JL Roberts > Recent Status Updates

"Lark...are you...are you a serial killer?"
"No." She scoffs. "Of course not. No. I'm more like a..." She drifts off into thought as she seems to weigh several possible responses. Dread sinks into my guts as her brow furrows and then smooths. A heartbeat later, a vibrant smile erupts on her face. "I'm more like a multiple deleter."

"Lark Montague might be cute as a button, all shiny happy ra-ra cheerleader shit, but bitch is fucking vindictive. I love her to death and beyond, but let's just say that particular unicorn doesn't shit rainbows."

It was. it was my insane idea that I'm 100% not regretting now. Oh my god, what am I doing? I've literally lost my mind. I'm marrying Lachlan Kane, Boston's biggest asshole. This is probably crazier than blowing someone up with fireworks.

Sloane's gaze catches on my smile, and her glare softens even though I can tell she doesn't want it to. "You'll love me one day," I purr, keeping hold of her eyes when they reach mine.
"I don't think so, Butcher."

The Orb Weaver. I'm sitting across the table from the fucking Orb Weaver. And she's fucking beautiful.
Raven hair. Warm Hazel eyes. The spread of freckles over her cheeks and a little nose that's turned a bit red.

I clamor to my feet to grip the cold bars just as he reaches the threshold. "Sloan. My name is sloan. The orb-weaver."

"I'm Rowan, he says. You might know me as the Boston butcher."
I shake my head.
"The Massacre of Mass...?"
I shake my head again.
"The ghost of the East Coast...?"
I sigh.
I've totally heard of all those names, even though I'm not telling him that.

“This isn’t part of the deal,” she whispers. Her head rests against the wall and her lips part. Fucking perfect. One touch. One kiss. A test and a taste. Leaning in, I take her mouth. Slow and measured movements of my lips isn’t enough. Her pulse jumps at the base of her throat and shivers run down her body, breaking any thoughts of this being a test or a taste. I want the fucking meal.

“One job. A job for a job.”
“Each job has a different value. There’s no one job to equal what I’ve done for you.”
“Then give me a number.”
“No.” He pulls in a slow breath while a grin forms over his lips. “But I’ll give you a limit. Up to five jobs.”
It’s a limit, a boundary, and I’m smart enough to know not to push him too far. “Deal.” I’m indebted to an assassin.

And that’s where I see him. I’ve become familiar with his face—as much as I could with the distant, grainy pictures on my phone from three weeks ago. But one image reveals his features—angular and rigid. Dark brown hair over blue eyes—I imagine they’re blue. They’re too bright in the dark image. He’s striking enough to make my breath hitch to look at him, but he’s an assassin. I need to tread carefully.

They're everywhere, of course, dead people. I don't hear only the modern dead. I feel the ancient dead, too; even, very rarely, the faint, faint echo of a trace of people who walked the Earth before there was writing.

For the plus size queens dreaming of being hunted by a mass psychopath, who thinks your favorite romance book is a how to manual.
X says hi. And he'll see you in your bedroom. (Possibly from outside your window, but hey, details.)

💜😏 Love this dedication!

It's hard to describe the feeling--but of course, that's what everyone wants to know, what it feels like to sense a dead person. It's a little like hearing a bee droning inside your head, or maybe the pop of a Geiger counter--a persistent and irregular noise, increasing in strength the closer I get to the body.

Aidan O'Rourke: the Irish Devil, second son of the mob, and Breakers enforcer. He was chaos personified, a captivating mix of skill and brutality.

"A promise is just another lie, dressed up to look beautiful enough to believe. Praying on hope." I muttered under my breath looking away from him.

I kissed him then. The kind of kiss required when your mate tries to die on you. Desperate didn't cover it.

Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where they strung up a man they say murdered three? Strange things did happen here No stranger would it be If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.

Is Lucy Gray the original writer of the famous hanging tree song that Katniss sings?

“The District Twelve girl tribute is Lucy Gray Baird,” he said into a mic.
The audience gave a surprised murmur at the sight of her.
Lucy Gray Baird stood upright in a dress made of a rainbow of ruffles, now raggedy but once fancy. Her dark, curly hair was pulled up and woven with limp wildflowers. Her colorful ensemble drew the eye, as to a tattered butterfly in a field of moths.

The District 12 girl? Could there be a bigger slap in the face? District 12, the smallest district, the joke district, with its stunted, joint-swollen kids that always died in the first five minutes, and not only that . . . but the girl? Not that a girl couldn’t win, but in his mind the Hunger Games were largely about brute force, and the girls were naturally smaller than the boys and therefore at a disadvantage.

As in the past, the tributes would be dumped into the Capitol Arena, a now-dilapidated amphitheater that had been used for sports and entertainment events before the war, along with some weapons to murder one another. Viewing was encouraged in the Capitol, but a lot of people avoided it. How to make it more engaging was the challenge.

There would be twenty-four tributes, one boy and one girl from each of the twelve defeated districts, drawn by lottery to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death in the Hunger Games. It was all laid out in the Treaty of Treason that had ended the Dark Days of the districts’ rebellion, one of the many punishments borne by the rebels.

He smoothed back his blond curls as he mockingly whispered to his image, “Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem, I salute you.”

It was one of a long list of precautions he took to mask the fact that his family, despite residing in the penthouse of the Capitol’s most opulent apartment building, was as poor as district scum. That at eighteen, the heir to the once- great house of Snow had nothing to live on but his wits.

It was one of a long list of precautions he took to mask the fact that his family, despite residing in the penthouse of the Capitol’s most opulent apartment building, was as poor as district scum. That at eighteen, the heir to the once-great house of Snow had nothing to live on but his wits.

As he stepped around the tree he was confronted by something that seemed to have crawled out of his nightmares. It was 7 ft at least. Clumped fur hung from broad shoulders to graze the ground. Luminous eyes glittered out from a twisted, shadowed inhumane face. A long claw-like appendage extended from its arm and shown in the torchlight.

A twig snapped, it was no more than twenty feet away. Eileen flinched and pressed her lips together to quiet her rasping breaths. She didn't know what had broken the twig, but whatever it was had been following her for more than an hour.

Their shared pain had always pulled her toward him, but she’d denied the sensation for so long that it had become normal. Not anymore. If soul mates really existed, his father had created him to be hers. What an intriguing thought. She’d spent so much of her life avoiding connections with people, fearing they’d get hurt, but what if—what if—Cain really was meant to be hers?

Wulfe was a very old vampire, older than Marsilia. He was witchborn and a wizard , which meant that he wielded two entirely unrelated forms of magic in addition to whatever magical power just being an old vampire brought him. He was also bug-nuts. The combination of power and unpredictability made him the single scariest vampire I'd ever met.

"You bring me joy," he said clearly. "I never expected this. I don't deserve it-but I am claiming you for my own."
"Well, yes, I told him. I thought we'd established that when I claimed you for my mate and then my husband. I get you. You get me. No take-backs."

He laughed. Kissed me.