Adjusting Hair Quotes

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it. I can feel it when I think of human beings, of the hints of evolution suggested by the removal of wisdom teeth, the narrowing of the jaw no longer needed to chew such roughage as it was accustomed to; the gradual disappearance of hair from the human body; the adjustment of the human eye to the fine print, the swift, colored motion of the twentieth century. The feeling comes, vague and nebulous, when I consider the prolonged adolesence of our species; the rites of birth, marriage and death; all the primitive, barbaric ceremonies streamlined to modern times. Almost, I think, the unreasoning, bestial purity was best. Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.

My gaze crept to where Sadi stood only a few feet from her, breathing heavily. Her white blouse was torn. Buttons popped and missing. Her normally coiffed hair looked like she’d been inside a wind tunnel, but the best part? Fingernail marks were etched down the side of Sadi’s face and reddish-blue blood had been drawn. A disturbing level of pride rippled through me. Kitten got claws and then some. “She doesn’t play nice with others,” Sadi huffed out. “So I’m in the process of adjusting her attitude.” “And I’m in the process of getting ready to cut out your heart, bitch.” In spite of everything that was so damn messed up, my lips twitched into a small smile. “Get out.

When I notice how carefully arranged his hair is and when I watch him adjusting the parting with one finger, I cannot imagine that this man could conceive of such a wicked thing as to destroy the Roman constitution.

Her normally coiffed hair looked like she’d been inside a wind tunnel, but the best part? Fingernail marks were etched down the side of Sadi’s face and reddish-blue blood had been drawn. A disturbing level of pride rippled through me. Kitten got claws and then some. “She doesn’t play nice with others,” Sadi huffed out. “So I’m in the process of adjusting her attitude.” “And I’m in the process of getting ready to cut out your heart, bitch.” In spite of everything that was so damn messed up, my lips twitched into a small smile.

You fight. You fight for what you want. You do not wallow or surrender. The lesson in not in lying down and allowing yourself to be stabbed, child. It's in pushing yourself up and battling back." Her eyes flashed. "You fell down. So? Will you stay there, weeping over skinned knees? Or will you brush off your skirts, adjust your hair, and carry on? Do not relinquish your grasp on hope. It's one go the best weapons anyone possesses.

How can she create with all your negative energy?" "Yeah, man. You're bringing us down." "This is about as low as it gets," Ariel said. "Where did you get those ridiculous black berets?" Moth adjusted his recently donned beatnik attire. "This is what the hip cats wear , daddy-o." "Can you dig it?" Cobweb stroked a few wisps of fake chin hair, while the others nodded and snapped their fingers.

His laugh rumbled against me. Eyes closed, the wind roaring like a wild animal, I adjusted my position, gripping him tighter. My knuckles brushed one of his wings- smooth and cool like silk, but hard as stone with it stretched taut. Fascinating. I blindly reached again... and dared to run a fingertip along some inner edge. Rhysand shuddered, a soft groan slipping past my ear. "That," he said tightly, "is very sensitive". I snatched my finger back, pulling away far enough to see his face. With the wind, I had to squint, and my braided hair ripped this way and that, but- he was entirely focused on the montains around us. "Does it tickle?" He flicked his gaze to me, then on the snow and pine that went on forever. "It feels like this," he said, and learned in so close that his lips brushed the shell of my ear as he sent a gentle breath into it. My back arched on instinct, my chin tipping up at the carees of that breath. "Oh", I managed to say. I felt him smile against my ear and pull away.

«He grins and straightens, wings high and regal behind him. I glare at his costume. It’s so typical him. A mix of medieval and rock star: brown leather forearm guards with studs over a ruffle-cuffed white shirt, and a cavalier doublet in burgundy with a gold lace overlay. The hem hits above his muscled thighs, so the skintight burgundy hose taper smoothly into knee-high brown boots, leaving nothing to the imagination. Worst of all, he has a crown. He dressed as a fairy king. The irony doesn’t escape me. I scowl. “Problem, luv?” He looks down on me from behind a gold lace half mask while adjusting the ruby-jeweled crown over his blue hair with velvet-clad hands. Tiny moth corpses are suspended in the rubies, like stained-glass fossils. I shake my head. “I’m pretty sure you’ll be the only one wearing anything tight enough to need a codpiece. Always have to be the showstopper, don’t you?” “Oh, I assure you, what I chose to show is only the start.»

Are you Darah, Renee or Taylor? You look like a Taylor to me," he said, looking me up and down. I wasn't at my best, considering I was dressed for moving heavy objects in a blue UMaine t-shirt and black soccer shorts, and I had my light brown hair in a haphazard bun against the back of my neck. His eyes raked up and down twice, and for some reason the way he assessed me made me blush and want to kick him in the balls at the same time. "There must be a mistake," I said. He adjusted his bag on his shoulder. "That's a creative name. What do you shorten it to? Missy?

He said to the big fellow with the taffy hair, “Before we finish off this operation, I need to hit you up with some ideas.” At that moment, Cade noticed how physically similar Preston was to Merlin Olsen, the NFL great, actor, and all-round good man. He marveled at Preston, the man who couldn’t be happier, as he twirled his head from monitor to monitor, adjusting joysticks and pressing buttons in this claustrophobic workspace.

First Pallas and now you,” the gray-haired man said, shaking his head at Nick. “It’s like I’m running a goddamn dating service around here.” He spun around. “Wilkins! Huxley!” he barked. “Next case that involves a single woman—you’re up.” Standing at the sidewalk, Agent Wilkins pumped his fist excitedly. “Yes.” Huxley adjusted his glasses with a grin, looking decidedly pleased. “That was supposed to be sarcastic. I’m getting too old for this shit,

Well, well, well,” Santa said once the elf had retreated. “Come and sit on my lap, little boy.” This Santa’s beard was real, and so was his hair. He wasn’t fucking around. “I’m not really a little boy,” I pointed out. “Get on my lap, then, big boy.” I walked up to him. There wasn’t much lap under his belly. And even though he tried to disguise it, as I went up there, I swear he adjusted his crotch. “Ho ho ho!” he chortled. I sat gingerly on his knee, like it was a subway seat with gum on it. “Have you been a good little boy this year?” he asked. I didn’t feel that I was the right person to determine my own goodness or badness, but in the interest of speeding along this encounter, I said yes. He actually wobbled with joy. “Good! Good! Then what can I bring you this Christmas?” I thought it was obvious. “A message from Lily,” I said. “That’s what I want for Christmas. But I want it right now.” “So impatient!” Santa lowered his voice and whispered in my ear. “But Santa does have a little something for you”—he shifted a little in his seat—“right under his coat. If you want to have your present, you’ll have to rub Santa’s belly.” “What?” I asked. He gestured with his eyes down to his stomach. “Go ahead.” I looked closely and saw the faint outline of an envelope beneath his red velvet coat. “You know you want it,” he whispered. The only way I could survive this was to think of it as the dare it was. Fuck off, Lily. You can’t intimidate me. I reached right under Santa’s coat. To my horror, I found he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. It was hot, sweaty, Geshy, hairy … and his belly was this massive obstacle, blocking me from the envelope. I had to lean over to angle my arm in order to reach it, the whole time having Santa laugh, “Oh ho ho, ho ho oh ho!” in my ear. I heard the elf scream, “What the hell!” and various parents start to shriek. Yes, I was feeling up Santa. And now the corner of the envelope was in my hand. He tried to jiggle it away from me, but I held tight and yanked it out, pulling some of his white belly hair with me. “OW ho ho!” he cried. I jumped o1 his lap. “Security’s here!” the elf proclaimed. The letter was in my hand, damp but intact. “He touched Santa!” a young child squealed.

A chiropractor is a doctor who performs adjustments on the spine," Rickey told the class before bending Gary backward and "adjusting" him, ripping off the false arm and spraying red hair dye all over the classroom. Gary howled in "pain" and collapsed dramatically on the threadbare school carpet, his legs flailing a bit before hitting the floor with a terrible, final-sounding thunk. That was the first time they were sent to the principal's office together. They had to apologize to their teacher and explain to their classmates that doctor visits were unlikely to result in surprise dismemberments.

Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys bring a knapsack to work. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who “totally knows how to cut hair.” Boys can pack up their whole life in a duffel bag and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have “gigs.” Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival. Boys don’t know how to adjust their conversation when they’re talking to their friends or to your parents. They put parents on the same level as their peers and roll their eyes when your dad makes a terrible pun. Boys let your parents pay for dinner when you all go out. It’s assumed.

On the other side of the room, Bast cursed her luck. Damn. She couldn’t wait now. It took time to set up a switch like this. She would have to take the second option. A pity, the Rowanberg woman was the right size physically, and the facial adjustment would not be difficult, nor the hair, and she was one of the targets on her list. Option Two was slightly taller, but she would have to do.

She raised the long glass and peered back down at the harbor, at the passengers disembarking, but the image was blurry. Reluctantly, she released his hand. It felt like a promise, and she didn’t want to let go. She adjusted the lens, and her gaze caught on two figures moving down the gangplank. Their steps were graceful, their posture straight as knife blades. They moved like Suli acrobats. She drew in a sharp breath. Everything in her focused like the lens of the long glass. Her mind refused the image before her. This could not be real. It was an illusion, a false reflection, a lie made in rainbow-hued glass. She would breathe again and it would shatter. She reached for Kaz’s sleeve. She was going to fall. He had his arm around her, holding her up. Her mind split. Half of her was aware of his bare fingers on her sleeve, his dilated pupils, the brace of his body around hers. The other half was still trying to understand what she was seeing. His dark brows knitted together. “I wasn’t sure. Should I not have—” She could barely hear him over the clamor in her heart. “How?” she said, her voice raw and strange with unshed tears. “How did you find them?” “A favor, from Sturmhond. He sent out scouts. As part of our deal. If it was a mistake—” “No,” she said as the tears spilled over at last. “It was not a mistake.” “Of course, if something had gone wrong during the job, they’d be coming to retrieve your corpse.” Inej choked out a laugh. “Just let me have this.” She righted herself, her balance returning. Had she really thought the world didn’t change? She was a fool. The world was made of miracles, unexpected earthquakes, storms that came from nowhere and might reshape a continent. The boy beside her. The future before her. Anything was possible. Now Inej was shaking, her hands pressed to her mouth, watching them move up the dock toward the quay. She started forward, then turned back to Kaz. “Come with me,” she said. “Come meet them.” Kaz nodded as if steeling himself, flexed his fingers once more. “Wait,” he said. The burn of his voice was rougher than usual. “Is my tie straight?” Inej laughed, her hood falling back from her hair. “That’s the laugh,” he murmured, but she was already setting off down the quay, her feet barely touching the ground. “Mama!” she called out. “Papa!” Inej saw them turn, saw her mother grip her father’s arm. They were running toward her. Her heart was a river that carried her to the sea.

Daemon pulled the bright, deep-red sweater over his head and adjusted the collar of the gold-and-white-checked shirt. Satisfied, he studied his reflection. His eyes were butter melted by humor and good spirits, his face subtly altered by the relaxed, boyish grin. The change in his appearance startled him, but after a moment he just shook his head and brushed his hair. The difference was Jaenelle and the incalculable ways she worried, intrigued, fascinated, incensed, and delighted him. More than that, now, when he was so long past it, she was giving him—the bored, jaded Sadist—a childhood. She colored the days with magic and wonder, and all the things he’d ceased to pay attention to he saw again new. He grinned at his reflection. He felt like a twelve-year-old. No, not twelve. He was at least a sophisticated fourteen. Still young enough to play with a girl as a friend, yet old enough to contemplate the day he might sneak his first kiss. Daemon shrugged into his coat, went into the kitchen, pinched a couple of apples from the basket, sent Cook a broad wink, and gave himself up to a morning with Jaenelle.

