Jenn Herrick

“Blaine gives Vaughn the side-eye. I tamp down my smile at his less than subtle warning that Vaughn might have said a little too much. Vaughn’s expression is sheepish as he shuffles from foot to foot. “Uh, did I say hours? I meant seconds. It took us exactly ten seconds to put together a crib with instructions that don’t make sense, and we have two extra screws that we desperately hope won’t mean the baby will fall through it and… well⁠—” “We tried,” Garrison takes over. “What Vaughn is trying to say is that we tried.” The lump in my throat gets bigger. It’s accompanied by a prickle behind my eyes so intense I blink rapidly, yet the urge to cry doesn’t fade even a little. I left, and they made a nursery for my baby, never knowing if I would even come back. I clear my throat to dislodge that gigantic lump. “The, uh, the extra screws are spares.” Vaughn tilts his head. “Huh?” “It’s so manufacturers don’t have to keep mailing out extras when people accidentally lose one.” They all stare at me. “My dad would always build stuff when I was a kid. Postage is expensive. Cheaper to add a couple spares than pay for postage.” They visibly deflate. “Thank fuck,” Vaughn breathes. “I was trying to get Garrison to climb in to make sure that it would hold the baby, but he wouldn’t do it.”
― Ember L. Nicole, Captive Omega

“You’re a magical artifact, not a second-rate jester.” “One adapts to one’s master,”
― Tiffany Hunt, The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating (and Other War Crimes)

“I stalked across the war room’s wreckage and stopped in front of the ornate mirror. “Explain yourself,” I growled, slamming my palm on the carved frame. Blue runes flared beneath my fingers, and the surface of the glass rippled as though it were a pool of water. “My lord is displeased,” the mirror observed in a voice as flat as stale liquor. “How may this humble repository assist?” “The Heirloom failed to activate.” I gritted my teeth and felt a fresh wave of heat ripple up my spine. “I need to know why.” “Have you tried asking it nicely?”
― Tiffany Hunt, The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating (and Other War Crimes)

“Can I make a suggestion?” I asked her. “As a doctor who has studied psychiatry.” She paused. “That’s your specialty?” I frowned at her. “No, my specialty is glove balloon animals. Was that not obvious?” She let out a small laugh. “Right, of course. My mistake.”
― Elle Thorpe, Wife Number One