs to the black hand. He killed your dad.

Patch's eyes were slate black, darker than a million secrets stacked on top of each other. He dropped his gaze to the ring in his hand, turning it over slowly. "Swear you'll never stop loving me," I whispered. Ever so slightly, he nodded.

Are you defending Marcie?” He shook his head. “I don’t need to. She handled herself. You, on the other hand…” I pointed at the door. “Out.

Hang on, did you just call me Angel?” I asked. “If I did?” “I don’t like it.” He grinned. “It stays. Angel.” He leaned across the table, raised his hand to my face, and brushed his thumb along one corner of my mouth. I pulled away, too late.

Father' is such an arbitary word. Douche bag, on the other hand...

I didn’t break his jaw, but if he lays a hand on you, it will be the first of many things to break,” Patch said.

You didn’t tell me she was so soft on the eyes,” he said to Patch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He spoke with a heavy Irish accent. “I didn’t tell her how hard you are on them either,” Patch returned, his mouth at the relaxed stage just before a grin.