The longer hair lengths for men seen with the rise of marijuana use in the United States in the 1960s were a textbook case of an influx of apparently feminine values accompanying the use of a boundary-dissolving plant. The hysterical reaction to such a minor adjustment in folkways revealed the insecurity and sense of danger felt by the male ego in the presence of any factor that might tend to restore the importance of partnership in human affairs.

Humans and augmented humans shift their weight when they stand, they react to sudden sounds and bright lights, they scratch themselves, they adjust their hair, they look in their pockets or bags to check for things that they already know are in there.

Hunt immediately adjusted his hold, bracing her easily. “I thought you looked pale,” he remarked, gently stroking back a lock of hair that had fallen over her damp face. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is it just your stomach, or do you hurt somewhere else?

I wake up. Immediately I have to figure out who I am. It’s not just the body—opening my eyes and discovering whether the skin on my arm is light or dark, whether my hair is long or short, whether I’m fat or thin, boy or girl, scarred or smooth. The body is the easiest thing to adjust to, if you’re used to waking up in a new one each morning. It’s the life, the context of the body, that can be hard to grasp. Every day I am someone else. I am myself—I know I am myself—but I am also someone else. It has always been like this.

You would think I would have weird abandonment issues, considering that both my parents left me behind. But I’m pretty well adjusted, except for this little thing where I run from emotional intimacy like my hair is on fire.

If you've never shot a gun, You can’t understand how it feels in your hands. Cool to the touch, all its venom coiled inside, deadly, like a steel-scaled serpent. Awaiting your bidding. You select it’s prey… paper, tin, or flesh. You lie in wait, learn that patience is the killer’s most trustworthy accomplice. You choose the moment. What. Where. When. Decided. But the how is everything. You lift your weapon, ease it into place, cock it, to load it, knowing the satisfying snitch means a bullet is yours to command. Now, make or break, it’s all up to you. You aim knowing a hair either way means bull’s-eye or miss. Success or failure. Life or death. You have to relax, convince your muscles not to be tense, not to betray you. Sight again. Adjust. Don’t become distracted by the heat of the hunt. Instincts take over. You shoot and adrenaline screams as your target shreds or the flesh drops. And for one indescribable moment you are God.

He adjusts our hands, his fingers warm around mine. And then he looks down at me, and his eyes say all the things he cannot. His gaze holds mine as we dance slowly, and I silently tell him that I'll always carry him in my heart, and he silently tells me that in another place, another time, we'd have been pretty damn close to perfect. 'For what it's worth'—his hand slips into my hair and he strokes his thumb along my jaw—'and because we're finally being honest with each other, you're just about my favourite person in the world, and it was the single most spectacular kiss of my whole life.

Cicero was the first who had any suspicions of his designs upon the government, and, as a good pilot is apprehensive of a storm when the sea is most smiling, saw the designing temper of the man through this disguise of good-humor and affability, and said, that in general, in all he did and undertook, he detected the ambition for absolute power, “but when I see his hair so carefully arranged, and observe him adjusting it with one finger, I cannot imagine it should enter into such a man’s thoughts to subvert the Roman state.

The women we become after children, she typed, then stopped to adjust the angle of the paper....We change shape, she continued, we buy low-heeled shoes, we cut off our long hair, We begin to carry in our bags half-eaten rusks, a small tractor, a shred of beloved fabric, a plastic doll. We lose muscle tone, sleep, reason, persoective. Our hearts begin to live outside our bodies. They breathe, they eat, they crawl and-look!-they walk, they begin to speak to us. We learn that we must sometimes walk an inch at a time, to stop and examine every stick, every stone, every squashed tin along the way. We get used to not getting where we were going. We learn to darn, perhaps to cook, to patch knees of dungarees. We get used to living with a love that suffuses us, suffocates us, blinds us, controls us. We live, We contemplate our bodies, our stretched skin, those threads of silver around our brows, our strangely enlarged feet. We learn to look less in the mirror. We put our dry-clean-only clothes to the back of the wardrobe. Eventually we throw them away. We school ourselves to stop saying 'shit' and 'damn' and learn to say 'my goodness' and 'heavens above.' We give up smoking, we color our hair, we search the vistas of parks, swimming-pools, libraries, cafes for others of our kind. We know each other by our pushchairs, our sleepless gazes, the beakers we carry. We learn how to cool a fever, ease a cough, the four indicators of meningitis, that one must sometimes push a swing for two hours. We buy biscuit cutters, washable paints, aprons, plastic bowls. We no longer tolerate delayed buses, fighting in the street, smoking in restaurants, sex after midnight, inconsistency, laziness, being cold. We contemplate younger women as they pass us in the street, with their cigarettes, their makeup, their tight-seamed dresses, their tiny handbags, their smooth washed hair, and we turn away, we put down our heads, we keep on pushing the pram up the hill.

Luke snapped awake to see the gray-haired woman looking at him while adjusting her glasses. She smiled like he was something to eat. "There aren't many good shots of you when Natalie was on your lap. She's either leaning over you, or you're at her neck like Bela Lugosi. Though there's one really good part at the end ---

She did his make-up, tied his ties, adjusted his hair. Credlin was simultaneously his political adviser, office administrator, groomer and host.

All right, keep your hair on,' said the old singer, taking his off and adjusting a curl. 'Have another drink'.

Norma looked at him, puzzled. "Someone else to do the mathematics?" "Of course!" Holtzman brushed iron-gray hair away from his face and adjusted his white robe. "You're an *idea* person, like me. We want you to develop concepts, not bother with full-fledged implementation. You should not waste time performing tedious arithmetic. Any halfway-trained person can do that. It's what slaves are for.

He adjusted his body in relation to hers. His head angled down, his hand forming a canopy between them to shield her face from the sun. It was a useless gesture. only silence. The sunlight on her hair

I think your odds get better by the minute,” said Coriolanus, adjusting a hot pink rosebud in her hair. It matched the one on his lapel, just in case anyone needed a reminder of who Lucy Gray belonged to.

You fight. You fight for what you want. You do not wallow or surrender. The lesson is not in lying down and allowing yourself to be stabbed, child. It's in pushing yourself up and battling back." "You fell down. So? Will you stay there, weeping over skinned knees? Or will you brush off your skirts, adjust your hair, and carry on? Do not relinquish your grasp on hope. It's one of the best weapons anyone possesses.

Worse than the smugglers of the Falkyn guild were the damn king and queen. The recovered circlet in hand, I made my way toward the great hall only to collide with my disheveled mother and father emerging from one of the chambers. “What the hells are you doing?” Heat boiled in my face when my bleeding father spun around, still adjusting his damn belt. “You couldn’t wait a night, perhaps a day, before defiling the linens?” “Jonas, really. Emotions run high during a fight. It isn’t all that scandalous.” My mother had the decency to flush as she smoothed her hair. Daj patted my cheek. Hard. “I expected a quiet reprieve when you all were going to the South. You think I would let something as trivial as battles stop me from claiming that with my wife?” “I’m never looking at you again. You’re heathens. No regal blood in your veins.” “Thank you,” both said in the same breath. “Hopeless.” I shoved into the great hall. “Bleeding hopeless.

I try to be the rock that I see they hope I can be. People can take only so much distress and hair-tearing. They need to be given to, as well as to give. What they want from me is hope, that I can carry on, that everything will sort of be all right.

When the music stopped, the curtains to their booth flew open. Jax, the devastatingly handsome Nordic wolf, leered down on the lovers, who smiled up at him in amusement. “I said pretend to be her mate. At any point, did you hear me say, ‘Come up to New York and fuck my sister in public…during one of my company events?’ Did I say that? I really don’t recall saying that.” Jax scrubbed his fingers over his tightly cropped hair. He moved to the balcony, overlooking the patrons who were shuffling into the lobby for the intermission. “Sorry.” Dimitri laughed. He knew that they should have been slightly less conspicuous but the draw of his mate had been too much to resist. “Sorry? Really? That’s all you’ve got?” He turned to Gillian, who scrambled up to her feet, adjusting her dress. “And you? What’s your excuse, little sister? Seriously, every shifter in the room could hear you.” “Um, well, yeah, sorry about that. But technically this is your fault. I mean, what did you expect? You asked Dimitri to come here…to pretend to be my mate.” Gillian reasoned that her comeback sounded solid, inexperienced in dealing with her Alpha brother.

I scurry out to the three-way mirror. With an extra-large sweatshirt over the top, you can hardly tell that they are Effert’s jeans. Still no Mom. I adjust the mirror so I can see reflections of reflections, miles and miles of me and my new jeans. I hook my hair behind my ears. I should have washed it. My face is dirty. I lean into the mirror. Eyes after eyes after eyes stare back at me. Am I in there somewhere? A thousand eyes blink. No makeup. Dark circles. I pull the side flaps of the mirror in closer, folding myself into the looking glass and blocking out the rest of the store.   My face becomes a Picasso sketch, my body slicing into dissecting cubes. I saw a movie once where a woman was burned over eighty percent of her body and they had to wash all the dead skin off. They wrapped her in bandages, kept her drugged, and waited for skin grafts. They actually sewed her into a new skin.

Need a hand?” I peeked at the figure on the horse’s back through cracks in my fingers. My eyes slowly adjusted to the light emanating from the horse, and the figure came into focus. It was Barack Obama, clad in a white toga. He pulled me to my feet. “Thanks,” I said. “You wouldn’t believe the dream I’ve had.” “Try me.” “You came to me one night, and said my friend had been hit by a train…and…is that a unicorn? I asked, squinting at the curled horn sprouting up between the horse’s ears. “I call her Little Beast.” I ran my fingers through the unicorn’s silken hair, which left rainbow glitter on my hand. The headache that had plagued me off and on all weekend was gone. There was no pain in my knee, or anywhere else in my body. “Is this heaven?” “No,” Barack said. “It’s Iowa.” And then suddenly we weren’t in the cemetery anymore. We were on a baseball diamond at the edge of a cornfield.

They drove back to Paris on the assumption that they would be far less obvious among the crowds of the city than in an isolated country inn. A blond-haired man wearing tortoise-shell glasses, and a striking but stern-faced woman, devoid of makeup, and with her hair pulled back like an intense graduate student at the Sorbonne, were not out of place in Montmartre. They took a room at the Terrasse on the rue de Maistre, registering as a married couple from Brussels. In the room, they stood for a moment, no words necessary for what each was seeing and feeling. They came together, touching, holding, closing out the abusive world that refused them peace, that kept them balancing on taut wires next to one another, high above a dark abyss; if either fell, it was the end for both. Bourne could not change his color for the immediate moment. It would be false, and there was no room for artifice. “We need some rest,” he said. “We’ve got to get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day.” They made love. Gently, completely, each with the other in the warm, rhythmic comfort of the bed. And there was a moment, a foolish moment, when adjustment of an angle was breathlessly necessary and they laughed. It was a quiet laugh, at first even an embarrassed laugh, but the observation was there, the appraisal of foolishness intrinsic to something very deep between them. They held each other more fiercely when the moment passed, more and more intent on sweeping away the awful sounds and the terrible sights of a dark world that kept them spinning in its winds. They were suddenly breaking out of that world, plunging into a much better one where sunlight and blue water replaced the darkness. They raced toward it feverishly, furiously, and then they burst through and found it. Spent, they fell asleep, their fingers entwined.

