If it's hellfire he's slinging, let it be true. Kate don't care either which way. Either he's an outlaw or a demon, a magician, a rogue, but all have their uses in one way or another. Because Kate hasn't only defended her beliefs, she's worn the blood of her lover on her skin as the town she once called a home murdered him just inches from where she sat; she's held God's fury in her hand and rained down death on the crooked pig of a lawman who let it happen, and if this fella is going to pontificate like some apostle of justice either he's her ticket to hell or they'll go down swinging together.

Her eyes burn like a blue fire, lips quirked in a smirk that's not awful nice, but no less genuine. It's hard to say whether she's going to shoot him or eat him alive.

"Actually, the answer I was lookin' for—"

She presses her lips to his ear, bodies hugging, voice a sanguinous hum.

"—is because I only kiss the men that I kill. So tell me, Sugar; care for a peck?"