“Shut up. Asshole. (Shahara)I live for your endearments. (Syn)”
“The dead won’t hurt you, Shahara. Only the living can do that. (Syn)”
“What now? (Shahara)I’m thinking. (Syn)Could you think a little quicker? (Shahara)You’re not helping. (Syn)You’re lucky you’re still breathing and not limping. (Shahara)”
“What am I supposed to do while you’re gone? (Shahara)Think up ways to kill me while I sleep. (Syn)”
“Thank you, Shay. (Syn)For what? (Shahara)For looking into the eyes of nothing and seeing a man you could love. (Syn)”
“You do know I am my father’s son, right? People don’t talk to me that way and live. (Syn)Oh, like I fear you. Never. Besides, a fight might dislodge whatever has crawled up your sphincter and bring back the much nicer version of you. (Shahara)”