I opened myself up to the kiss and kissed him back with enthusiasm. Putting all my secret emotions and tender feelings into the embrace, I wound my arms around his neck and slid my hands into his hair. Pulling his body that much closer to mine, I embraced him with all the warmth and affection that I wouldn’t allow myself to express verbally. He paused, shocked for a brief instant, and then quickly adjusted his approach, escalating into a passionate frenzy. I shocked myself by matching his energy. I ran my hands up his powerful arms and shoulders and then down his chest. My senses were in turmoil. I felt wild. Eager. I clutched at his shirt. I couldn’t get close enough to him. He even smelled delicious. You’d think that several days of being chased by strange creatures and hiking through a mysterious kingdom would make him smell bad. In fact, I wanted him to smell bad. I’m sure I did. I mean, how can you expect a girl to be fresh as a daisy while traipsing through the jungle and getting chased by monkeys. It’s just not possible. I desperately wanted him to have some fault. Some weakness. Some…imperfection. But Ren smelled amazing-like waterfalls, a warm summer day, and sandalwood trees all wrapped up in a sizzling, hot guy. How could a girl defend herself from a perfect onslaught delivered by a pefect person? I gave up and let Mr. Wonderful take control of my senses. My blood burned, my heart thundered, my need for him quickened, and I lost all track of time in his arms. All I was aware of was Ren. His lips. His body. His soul. I wanted all of him. Eventually, he put his hands on my shoulders and gently separated us. I was surprised that he had the strength of will to stop because I was nowhere near being able to. I blinked my eyes open in a daze. We were both breathing hard. “That was…enlightening,” he breathed. “Thank you, Kelsey.” I blinked. The passion that had dulled my mind dissipated in an instant, and my mind sharply focused on a new feeling. Irritation. “Thank you? Thank you! Of all the-“ I slammed up the steps angrily and then spun around to look down at him. “No! Thank you, Ren!” My hands slashed at the air. “Now you got what you wanted, so leave me alone!” I ran up the stairs quickly to put some distance between us. Enlightening? What was that about? Was he testing me? Giving me a one-to-ten score on my kissing ability? Of all the nerve? I was glad that I was mad. I could shove all the other emotions into the back of my mind and just focus on the anger, the indignation. He leapt up the stairs two at a time. “That’s not all I want, Kelsey. That’s for sure.” “Well, I no longer care about what you want!” He shot me a knowing look and raised an eyebrow. Then, he lifted his foot out of the opening, placed it on the dirt, and instantly changed back into a tiger. I laughed mockingly. “Ha!” I tripped over a stone but quickly found my footing. “Serves you right!” I shouted angrily and stumbled blindly along the dim path. After figuring out where to go, I marched off in a huff. “Come on, Fanindra. Let’s go find Mr. Kadam.

Casting people look at your picture, then at you to see if it matches. Are you actually a girl? Do you have blond hair? You sporting a rack of any significance? If you’re what they are looking for, they turn over to your résumé, scan your credits and your lies, then scribble down this magic word: callback.” Bob rolled paper into the old Royal, adjusted the margins and tabs, and within minutes had typed out a crisp, clear, and clean résumé that made Sue look like she was as experienced a dreamer as ever hopped a bus to the big city. She could boast of thirty roles. The one thing missing from the paper was her name at the top.

How old is she now?” “Oh, she’s twenty now.” She hesitated. She was obligated to end our little chat with a stylized flourish. The way it’s done in serial television. So she wet her little bunny mouth, sleepied her eyes, widened her nostrils, patted her hair, arched her back, stood canted and hip-shot, huskied her voice and said, “See you aroun’, huh?” “Sure, Marianne. Sure.” Bless them all, the forlorn little rabbits. They are the displaced persons of our emotional culture. They are ravenous for romance, yet settle for what they call making out. Their futile, acne-pitted men drift out of high school into a world so surfeited with unskilled labor there is competition for bag-boy jobs in the supermarkets. They yearn for security, but all they can have is what they make for themselves, chittering little flocks of them in the restaurants and stores, talking of style and adornment, dreaming of the terribly sincere stranger who will come along and lift them out of the gypsy life of the two-bit tip and the unemployment, cut a tall cake with them, swell them up with sassy babies, and guide them masterfully into the shoal water of the electrified house where everybody brushes after every meal. But most of the wistful rabbits marry their unskilled men, and keep right on working. And discover the end of the dream. They have been taught that if you are sunny, cheery, sincere, group-adjusted, popular, the world is yours, including barbecue pits, charge plates, diaper service, percale sheets, friends for dinner, washer-dryer combinations, color slides of the kiddies on the home projector, and eternal whimsical romance—with crinkly smiles and Rock Hudson dialogue. So they all come smiling and confident and unskilled into a technician’s world, and in a few years they learn that it is all going to be grinding and brutal and hateful and precarious. These are the slums of the heart. Bless the bunnies. These are the new people, and we are making no place for them. We hold the dream in front of them like a carrot, and finally say sorry you can’t have any. And the schools where we teach them non-survival are gloriously architectured. They will never live in places so fine, unless they contract something incurable.

Clothing, hair, shoes, accessories: these were props, visual cues, that people used to filter information and make instant assessments out of random connections, to categorize and assign value to those who populated their world. And layered beneath the props for sight came those for smell, and hearing, and more, that sense of intangibility that allowed people to read nuance and body language and interpret what the other senses didn’t grasp directly; cues that together formed a picture that matched perceptions based on expectations and that, when adjusted one way or the other, filtered past the gatekeepers of the mind, allowing Munroe to become whatever she needed to be.

I hit my chest with my fist, accusing my body of failing. I’ve had eighty years to adjust and never have. Am I broken? We’ll start there. No. You’re not broken. You are possibly the most loyal and faithful siren I’ve ever had. So, one of the best? Is it bad to tell You that I don’t really want to be good at this job? She swirled around my face and hair, trying to console me. No one with a beating heart could enjoy killing their own. I’m not human, I argued. I’m less than that. Kahlen, my sweet girl, you are still human. Your body may be unchanging, but your soul still bends and sways. I assure you, in the deepest part of yourself, you are still connected to humanity. I kept crying, my tears joining Her waves. Then why can’t I cope with any human contact? Elizabeth has had her lovers. As have many a siren before her. It’s not surprising, considering how beautiful you are. If it’s so typical, then why can’t I do that? She laughed, a motherly sound in my head, as if She knew me better than I knew myself. Because you and Elizabeth are very different people. She’s looking for passion and excitement. In her dark world, those interludes are like fireworks. You long for relationships, for love. It’s why you protect your sisters so fiercely, why you always return to Me even when I don’t call, and why you mourn so heavily at taking lives.

Something was in her mouth. Sami's tongue slid along the edges of something plastic. Flat, low ridges, holes-an adjustable strap. A baseball cap? Another taste. Hair spray. Gross. Someone had stuffed her baseball cap in her mouth, and from the feel of it they had taped it in place. Her arms were tied behind her and she lay face down on the floor-of what? Her car. The carpeting scraped her cheek every time they hit a bump. Panic flooded Sami's senses. She came instantly awake. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she willed herself to calm down. Her working motto flashed through her brain, panic never accomplished anything. Of course she had never been kidnapped and tied up before. In the dim light of passing cars, she glimpsed things-paper gum wrappers, an old straw, one whopper wrapper, a CD cover. That's where Sting went. Been looking for that for days. Man did she need to vacuum this car out. A metallic scent hit her nose. She'd recognize that smell until the day she died. Blood. And by the odor, someone had lost a great deal of it.

To a chorus of resonant barking, the instruments proceeded to adjust themselves into tune. A billy-goat, alarmed, aroused his harem, and distantly a muffled lowing broke out. Philippa said, ‘Oh dear. It must have cost a fortune. Did Gideon ever do this to you?’ Kate thought. ‘No, but I did it to him. He hadn’t called to see me for a week, so I sent eight bell ringers to serenade him at cock-crow and his mother’s parrot dropped dead, quoting Luther.’ ‘What did it say?’ Philippa said. Sitting on the sill, with her long brown hair falling over her night robe, she looked, in the darkness, like the daughter who had come back from Turkey: calm and smiling and soignée. ‘Music is a fair and lovely gift of God, and deserves to be extolled as the mistress and governess of the feelings of the human heart,’ said Kate, surprised.

I adjust my app settings so that I can be matched with women fifteen years younger and older than I am. Immediately, a woman with long dark hair appears in my app. She’s elegant. Forty-four years old. A novelist named Abigail. Who lives near by. I swiped right on her. Ding! We’ve matched. She sends me a message. ‘I’ve never done this before, do you want to get coffee? If it’s bad, it’ll make a funny story, at least.’ Good opener, Abigail. I message her back, ‘Yes! Let’s do it!

Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, but she could barely see her hand in front of her face. Just when she was about to rush back up the steps, a large, warm hand settled at her waist. She turned, giving a jolted whimper as Rothbury's lips settled atop hers. His mouth was hot, ravenous, intoxicating. She had no idea where his gloves had gone, but his hands were bare, sliding up and down her back, cupping her backside and holding her tightly to him. Charlotte groaned at his glorious siege of her senses. She wanted to touch him as well, only it took extreme concentration to do something as raise her arms. Gliding her hands up his strong arms and then his neck, she sunk her fingers into his thick hair at his nape, pressing herself closer to him, needing him to touch her more. He spun her around, pushing her back against the stone wall of the terrace. With a finger at her bottom lip, he easily coaxed her open, sinking his tongue inside to mate with hers. Surely, her bones were melting.

Sleep claimed her eventually. She slept heavily, welcoming the escape. But some time later, while it was still very dark, she found herself struggling upward through layers of dreams. Someone or something was in the room. Her first thought was that it might be Beatrix's ferret, who sometimes slipped past the door to collect objects that intrigued him. Rubbing her eyes, Win began to sit up, when there was a movement beside the bed. A large shadow crossed over her. Before bewilderment could give way to fear, she heard a familiar murmur, and felt a man's warm fingers press across her lips. "It's me." Her lips moved soundlessly against his hand. "Kev." Win's stomach constricted with an ache of pleasure, and her heartbeat hammered in her throat. But she was still angry with him, she was done with him, and if he had come here for a midnight talk, he was sadly mistaken. She started to tell him so, but to her astonishment, she felt a thick piece of cloth descend over her mouth, and then he was tying it deftly behind her head. In a few more seconds, he had bound her wrists in front of her. Win was rigid with shock. Merripen would never do something like this. And yet it was him; she would know him if only by the touch of his hands. What did he want? What was going through his mind? His breath was faster than usual as it brushed against her hair. Now that her vision had adjusted to the darkness, she saw that his face was hard and austere. Merripen drew the ruby ring off her finger and set it off the bedside table. Taking her head in his hands, he stared into her wide eyes. He said only two words. But they explained everything he was doing, and everything he intended to do. "You're mine." He picked her up easily, draping her over one powerful shoulder, and he carried her from the room. Win closed her eyes, yielding, trembling. She pressed a few sobs against the gag covering her mouth, not of unhappiness or fear, but of wild relief. This was not an impulsive act. This was ritual. This was an ancient Romany courtship rite, and there would be nothing half-hearted about it. She was going to be kidnapped and ravished. Finally.

Lily's focus turned to Mia, who was not surprised at all by the scene as she moved forward, crawling into the space between James and Remus, knowing that they had purposely left it available to her. She leant back against Remus's chest, and his arm instinctively wrapped around her waist. James's body moved as well, resting his head against her shoulder just as Sirius's mop of dark black hair adjusted on the bed, eventually resting in her lap. Mia let out a soft sigh as she placed her hand on top of Sirius's head, letting her fingers loosely run through his hair.

