It’s alright, Kitten,” Bones said. “He won’t shoot.”	Tate lowered his gun, even as the sudden dizziness from blood-loss made me sway.	Bones took my gun and casually handed it to Juan, who gapped at him in amazement. 	“You called her Kitten? And she let you? She put me in a coma for three days when I called her that. My balls never recovered from her smashing them into my spine.”	“And well she should have,” Bones agreed. “She’s mine. Kitten, and no one else’s.
Jeaniene Frost, Halfway to the Grave
humorous