The rage of the Beast Lord was a terrible thing to behold. Some people stormed, some punched things, but Curran slipped into this icy, bone-chilling calm. His face hardened into a flat mask, and his eyes turned into a molten inferno of pure gold. If you looked at it for longer than two seconds, your muscles locked, your knees shook, and you had to fight to keep from cringing. It was easier to look at the floor,
but I didn’t. Besides, he wasn’t angry with me. He wasn’t even angry with Kate. He was angry with Anapa. I had no doubt that if he could’ve gotten a hold of the god at that moment, he would’ve broken him in half.
“It’s only ribs,” Kate told him. “And they’re not even broken. They are fractured.”
“And the hip,” Doolittle said. “And the knee.”
There you go. Don’t expect mercy from a honeybadger.
“How long do you need to keep her?” Curran looked to Doolittle.
“She can go to her quarters, provided she doesn’t leave them,” Doolittle said. “I can’t do anything else with the magic down. She must stay down until I can patch her up.”
“She will.” Curran reached for Kate. “Hey, baby. Ready?”
She nodded. Curran slid his hands under her and picked her up, gently, as if she weighed nothing.
“Good?” he asked.
She put her arm around him. “Never better.

Ilona Andrews