Hunt immediately adjusted his hold, bracing her easily. “I thought you looked pale,” he remarked, gently stroking back a lock of hair that had fallen over her damp face. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is it just your stomach, or do you hurt somewhere else?” Somewhere beneath the layers of misery Annabelle was startled by the endearment, not to mention the fact that a gentleman should never, ever have referred to one of a lady’s internal parts. However, at the moment she was too ill to do anything but cling to his coat lapels. Concentrating on his question, she pondered the chaos inside her inhospitable body. “I hurt everywhere,” she whispered. “My head, my stomach, my back…but most of all my ankle.” As she spoke, she noticed that her lips felt numb. She licked at them experimentally, alarmed by the lack of sensation. Had she been just a bit less disoriented, she would have noticed that Hunt was staring at her in a way that he never had before. Later, Daisy would describe in detail how protective Simon Hunt had seemed as he had stood with his arms around her. For now, however, Annabelle was too wretched to perceive anything outside her own swamping illness.

New companion Yoo Joonghyuk's Black Heavenly Demon Sword filled with the power of transcendence flew to my neck. It was an inevitable blow. Then a crack appeared in the ceiling of the banquet hall. Yoo Joonghyuk looked up at the ceiling but it was already too late. The running Yoo Joonghyuk was crushed by the fragments of the broken ceiling. Some large pieces were avoided but there were too many stones pouring down. I saw a shadow in the dirty dust. The hair was sweaty like the person had rushed here. The bandages half released from the left arm was blowing in the wind. In the dust, this person smiled as she trampled on Yoo Joonghyuk. "I knew you couldn't do this without me." [The incarnation 'Han Sooyoung' is jumping into the verdict of the giant story!] pg 3901 38. Perhaps Han Sooyoung had adjusted her shares ownership to Lee Seolhwa as soon as she learnt the information here. Then she came straight to this place. Han Sooyoung turned towards the surrounding constellations and declared with a growl, "I am evil. In addition, that fucking Kim Dokja standing over there is definitely evil." Han Sooyoung made me evil regardless of everything else and continued looking at Yoo Joonghyuk and the party members. pg 3903 39. This person shouting with her short hair flying looked amazing. At this time, Han Sooyoung could be seen as the main character, not Yoo Joonghyuk. pg 3903 40. The eyes of the group shook. I saw Han Sooyoung turn away. Then I spoke like I was pulling the trigger. "You are characters of a story." pg 3925 41. 'It's no fun when no one is fighting back'pg4046 42. However, I endured. I simply had to. So that I could grasp that one and only chance soon to be coming my way pg 4078 43. Along with the explosive grinding noise, blue sparks danced in the air. "Why are you standing around dazed like that, you dumbass?!" Han Sooyoung was standing next to me now pg 4102

P.S.” Kimmie continues, nodding toward my sculptor of Adam’s lips, the assignment was to sculpt something exotic, not erotic. Are you sure you weren’t so busy wishing me dead that you just didn’t hear right? Plus, if it was eroticism you were going for, how come there’s no tongue wagging out of his mouth?” “And what’s exotic about your piece?” “Seriously, it doesn’t get more exotic than leopard, particularly if that leopard is in the form of a swanky pair of kitten heels . . . but I thought I’d start out small.” “Right,” I say, looking at her oblong ball of clay with what appears to be four legs, a golf-ball-sized head, and a long, skinny tail attached. “And, from the looks of your sculpture,” she continues, adjusting the lace bandana in her pixie-cut dark hair, “I presume your hankering for a Ben Burger right about now. The question is, will that burger come with a pickle on the side or between the buns?” “You’re so sick,” I say, failing to mention that my sculptor isn’t of Ben’s mouth at all. “Seriously? You’re the one who’s wishing me dead whilst fantasizing about your boyfriend’s mouth. Tell me that doesn’t rank high up on the sik-o-meter.” “I have to go,” I say, throwing a plastic tarp over my work board. “Should I be worried?” “About what?” “Acting manic and chanting about death?” “I didn’t chant.” “Are you kidding? For a second there I thought you were singing the jingle to a commercial for roach killer: You deserve to die! You deserve to die! You deserve to die!

Where are we going?" I called to him. "We'll come to a large field very soon." When we reached the field, there was a line of darkness scrawled on the deeper darkness. We stumped our bikes over the wet breathless earth. "There," he said. "Hmmm?" "Stars." I blinked at him and then I looked up. It was true. Away from the grubby muslin of London's light pollution in the fresh March night, the sky was full of stars. I turned back to him. As I adjusted to the dark, I could see he was staring upwards. "I can't manage it exactly without a sextant," he said, "but I wanted to be able to orient myself." "So that in the event of London flooding when the icecaps melt, you can sail to safer waters?" "So that I will know where I was when I met you." I had always thought of joy as a shouting flamboyant thing that tossed breath into the sky like a ball. Instead, it robbed me of my speech and of my air. I was pinned in place by joy and I didn't know what to do. "Come here," he said softly and pulled me into his arms. I pressed my face against his neck. My body sparked and I couldn't move it except to lean into him. I was filled with happiness so enormous and terrifying it was as if I'd committed a crime to get it. No one had given me permission to feel this way and I thought I might not be allowed it. He combed his fingers through my hair and I was frightened with happiness, harrowed by it. There was no way anyone could feel this much without also knowing they were going to lose it.

I turned to Kitty Sue and surprised myself by answering honestly, "I'm fine. Lee's fine. Lee's more fine than me. I'm having troubles adjusting. Lee seems pretty sure of himself. Lee seems pretty sure of everything." This, I realized, was true about Lee always. I'd never met someone as confident in my life. Well, maybe Hank, but Hank's confidence was quiet and assured. And there was Lee's best friend, Eddie, of course. But Eddie was like Lee's twin, separated at birth, cut from the same cloth. Lee's confidence, and Eddie's, wasn't like Hank's. It was cocky and assertive. "And you aren't sure?" Kitty Sue asked. I looked at her and thought maybe I should have lied. It was too late now. "Nope. He scares me," I admitted. She nodded. "Yep, he's pretty dang scary." I stared. My God, the woman was talking about her son. "You agree?" She looked at Lee then back at me. "Honey, that boy drives me to distraction. It's like he's not of my loins. I don't even know where he came from. If Ally hadn't been the exact replica of Lee, personality-wise, except female I would have wondered if there was a mix up at the hospital." I kept staring. Kitty Sue kept talking. "Hank's just like his Dad. Smart, cautious, controlled, taking only calculated risks. I'm sure Lee calculates his risks, but I think he allows for a much larger margin for error and counts on ... I don't know what he counts on to get him out of whatever scrapes he gets into." I couldn't stop staring. She kept talking, and everything that came out of her mouth was like a verbal car accident. If she was trying to convince me to stick with her son, she should have tried a different tact. "He does ... you know?" Kitty Sue said. I realized she was asking me a question, so I shook my head that no, I didn't know. She explained, "He gets out of every scrape. Always did and always did it on his own. Though it'll take some kind of woman to live a life like that, knowing what he's like, knowing the risks he takes." Her hand went to my knee and she squeezed it before she went on. "Not anyone here would think less of you if you aren't that woman. I'm telling you because it's true. We all love you both and we'll always love you both, no matter what happens between you." She stopped, sighed and continued, "Anyway, I don't even know if that kind of woman exists. I'm his mother. I've lived with him surviving scrapes that would make your hair stand on end and I worry about him every day. He scares the hell out of me.

Do you like to read?' Emerie's mouth curled upward. 'I live alone, up in the mountains. I have nothing to do with my spare time except work in my garden and read whatever books I order through the mail service. And in the winter, I don't even have the distraction of my gardening. So, yes, I like to read. I cannot survive without reading.' Nesta grunted her agreement. 'What manner of books?' Gwyn asked. 'Romantics,' Emerie said, adjusting her own hair, the thick black braid full of reds and browns in the sunlight. Nesta started. Emerie's eyes lit. 'You too? Which ones?' Nesta rattled off her top five, and Emerie grinned, so broadly it was like seeing another person. 'Have you read Sellyn Drake's novels?' Nesta shook her head. Emerie gasped, so dramatically that Cassian muttered something about sparing him from smut-obsessed females before heading further into the ring. 'You must read her books. You must. I'll bring the first one tomorrow. You'll stay up all night reading it, I swear.' 'Smut?' Gwyn asked, catching Cassian's muttered words. There was enough hesitation in her voice to make Nesta draw up straight. Nesta glanced at Emerie, realising the female didn't know about Gwyn- her history, or why the priestesses lived in the library. But Emerie asked. 'What do you read?' 'Adventure, sometimes mysteries. But mostly I read whatever Merrill, the priestess I work with, has written that day. Not as exciting as romance, not by a long shot. Emerie said casually. 'I can bring one of Drake's brooks for you, too- one of her milder ones. An introduction to the wonders of romance.' Emerie winked at Nesta. Nesta waited for Gwyn to refuse, but the priestess smiled. 'I'd like that.

over the long fabric. You are the virgin daughter of a Jewish father, so you have draped your veil over your head and crossed it over your shoulders for the duration of the day. You have never known another kind of dress, so you are completely accustomed to the weight and the constant adjusting of a six-foot-long, four-foot-wide veil. Beneath the veil, thick, dark hair frames a deep complexion and near-ebony eyes. Without warning, a messenger from God appears and announces that you have been chosen among women to bear the Son of God. You can hardly believe, yet you dare not doubt. As suddenly as the angel appeared, he vanishes. You are flooded with emotions. What do you imagine you would be thinking and feeling right now? What in the world does a young woman do after receiving such life-altering news? Often God allows the space between the lines of His Word to capture our imaginations and prompt us to wonder. Not

This story belongs to the Princess Merida. Merida was less like the mannered royal you're imagining and more like a struck match, although matches did not yet exist. Red hair, keen eyes, quick brain, built to start fires but not to put them out. She was an absolute wizard with a bow and arrow. For over a decade, before the wee devil triplet princes arrived, she'd been the only child, and where other children might have had friends, Merida had her bow. She practiced her archery breathlessly, automatically, in every moment her mother hadn't scheduled her for lessons in embroidery, music, and reading. There was a stillness to archery she couldn't get anywhere else. Whenever she had a problem she couldn't solve, she went out to practice. Whenever she had a feeling she didn't understand, she went out to practice. Hour upon hour, she collected calluses on fingertips and bruises on forearms. At night, when she dreamt, she still sighted between trees and adjusted for strong highland winds.

Behind Garber’s desk was a man I had never seen before. He was a colonel. He was in BDUs. His tape said: Willard, U.S. Army. He had iron-gray hair parted in a schoolboy style. It needed a trim. He had steel-rimmed eyeglasses and the kind of gray pouchy face that must have looked old when he was twenty. He was short and relatively squat and the way his shoulders failed to fill his BDUs told me he spent no time at all in the gym. He had a problem sitting still. He was rocking to his left and plucking at his pants where they went tight over his right knee. Before I had been in the room ten seconds he had adjusted his position three times. Maybe he had hemorrhoids. Maybe he was nervous. He had soft hands. Ragged nails. No wedding band. Divorced, for sure. He looked the type. No wife would let him walk about with hair like that. And no wife could have stood all that rocking and twitching. Not for very long. I should have come smartly to attention and saluted and announced: Sir, Major Reacher reports.

Jack took two steps towards the couch and then heard his daughter’s distressed wails, wincing. “Oh, right. The munchkin.” He instead turned and headed for the stairs, yawning and scratching his messy brown hair, calling out, “Hang on, chubby monkey, Daddy’s coming.” Jack reached the top of the stairs. And stopped dead. There was a dragon standing in the darkened hallway. At first, Jack swore he was still asleep. He had to be. He couldn’t possibly be seeing correctly. And yet the icy fear slipping down his spine said differently. The dragon stood at roughly five feet tall once its head rose upon sighting Jack at the other end of the hallway. It was lean and had dirty brown scales with an off-white belly. Its black, hooked claws kneaded the carpet as its yellow eyes stared out at Jack, its pupils dilating to drink him in from head to toe. Its wings rustled along its back on either side of the sharp spines protruding down its body to the thin, whip-like tail. A single horn glinted sharp and deadly under the small, motion-activated hallway light. The only thing more noticeable than that were the many long, jagged scars scored across the creature’s stomach, limbs, and neck. It had been hunted recently. Judging from the depth and extent of the scars, it had certainly killed a hunter or two to have survived with so many marks. “Okay,” Jack whispered hoarsely. “Five bucks says you’re not the Easter Bunny.” The dragon’s nostrils flared. It adjusted its body, feet apart, lips sliding away from sharp, gleaming white teeth in a warning hiss. Mercifully, Naila had quieted and no longer drew the creature’s attention. Jack swallowed hard and held out one hand, bending slightly so his six-foot-two-inch frame was less threatening. “Look at me, buddy. Just keep looking at me. It’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you. Why don’t you just come this way, huh?” He took a single step down and the creature crept forward towards him, hissing louder. “That’s right. This way. Come on.” Jack eased backwards one stair at a time. The dragon let out a warning bark and followed him, its saliva leaving damp patches on the cream-colored carpet. Along the way, Jack had slipped his phone out of his pocket and dialed 9-1-1, hoping he had just enough seconds left in the reptile’s waning patience. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” “Listen to me carefully,” Jack said, not letting his eyes stray from the dragon as he fumbled behind him for the handle to the sliding glass door. He then quickly gave her his address before continuing. “There is an Appalachian forest dragon in my house. Get someone over here as fast as you can.” “We’re contacting a retrieval team now, sir. Please stay calm and try not to make any loud noises or sudden movements–“ Jack had one barefoot on the cool stone of his patio when his daughter Naila cried for him again. The dragon’s head turned towards the direction of upstairs. Jack dropped his cell phone, grabbed a patio chair, and slammed it down on top of the dragon’s head as hard as he could.

You might consider a full shave," he suggested. "You certainly have the chin for it." Keir shook his head. "I must keep the beard." Looking sympathetic, the barber asked, "Pockmarks? Scars?" "No' exactly." Since the man seemed to explain an explanation, Keir continued uncomfortably, "It's... well... my friends and I, we're a rough lot, you ken. 'Tis our way to chaff and trade insults. Whenever I shave off the beard, they start mocking and jeering. Blowing kisses, calling me a fancy lad, and all that. They never tire of it. And the village lasses start flirting and mooning about my distillery, and interfering with work. 'Tis a vexation." The barber stared at him in bemusement. "So the flaw you're trying to hide is... you're too handsome?" A balding middle-aged man seated in the waiting area reacted with a derisive snort. "Balderdash," he exclaimed. "Enjoy it while you can, is my advice. A handsome shoe will someday be an ugly slipper." "What did he say, nephew?" asked the elderly man beside him, lifting a metal horn to his ear. The middle-aged man spoke into the horn. "Young fellow says he's too handsome." "Too handsome?" the old codger repeated, adjusting his spectacles and squinting at Keir. "Who does the cheeky bugger think he is, the Duke of Kingston?" Amused, the barber proceeded to explain the reference to Keir. "His Grace the Duke of Kingston is generally considered one of the finest-looking men who's ever lived." "I know-" Keir began. "He caused many a scandal in his day," the barber continued. "They still make jokes about it in Punch. Cartoons with fainting women, and so forth." "Handsome as Othello, they say," said a man who was sweeping up hair clippings. "Apollo," the barber corrected dryly. He used a dry brush to whisk away the hair from Keir's neck. "I suspect by now Kingston's probably lost most of those famed golden locks." Keir was tempted to contradict him, since he'd met the duke earlier that very day and seen for himself the man still had a full head of hair. However, he thought better of it and held his tongue.

Will you never forgive me for what I did so long ago, Jane?” The soft question caught her off guard. “Would you do it again if you had the chance?” She could hardly breathe, awaiting his answer. With a low oath, he glanced away. Then his features hardened into those of the rigid and arrogant Dom he had become. “Yes. I did the only thing I could to keep you happy.” Her breath turned to ice in her throat. “That’s the problem. You still really believe that.” His gaze swung to her again, but before he could say anything more, noises in the hall arrested them both. “It’s gone very quiet in there.” It was the duke’s voice, remarkably clear, sounding as if it came from right outside the door. “Perhaps we should knock first.” Oh no! As Jane frantically set her gown to rights, she heard Lisette say, “Don’t you dare bother them, Max. I’m sure everything’s fine. Let’s come back later.” With panic growing in her belly, Jane glanced around for her tucker. Wordlessly, Dom plucked it from the back of a chair and handed it to her. Without meeting his gaze, she pinned it into her bodice, hoping to hide the tiny holes where Dom had unwittingly ripped it free of its pins. “Besides,” drawled Tristan, “it’s not as if Dom will seduce her or anything. That’s not his vice.” Sweet Lord, were they all right outside the door? “I’m not worried about that,” Max answered. “Miss Vernon isn’t the sort to let him seduce her.” As Jane tensed, Dom hissed under his breath, “Do the blasted idiots not realize we can hear them?” “Apparently not.” Dom furtively adjusted his trousers, which seemed to be rather…oddly protruding just now. Ohhh. Right. This was one time she wished Nancy hadn’t been so forthcoming about what happened to a man’s body when he was aroused. So that, not his pistol, had been the odd bulge digging into her. Definitely not a pistol. Her cheeks positively flamed. Faith, how could she even face his family after this and not give away what she and Dom had been doing? Mortified, she hurried to the looking glass to fix her hair. While she stuffed tendrils back into place and repinned drooping curls, Dom came up behind her to meet her gaze in the mirror. “Before we let them in, I want an answer to my question about Blakeborough.” Curse the stubborn man. How could she tell Dom she was so pathetic that she hadn’t even managed to find another man to love in all the years they’d spent apart? That she’d been foolish enough to wait around for Dom all this time, when he’d happily gone on living his life without her? Her pride couldn’t endure having him know that. To her relief, Tristan said, “Well, whatever they’re up to, we have to get moving.” A knock sounded at the door. “Dom? Jane? Are you done talking?” She met Dom’s gaze with a certain defiance, and he arched one eyebrow in question. So she took matters into her own hands and strode for the door. Caught off guard, Dom swore behind her and snatched up his greatcoat just as she opened the door and said, “Please come in. We’re quite finished.” In more ways than one. Their companions trooped in, casting her and Dom wary glances. Jane looked over to see Dom holding his greatcoat looped over his arm as if to shield the front of him. That brought the blushes back to her cheeks. She caught Lisette furtively watching her, and she cursed herself for wearing her emotions on her sleeve. Better shift her attention elsewhere before Lisette guessed just how shameless she’d been.

I find myself in a dark hallway. At the end of the hall is a door, slightly open with white light spilling around its edges. The hall is full of galoshes and rain coats. I walk slowly and silently to the door and carefully look in to the next room. Morning light fills up the room and is painful at first, but as my eyes adjust I see that in the room is a plain wooden table next to a window. A woman sits at the table facing the window. A teacup sits at her elbow. Outside is the lake, the waves rush up the shore and recede with calming repetition which becomes like stillness after a few minutes. The woman is extremely still. Something about her is familiar. She is an old woman; her hair is perfectly white and lies long on her back in a thin stream, over a slight dowager's hump. She wears a sweater the colour of coral. The curve of her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture says her is someone who is very tired, and I am very tired, myself. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and the floor creaks; the woman turns and sees me and her face is remade in to joy. I am suddenly amazed; this is Clare, Clare old! and she is coming to me, so slowly, and I take her in to my arms.

He looks at Erik. “The last thing you’re going to do is wallow. You’re going to get back on your feet and figure out how to adjust. Trust me, you’ll thank me for it later.” Erik grimaces but nods. “I’m sure I will,” he says, forcing himself to sit up, and groaning as he does. “But right now, I’d like to say some far less savory things to you.” “Keep a list,” Heron says with a small smile. “You can tell them to me over dinner.” For an instant, Erik is shocked and flustered—a look I’ve never seen on him before. He recovers his wits quickly enough. “It’s a deal,” he says. Artemisia looks between the two of them, eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear entirely into her hair. “We are at war,” she says with a sigh. “Surely there is a better time to flirt than when death is around every corner?” “Truth be told, I’m hard-pressed to think of a better time to flirt,” Erik says, pushing himself to his feet. “You very well may never get another chance.” Artemisia rolls her eyes. “Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re rolling your eyes, Art,” he says, holding an arm out to her, which she takes. She guides him a couple of hesitant steps. “Just because you don’t know how to flirt—” “I know how,” she snaps indignantly as she leads him out of the tent, the two of them continuing to bicker as they go.

God, Jane, you’re exactly as I imagined. Only better.” “You’re exactly…as I imagined,” she said in a strained tone. “Only bigger.” That got his attention. He drew back to stare at her. “Are you all right?” She forced a smile. “Now I’m rethinking the seduction.” He brushed a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s see what I can do about that.” He grabbed her beneath her thighs. “Hook your legs around mine if you can.” When she did, the pressure eased some, and she let out a breath. “Better?” he rasped. She nodded. Covering her breast with his hand, he kneaded it gently as he pushed farther into her below. “It will feel even better if you can relax.” Relax? Might as well ask a tree to ignore the ax biting into it. “I’ll try,” she murmured. She forced herself to concentrate on other things than his very thick thing--like how he was touching her, how he was fondling her…how amazing it felt to be joined so intimately to the man she’d been waiting nearly half her life for. Then it got easier. She actually seemed to adjust to his size. And when he slid his hand down from her breast to stroke that special spot between her legs that sent her flying, it was most effective. She wasn’t quite flying, exactly, but she was definitely leaping a bit. A giggle escaped her at that thought, and he bit out, “Something strike you as funny, sweeting?” “I never guessed that…this would feel…so odd.” “You’ll get used to it.” The hint of a future for them melted her even more than his hand down there. And that’s when he began to move, sliding out and then back in. Heavens. That was intriguing. Rather nice, actually. The more he did it, the better it felt. Then he removed his hand so he could better grip her hips, and he plunged harder into her. Oh, now that was quite…oh my. Very, very nice. His gaze burned into her as he drove deep. “Less odd now?” he managed. “Definitely…less odd.” She kissed the taut line of his jaw. “Quite…enjoyable, in fact.” He grunted and buried his face in her hair the way he was burying his…thing inside her, and it was deliciously sinful. Now she really was flying, up toward the sun. As if he realized it, he dug his hands into her hips and thrust fiercely, repeatedly, and she met his rhythm with a pushing of her own that sent her soaring. “Dom…oh, Dom…oh my…” “Jane,” he rasped as his strokes grew frenzied. “It’s always…been you. Only you.” “Only you,” she echoed. She’d been fooling herself about Edwin. There had only ever been one man in her heart. And as he drove himself deep inside her, he sent her vaulting into the sun. When he followed her into the bliss, she clutched him close to her chest and prayed that he would let her inside his heart as deeply as she’d let him into hers. That she wasn’t making a mistake by taking up with him again. Because it was too late to go back now. This time, he had her for better or worse.

The shower turned out to be glorious once I adjusted the water to a cool enough temperature so as not to produce any steam. I washed my hair, noticing that my favorite shampoo suddenly smelled like Hades--as did my trusty facial scrub, which had so loyally saved my face from looking like the back of a lizard on the day of my wedding. Just as I was rinsing the last of the suds from my hair, Marlboro Man suddenly burst through the door of the bathroom and yelled, “Hey!” I screamed bloody murder from the startle, then screamed again because I was naked and feeling queasy and unattractive. Then I felt sick from the excitement. “Hi,” I managed, grabbing a towel from the rack and wrapping it around myself as quickly as I could. “Gotcha,” he said, smiling the sexiest smile I’d ever seen while in such a sick state. Then he stopped and looked at me. “Are you okay?” He must have noticed the verdant glow of my skin. “I’ll be honest,” I said, making my way back to our bedroom. “It’s pretty bad. I’m going to try to get in to the doctor today and see if there’s anything he can do about it.” I fell backward onto the bed. “My ears must have been permanently damaged or something.” Marlboro Man moved toward me, looking like the cat that had just eaten the canary. “Scared you, didn’t I?” he chuckled as he wrapped his arms around my towel-cloaked body. I breathed him in, wrapping my arms around him, too. Then I shot up and raced back to the bathroom so I could throw up again.

I adjust the mirror so I can see reflections or reflections, miles and miles of me and my new jeans. I hook my hair behind my ears. I should have washed it. My face is dirty. I lean into the mirror. Eyes after eyes after eyes stare back at me. Am I in there somewhere? A thousand eyes blink. No makeup. Dark circles. I pull the side flaps of the mirror in closer, folding myself into the looking glass and blocking out the rest of the store. My face becomes a Picasso sketch, my body slicing into dissecting cubes. I saw a movie once where a woman was burned over eighty percent of her body and they had to wash all the dead skin off. They wrapped her in bandages, kept her drugged, and waited for skin grafts. They actually sewed her into a new skin. I push my ragged mouth against the mirror. A thousand bleeding, crusted lips push back. What does it feel like to walk in a new skin? Was she completely sensitive like a baby, or numb, without any nerve endings, just walking in a skin bag? I exhale and my mouth disappears in a fog. I feel like my skin has been burned off. I stumble from thornbush to thornbush - my mother and father who hate each other, Rachel who hates me, a school that gags on my like I'm a hairball. And Heather. I just need to hang on long enough for my new skin to graft. Mr. Freeman thinks I need to find my feelings. How can I not find them? They are chewing me alive like an infestation of thoughts, shame, mistakes. I squeeze my eyes shut. Jeans that fit, that's a good start. I have to stay away from the closet, go to all my classes. I will make myself normal. Forget the rest of it.

Grabbing my hair and pulling it to the point my skull throbs, I rock back and forth while insanity threatens to destroy my mind completely. Father finally did what Lachlan started. Destroyed my spirit. The angel is gone. The monster has come and killed her. Lachlan Sipping his whiskey, Shon gazes with a bored expression at the one-way mirror as Arson lights the match, grazing the skin of his victim with it as the man convulses in fear. “Show off,” he mutters, and on instinct, I slap the back of his head. He rubs it, spilling the drink. “The fuck? We are wasting time, Lachlan. Tell him to speed up. You know if you let him, he can play for hours.” All in good time, we don’t need just a name. He is saving him for a different kind of information that we write down as Sociopath types furiously on his computer, searching for the location and everything else using FBI databases. “Bingo!” Sociopath mutters, picking up the laptop and showing the screen to me. “It’s seven hours away from New York, in a deserted location in the woods. The land belongs to some guy who is presumed dead and the man accrued the right to build shelters for abused women. They actually live there as a place of new hope or something.” Indeed, the center is advertised as such and has a bunch of stupid reviews about it. Even the approval of a social worker, but then it doesn’t surprise me. Pastor knows how to be convincing. “Kids,” I mutter, fisting my hands. “Most of them probably have kids. He continues to do his fucked-up shit.” And all these years, he has been under my radar. I throw the chair and it bounces off the wall, but no one says anything as they feel the same. “Shon, order a plane. Jaxon—” “Yeah, my brothers will be there with us. But listen, the FBI—” he starts, and I nod. He takes a beat and quickly sends a message to someone on his phone while I bark into the microphone. “Arson, enough with the bullshit. Kill him already.” He is of no use to us anyway. Arson looks at the wall and shrugs. Then pours gas on his victim and lights up the match simultaneously, stepping aside as the man screams and thrashes on the chair, and the smell of burning flesh can be sensed even here. Arson jogs to a hose, splashing water over him. The room is designed security wise for this kind of torture, since fire is one of the first things I taught. After all, I’d learned the hard way how to fight with it. “On the plane, we can adjust the plan. Let’s get moving.” They spring into action as I go to my room to get a specific folder to give to Levi before I go, when Sociopath’s hand stops me, bumping my shoulder. “Is this a suicide mission for you?” he asks, and I smile, although it lacks any humor. My friend knows everything. Instead of answering his question, I grip his shoulder tight, and confide, “Valencia is entrusted to you.” We both know that if I want to destroy Pastor, I have to die with him. This revenge has been twenty-three years in the making, and I never envisioned a different future. This path always leads to death one way or another, and the only reason I valued my life was because I had to kill him. Valencia will be forever free from the evils that destroyed her life. I’ll make sure of it. Once upon a time, there was an angel. Who made the monster’s heart bleed.

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Come here, you flea-ridden hair wad. You’ll have all the sugar biscuits you want, if you’ll give your new toy to me.” He whistled softly and clicked. But the blandishments did not work. Dodger merely regarded him with bright eyes and stayed at the threshold, clutching the vial in his tiny paws. “Give him one of your garters,” Leo said, still staring at the ferret. “I beg your pardon?” Miss Marks asked frostily. “You heard me. Take off a garter and offer it to him as a trade. Otherwise we’ll be chasing this damned animal all through the house. And I doubt Rohan will appreciate the delay.” The governess gave Leo a long-suffering glance. “Only for Mr. Rohan’s sake would I consent to this. Turn your back.” “For God’s sake, Marks, do you think anyone really wants a glance at those dried-up matchsticks you call legs?” But Leo complied, facing the opposite direction. He heard a great deal of rustling as Miss Marks sat on a bedroom chair and lifted her skirts. It just so happened that Leo was positioned near a full-length looking glass, the oval cheval style that tilted up or down to adjust one’s reflection. And he had an excellent view of Miss Marks in the chair. And the oddest thing happened—he got a flash of an astonishingly pretty leg. He blinked in bemusement, and then the skirts were dropped. “Here,” Miss Marks said gruffly, and tossed it in Leo’s direction. Turning, he managed to catch it in midair. Dodger surveyed them both with beady-eyed interest. Leo twirled the garter enticingly on his finger. “Have a look, Dodger. Blue silk with lace trim. Do all governesses anchor their stockings in such a delightful fashion? Perhaps those rumors about your unseemly past are true, Marks.” “I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, my lord.” Dodger’s little head bobbed as it followed every movement of the garter. Fitting the vial in his mouth, the ferret carried it like a miniature dog, loping up to Leo with maddening slowness. “This is a trade, old fellow,” Leo told him. “You can’t have something for nothing.” Carefully Dodger set down the vial and reached for the garter. Leo simultaneously gave him the frilly circlet and snatched the vial.

Shrugging, I glanced at Judd who was watching someone in the corner. When I looked back at Cooper, he was studying the hair in my eyes. “You look tired,” he said, reaching out to brush away the hair. Cooper’s hand never reached my face before Judd grabbed his wrist and yanked it away. In that instant, everything shifted. The men stepped closer, eyeballing each other as the heat of their anger became palatable. I thought to step between them and calm things before violence broke out. Then, I remembered when I tried to break up a fight between my uncle’s dogs. If Farah hadn’t pulled me out of the way, I’d have been mauled. That day, I learned if predators wanted to fight, you let them while staying as far back as possible. “I’ll let this go because it’s your woman,” Cooper muttered, dark eyes still angry. “If you pull this shit again and it’s not your woman, you and I will have a problem.” Once Cooper walked away, Judd finally relaxed. I just stared at him as he led me to a booth because a group of old timers were at his table. Sitting next to him, I caressed his face, soothing him. He finally gave me a little grin. Suddenly, Vaughn appeared and took the spot across from us. “Why do you look so pissed off?” “He almost went feral on Cooper for trying to touch me.” Vaughn gave us a lazy grin. “So losing his balls makes a man stupid, eh? Good to know. Just another reason to keep mine attached.” Judd exhaled hard. “You wouldn’t want anyone touching your woman. One day, you’ll know that despite your love affair with your balls.” “A man should love his balls,” Vaughn said, still grinning. “What if I touch her?” he asked, his hand moving slowly towards my face. “I’ll stab you in the fucking eye.” Grinning, Vaughn put down his hand. “You’re pretty damn sexy when you go drama queen, O’Keefe.” “He is, isn’t he?” I said, sliding closer to Judd. “I wish we were naked right now.” Both men frowned at me, but I only smiled and Judd adjusted in the booth as his jeans grew too tight. “Stop,” he warned. “I’m not afraid of you.” “I could make a liar of you.” “You won’t though because you wish you were inside me.” Judd exhaled hard like a pissed bull and adjusted in the booth again. I just laughed and rested my head against his shoulder. “I so own you.” Vaughn nodded. “He’s a keeper. I remember how poetic he was when I asked him if he could imagine himself as an old man. He turned to me and grunted. Real profound grunt too. Oh, and once I asked if he ever imagined himself as a father. I kid you not, he burped. The man is fucking Shakespeare.

Did you just take something off?” I ask the darkness. “Sam,” she scolds. I roll onto my side to face her. “What was it?” I whisper. “Nothing,” she hisses back. But I can hear laughter in her voice and I love it. “You took your shorts off, didn’t you?” I say quietly. “Maybe.” “You did.” I wait a beat. Just long enough for silence to settle around the room. “Do you know what that means?” “It means you should shut up and go to sleep.” She giggles. God, that’s a pretty sound. She’s quiet for a second. “What does it mean?” she suddenly asks. “It means your naked thighs are pressed against my sheets.” I groan. I’m turning myself on. Or she’s turning me on. “Sam,” she warns. But she’s laughing, too. She’s so far away from me that I imagine she’s going to roll right off the bed. “You’re awfully far away.” “There’s a reason for that,” she whispers. “What is it?” I whisper back. “Because I have this awful feeling that you’re going to break my heart,” she says. No stutter, so she must have found something to tap on. But I kind of would prefer to think she didn’t. “I don’t plan to hurt you.” God, she might as well have stabbed me in the gut. “No one plans to hurt anyone else. It just happens. Even to good people. So I’m trying not to let myself like you.” “You like me?” “I like you a lot. Too much.” “You like me,” I sing-song in a playful voice. “Sam,” she says on a heavy breath. “What?” “Don’t hurt me, okay?” I can hear the quiver in her voice and tension radiates off of her even from across the bed. It’s like a wire pulled taut. I reach out a hand and feel for her stomach. When I find it, I lift the edge of her shirt and lay my palm on her hip. She squeals when I roll her over and pull her to me. “Sam!” she cries. I adjust her until her bottom is cradled by my thighs. The scent of her hair tickles my nose, so I brush it out of my face, pushing it down between us. It’s silky smooth and she smells so damn good. “Um, Sam…” I nuzzle my face into the nape of her neck and press a kiss to her shoulder. “What?” “You promised to stay on your side of the bed.” “I am on my side of the bed.” She chuckles. “Go to sleep.” She wiggles her bottom in my lap, and I have to pull back a little and adjust my junk. “Um…” “That’s just my dick. I told you he likes you. He’ll give up in a minute. Go to sleep.” My head is lying on my bicep and I feel her turn her head ever so slightly and press a kiss against the tender skin of my inner arm. Damn, that feels good. My hand creeps up a little. This is the first time I’ve touched her naked stomach, and my fingertips are a little greedy. Her hand covers mine and holds it flat against her belly. “Sorry,” I whisper. She doesn’t say anything. She just holds my hand there against her skin, wrapped in hers. After a couple of minutes, she goes soft in my arms. I realize in that moment that I am in serious trouble. Like the awful, terrible, no good, very bad kind. Because I think I’m in love with her. No. I don’t think it. I know it. What I don’t know is whether or not she’s capable of loving me back.

He concluded the speech with an irritated motion of his hands. Unfortunately, Evie had been conditioned by too many encounters with Uncle Peregrine to discern between angry gestures and the beginnings of a physical attack. She flinched instinctively, her own arms flying up to shield her head. When the expected pain of a blow did not come, she let out a breath and tentatively lowered her arms to find Sebastian staring at her with blank astonishment. Then his face went dark. "Evie," he said, his voice containing a bladelike ferocity that frightened her. "Did you think I was about to... Christ. Someone hit you. Someone hit you in the past---who the hell was it?" He reached for her suddenly---too suddenly---and she stumbled backward, coming up hard against the wall. Sebastian went very still. "Goddamn," he whispered. Appearing to struggle with some powerful emotion, he stared at her intently. After a long moment, he spoke softly. "I would never strike a woman. I would never harm you. You know that, don't you?" Transfixed by the light, glittering eyes that held hers with such intensity, Evie couldn't move or make a sound. She started as he approached her slowly. "It's all right," he murmured. "Let me come to you. It's all right. Easy." One of his arms slid around her, while he used his free hand to smooth her hair, and then she was breathing, sighing, as relief flowed through her. Sebastian brought her closer against him, his mouth brushing her temple. "Who was it?" he asked. "M-my uncle," she managed to say. The motion of his hand on her back paused as he heard her stammer. "Maybrick?" he asked patiently. "No, th-the other one." "Stubbins." "Yes." Evie closed her eyes in pleasure as his other arm slid around her. Clasped against Sebastian's hard chest, with her cheek tucked against his shoulder, she inhaled the scent of clean male skin, and the subtle touch of sandalwood cologne. "How often?" she heard him ask. "More than once?" "I... i-it's not important now." "How often, Evie?" Realizing that he was going to persist until she answered, Evie muttered, "Not t-terribly often, but... sometimes when I displeased him, or Aunt Fl-Florence, he would lose his temper. The l-last time I tr-tried to run away, he blackened my eye and spl-split my lip." "Did he?" Sebastian was silent for a long moment, and then he spoke with chilling softness. "I'm going to tear him limb from limb." "I don't want that," Evie said earnestly. "I-I just want to be safe from him. From all of them." Sebastian drew his head back to look down into her flushed face. "You are safe," he said in a low voice. He lifted one of his hands to her face, caressing the plane of her cheekbone, letting his fingertip follow the trail of pale golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. As her lashes fluttered downward, he stroked the slender arcs of her brows, and cradled the side of her face with his palm. "Evie," he murmured. "I swear on my life, you will never feel pain from my hands. I may prove a devil of a husband in every other regard... but I wouldn't hurt you that way. You must believe that." The delicate nerves of her skin drank in sensations thirstily... his touch, the erotic waft of his breath against her lips. Evie was afraid to open her eyes, or to do anything that might interrupt the moment. "Yes," she managed to whisper. "Yes... I---" There was the sweet shock of a probing kiss against her lips... another... She opened to him with a slight gasp. His mouth was hot silk and tender fire, invading her with gently questing pressure. His fingertips traced over her face, tenderly adjusting the angle between them.

Any memories of other women were banished permanently from his mind... there was only Evie, her red hair streaming and curling over his stomach and thighs, her playful fingers and frolicsome mouth causing him an agony of pleasure like nothing he had ever felt before. When he could no longer hold back his groans, she climbed over him carefully, straddling him, crawling up his body slowly like a sun-warmed lioness. He had one glimpse of her flushed face before she sought his mouth with teasing, sucking kisses. The rosy tips of her breasts dragged through the hair on his chest... she rubbed herself against him, purring with satisfaction at the hard warmth of the male body beneath her. His breath snagged in his throat as he felt her hand slip between their hips. He was so aroused that she had to gently pull his sex away from his stomach before she could fit it between her thighs. The crisp red curls of her mound tickled his exquisitely sensitive skin as she guided him between the hot folds of her body. "No," Sebastian managed, recalling the bet. "Not now. Evie, no---" "Oh, stop protesting. I didn't make nearly this much of a fuss after our wedding, and I was a virgin." "But I don't want---oh God. Holy Mother of God---" She had pushed the head of his sex into her entrance, the sweet flesh so snug and soft that it took his breath away. Evie writhed a little, her hand still grasping the length of his organ as she tried to guide him deeper. Seeing the difficulty she was having in accommodating him caused him to swell even harder, his entire body flushed with prickling excitement. And then came the slow, miraculous slide, hardness within softness. Sebastian's head fell back to the pillow, his eyes drowsy with intense desire as he stared up into her face. Evie made a little satisfied hum in her throat, her eyes tightly closed as she concentrated on taking him deeper. She moved carefully, too inexperienced to find or sustain a rhythm. Sebastian had always been relatively quiet in his passion, but as her lush body lifted and settled, deepening his penetration, and his cock was gripped and stroked by her wet depths, he heard himself muttering endearments, pleas, sex words, love words. Somehow he coaxed her to lean farther over him, resting more of her body against his, adjusting the angle between them. Evie resisted briefly, fearing she would hurt him, but he took her head in his hands. "Yes," he whispered shakily. "Do it this way. Sweetheart. Move on me... yes..." As Evie felt the difference in their position, the increased friction against the tingling peak of her sex, her eyes widened. "Oh," she breathed, and then inhaled sharply. "Oh, that's so---" She broke off as he set a rhythm, nudging deeper, filling her with steady strokes. The entire world dwindled to the place where he invaded her, their most sensitive flesh joined. Evie's long auburn lashes lowered to her cheeks, concealing her unfocused gaze. Sebastian watched a pink flush creep over her face. He was suspended in wonder, suffused with vehement tenderness as he used his body to pleasure hers. "Kiss me," he said in a guttural whisper, and guided her swollen lips to his, slowly ravishing her mouth with his tongue. She sobbed and shuddered with release, her hips bearing greedily against his as she took his full length. The rim of her sex clamped tightly around him, and Sebastian gave himself up to the squeezing, enticing, pulsing flesh, letting her pull the ecstasy from him in great voluptuous surges. As she relaxed over him, trying to catch her breath, he drew his hands over her damp back, his fingertips gently inquiring as they traveled to the plump curve of her bottom. To his delight, she squirmed and tightened around him in helpless response. If he had his usual strength... oh, the things he would have done to her...

There is a spurious vitality about all this noise. But under it, when you come back, you can sense another more significant and more enduring vitality. It has been somewhat hammered down of late. The bell ringers and flag fondlers have been busily peddling their notion that to make America Strong, we must march in close and obedient ranks, to the sound of their little tin whistle. The life-adjustment educators, in strange alliance with the hucksters of consumer goods, have been doing their damnedest to make us all think alike, look alike, smell alike and die alike, amidst all the pockety-queek of unserviceable home appliances, our armpits astringent, nasal passages clear, insurance program adequate, sex life satisfying, retirement assured, medical plan comprehensive, hair free of dandruff, time payments manageable, waistline firm, bowels open. But the other vitality is still there, that rancorous, sardonic, wonderful insistence on the right to dissent, to question, to object, to raise holy hell and, in direst extremity, to laugh the self-appointed squad leaders off the face of the earth with great whoops of dirty disdainful glee. Suppress friction and a machine runs fine. Suppress friction, and a society runs down.

You should have more faith in mortals,” Fletcher countered. “Not all of them are war-hungry simpletons, you know.” “No,” Skulduggery said, “but they do tend to scare easily and, when people are scared, they lash out.” Fletcher adjusted his hair slightly. “You have such a dim view of the people you fight every day to protect.

No rules?” he asked gruffly. “No rules.” Harry threw the first punch, and Cam dodged easily. Adjusting, calculating, Harry retreated as Cam threw a right. A pivot, and then Harry connected with a left cross. Cam had reacted a fraction too late, deflecting some of the blow’s force, but not all. A quiet curse, a rueful grin, and Cam renewed his guard. “Hard and fast,” he said approvingly. “Where did you learn to fight?” “New York.” Cam lunged forward and flipped him to the ground. “West London,” he returned. Tucking into a roll, Harry gained his footing instantly. As he came up, he used his elbow in a backward jab into Cam’s midriff. Cam grunted. Grabbing Harry’s arm, he hooked a foot around his ankle and took him down again. They rolled once, twice, until Harry sprang away and retreated a few steps. Breathing hard, he watched as Cam leapt to his feet. “You could have put a forearm to my throat,” Cam pointed out, shaking a swath of hair from his forehead. “I didn’t want to crush your windpipe,” Harry said acidly, “before I made you tell me where my wife is.” Cam grinned. Before he could reply, however, there was a commotion as all the Hathaways poured from the conservatory. Leo, Amelia, Win, Beatrix, Merripen, and Catherine Marks. Everyone except Poppy, Harry noted bleakly. Where the hell was she? “Is this the after-dinner entertainment?” Leo asked sardonically, emerging from the group. “Someone might have asked me—I would have preferred cards.” “You’re next, Ramsay,” Harry said with a scowl. “After I finish with Rohan, I’m going to flatten you for taking my wife away from London.” “No,” Merripen said with deadly calm, stepping forward, “I’m next. And I’m going to flatten you for taking advantage of my kinswoman.” Leo glanced from Merripen’s grim face to Harry’s, and rolled his eyes. “Forget it, then,” he said, going back into the conservatory. “After Merripen’s done, there won’t be anything left of him.” Pausing beside his sisters, he spoke quietly to Win out of the side of his mouth. “You’d better do something.” “Why?” “Because Cam only wants to knock a bit of sense into him. But Merripen actually intends to kill him, which I don’t think Poppy would appreciate.” “Why don’t you do something to stop him, Leo?” Amelia suggested acidly. “Because I’m a peer. We aristocrats always try to get someone else to do something before we have to do it ourselves.” He gave her a superior look. “It’s called noblesse oblige.” Miss Marks’s brows lowered. “That’s not the definition of noblesse oblige.” “It’s my definition,” Leo said, seeming to enjoy her annoyance. “Kev,” Win said calmly, stepping forward, “I would like to talk to you about something.” Merripen, attentive as always to his wife, gave her a frowning glance. “Now?” “Yes, now.” “Can’t it wait?” “No,” Win said equably. At his continued hesitation, she said, “I’m expecting.” Merripen blinked. “Expecting what?” “A baby.” They all watched as Merripen’s face turned ashen. “But how . . .” he asked dazedly, nearly staggering as he headed to Win. “How?” Leo repeated. “Merripen, don’t you remember that special talk we had before your wedding night?” He grinned as Merripen gave him a warning glance. Bending to Win’s ear, Leo murmured, “Well done. But what are you going to tell him when he discovers it was only a ploy?” “It’s not a ploy,” Win said cheerfully. Leo’s smile vanished, and he clapped a hand to his forehead. “Christ,” he muttered. “Where’s my brandy?” And he disappeared into the house. “I’m sure he meant to say ‘congratulations,’ ” Beatrix remarked brightly, following the group as they all went inside. Cam and Harry were left alone. “I should probably explain,

I remembered my thirties, as a young mother, meeting young fathers, talking about where their sons or daughters were going to elementary school, or whether they were going to try out karate, and how thrilled it made me to see them adjusting their hair or clothing subconsciously: a nervous nod to the powers of attraction I possessed at the time.

Aldrich widened her blue eyes and pushed her shiny brown hair behind her ears. "They can't keep us here," she lamented, adjusting her stylish secretary's ensemble of a checkered pinafore and blouse with bow collar. "I've got to get back to WALCO, Inc. I've just taken a new secretarial course and I'm sure this time I'll get a promotion.

As we started towards those foreboding gold-and-silver doors, I adjusted the white lily that I had tucked into my hair. It was a last-minute addition that I stole from the garden as I left. I figured that Max wouldn’t mind, and besides, it all felt incomplete without it. How poetic, after all: to wear Esmaris’s sigil as I exposed every terrible thing that he did to me. As if I were carrying him with me, hissing into his ear: Look. Look at everything you failed to destroy. Look at what your cruelty created.

So Cassian asked, “Is your magic … The power’s really gone?” The brisk spring wind whipped her golden-brown hair across her face. “I gave it back to the Cauldron in exchange for the knowledge of how to save them.” She swallowed. “But a little remains. I think something else—someone else—stopped the Cauldron from taking all of it. And I made some changes of my own.” The Mother. The only being who would see the sacrifice Nesta had made and give a little back. Perhaps it was she who had peered out at them through the Mask. “What did you change?” Nesta rested a hand on her abdomen. “I changed myself a little, too. So none of us will have to go through this again.” For a heartbeat, Cassian had no words. “You … You’re ready for a baby?” Nesta barked a laugh. “No. Gods no. I’ll be drinking my contraceptive tea for a while yet.” She laughed again. “But I adjusted myself to match what the Cauldron did for Feyre. For when the time is right.

On the far side of the pond, a silver-haired white man in a terry-cloth robe struggled to fill out the client paperwork on his LFD. Con gave him points for trying. A lot of people over forty had a hard time with next-gen light-field devices and clung to their legacy smartphones rather than adapting. She watched him adjust the fit of his LFD, which rested behind the ear like an old-fashioned hearing aid and projected data to a floating point six inches in front of the user’s eyes. When that didn’t solve his problem, he reached out with both hands like he was trying to feel his way in the dark. It really wasn’t necessary. LFDs were paired to their users and would read hand movements from any position. Kids who had grown up with the technology were blindingly fast, all ten fingers working independently, hands fluttering at their sides. But for older users like the silver fox over there, the need to “touch” the screen was hard to break. The results could be hilariously uncoordinated. Exactly why kids mocked their parents as “zombs” for the way they flailed their arms in front of their faces.

Sylvie flicked her brush over the dragon, leaving a line of glittering pigment on the spiked tail. The edible paint had an oil-slick effect, shimmering from blue to pink to purple to black under the light. "What time do I have to---" Jay began. "Shhh," hissed about fifteen voices at once, as Sylvie picked up the dragon and set it on the lowest tier of the cake. Three layers of rich chocolate cake, covered in mirror glaze icing, marbled blue, purple, and black, with gold paint etched and feathered to replicate the appearance of the sugar dragon's scales. She wound the tail upward, adjusting the long curve to swoop neatly around the top tier, the very tip coming to rest protectively on the sculpted couple who sat on the edge, their legs dangling, tiny sugar ankles entwined. One totally edible princess with long black hair and thick eyeliner. Her endearingly fluffy blond love. And Caractacus, the dragon sentinel from the video game I, Slayer, over which the royal couple had apparently bonded, turning an excruciating first private date into an all-nighter. From curt questions and stammering answers to a beer-drinking, ogre-bashing bonk-fest. Just like all good fairy tales. The Brothers Grimm would be proud.

What manner of books?” Gwyn asked. “Romances,” Emerie said, adjusting her own hair, the thick black braid full of reds and browns in the sunlight. Nesta started. Emerie’s eyes lit. “You too? Which ones?

Look out!" came a frightened cry from a soldier and, like a bird whirring in rapid flight and alighting on the ground, a shell dropped with little noise within two steps of Prince Andrew and close to the battalion commander's horse. The horse first, regardless of whether it was right or wrong to show fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the major, and galloped aside. The horse's terror infected the men. "Lie down!" cried the adjutant, throwing himself flat on the ground. Prince Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top between him and the prostrate adjutant, near a wormwood plant between the field and the meadow. "Can this be death?" thought Prince Andrew, looking with a quite new, envious glance at the grass, the wormwood, and the streamlet of smoke that curled up from the rotating black ball. "I cannot, I do not wish to die. I love life—I love this grass, this earth, this air...." He thought this, and at the same time remembered that people were looking at him. "It's shameful, sir!" he said to the adjutant. "What..." He did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came the sound of an explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking window frame, a suffocating smell of powder, and Prince Andrew started to one side, raising his arm, and fell on his chest. Several officers ran up to him. From the right side of his abdomen, blood was welling out making a large stain on the grass. The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the officers. Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in the grass, breathing heavily and noisily. "What are you waiting for? Come along!" The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he moaned piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again. "Pick him up, lift him, it's all the same!" cried someone. They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher. "Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death! My God!"—voices among the officers were heard saying. "It flew a hair's breadth past my ear," said the adjutant. The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started hurriedly along the path they had trodden down, to the dressing station. "Keep in step! Ah... those peasants!" shouted an officer, seizing by their shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly and jolting the stretcher. "Get into step, Fedor... I say, Fedor!" said the foremost peasant. "Now that's right!" said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into step. "Your excellency! Eh, Prince!" said the trembling voice of Timokhin, who had run up and was looking down on the stretcher.

He moved behind her then and encircled her in his arms, taking her hand and placing the handle of the baton properly in her palm and adjusting her small delicate fingers into the correct position. She was acutely aware of his chest pressed against her back and realized she had never been in such close proximity to him before. As he guided her hand though the motions of the proper movement of the baton, she could feel his warm breath on her neck and realized she had been holding her own for what felt like minutes. Her heart was hammering so hard that she felt as though the entire drum section of a marching band had taken up residence in her chest, and she was amazed Charles couldn't feel her pulse racing as he continued to hold her hand in place on the baton. His touch sent chills down her spine. Charles could feel the same electric current surge through his body that Tori had. His lips gently brushed her hair as he spoke to her from behind, and he caught the smell of vanilla emanating from her soft curls. He would have liked nothing better in that moment than to bury his face in her luxurious mane of hair and lose himself in her scent. Instead, he moved away and demonstrated the balance of the baton. That's How You Know by Julie Simmons (Chapter 4)

He presses a finger against her wet entrance, dipping down to tease her clit with a quick swipe of his tongue. A sharp gasp escapes her throat as electricity jolts through her, the heat in her stomach growing more and more intense. He draws tight circles with the tip of his tongue as he presses a single finger into her. Eden moans at the stretch. It's nothing she can't handle, and her slick desire makes it easy to adjust. He inserts a second, this time curling his fingers to sweep over her sweet spot. Eden's hips buck involuntarily, desperation mounting. "Oh, God," she pants, reaching down between her legs to comb her fingers through his hair. "Right there--- Fuck." It's almost too much. She's dizzy, overwhelmed by his touch and his tongue. He seems to know exactly what she needs and how she likes it, impossibly accurate and relentless in pursuit of her release. The hot coil within her grows tighter and tighter, threatening to explode. And then it does, a bright wave of pleasure sweeping over her. She drowns in it, moaning languidly as she closes her eyes and enjoys the high. Her chest heaves, rapid breaths matching the rhythm of her heart. A sudden, satisfying exhaustion hits her soon after. Every inch of her body is alight with soft fire, satiation evident in the way she strokes his hair.

What manner of books?” Gwyn asked. “Romances,” Emerie said, adjusting her own hair, the thick black braid full of reds and browns in the sunlight. Nesta started. Emerie’s eyes lit. “You too? Which ones?” Nesta rattled off her top five, and Emerie grinned, so broadly it was like seeing another person. “Have you read Sellyn Drake’s novels?” Nesta shook her head. Emerie gasped, so dramatically that Cassian muttered something about sparing him from smut-obsessed females before heading farther into the ring. “You must read her books. You must. I’ll bring the first one tomorrow. You’ll stay up all night reading it, I swear.” “Smut?” Gwyn asked, catching Cassian’s muttered words.

When I turn for the twins, Bash already has his cock in hand as if he’s been waiting for this all night. I cross the room and sink between his legs, the rough-spun rug biting into my knees. Bash fists himself, stroking long and slow. Pre-cum already glistens on the head of his dick and he rubs it off with the pad of his thumb, then wipes it across my bottom lip. There is an answering thrill in my pussy as I swipe my tongue over the sweetness. “I’ve had that naughty little cunt twice,” he says. “I will enjoy having your mouth too.” “Then what are you waiting for?” I challenge. He groans deep in his chest, then takes a fistful of my hair and shoves me down around him. The size of him in my mouth takes me by surprise and the air gets stuck in my throat as I try to adjust.

Allow me to introduce my friends. Lord Gavriel, of Doranelle. My uncle, of sorts,” Aelin added with a smirk at Gavriel. At Chaol’s narrowed brows, she explained, “He’s Aedion’s father.” “Well, that explains a few things,” Nesryn muttered. “Lorcan Salvaterre, formerly of Doranelle, and now a blood-sworn member of my court.” As if that weren’t a shock enough, Aelin winked at the imposing male. Lorcan scowled. “We’re still in the adjustment period,” she loudly whispered, and Yrene chuckled. She straightened her shoulders, and another golden-haired male came forward. “Fenrys… You know, I don’t actually know your family name.” Fenrys thew a roguish wink at the queen. “Moonbeam.” “It is not,” Aelin hissed, choking on a laugh. Fenrys laid a hand on his heart. “I am blood-sworn to you. Would I lie?” But it was to the small, delicate woman that Aelin now gestured. “And the only civilized member of my court, Lady Elide Lochan of Perranth.

With both of them buried to the hilt, no one moves as I adjust and savor this feeling of overwhelming fullness. It’s intense and unbelievable, not just sexually but emotionally too. They’re both claiming me, using me, loving me, and tears spring to my eyes as Drake folds himself over me, kissing my back and affectionately wiping my hair from my face.

But then, before I could bring the sword down, I was blinded. Blinded by fire — real fire, the kind that seared the hairs from the tips of my nose, the kind that embraced me with such vivid heat that it sent my body staggering back against the wall. At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and to realize that the fire was moving, and fast. Not moving like flames, but like a creature. Reshaye’s delighted smile spread slowly across my lips. And my heart stopped. It was a serpent. A massive serpent that wove through the air and the crowd, its body made of flames that ran together like water, sparks glinting as scales on its skin. It had no wings and no legs, but it moved uninhibited all the same. It lurched through the air in movements that were at once exquisitely graceful and wildly untamed, as if it, too, struggled to fully control its body.

And then he flipped us with an inhuman speed that made me breathless, leaving me flat on my back before I'd realized it had even happened. I'd seen hints of his more-than-human strength before, but there was something primal, wild about the way he climbed atop me now. He leaned over me, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "Please," he rasped, his voice thick with his fraying restraint. His forearms were all corded muscle and shaking tension as he held himself perfectly still above me. My finger was still between his lips. He looked like he might die if I withdrew it. "I want to feel you." I nodded, understanding from the desperate look in his eyes what he was asking me. "Please," I whispered. With a grunt and one delicious thrust of his hips he was fully seated inside me. I gasped, stunned, the sheer enormity of him stealing the breath from my lungs. My body clenched and unclenched involuntarily, struggling to adjust to his size as he tried to hold himself back. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him down into a searing kiss. I'd never been with someone this big before, and the delicious way my body had to stretch to accommodate him felt incredible. He was everywhere, all at once, and I wanted him to move, to feel the glorious sensual pleasure of him sliding in and out of my body. I wanted to have him in my arms as we moved together, to fall apart in ecstasy as I held him close. On a shaky exhale he slowly pulled out, and then thrust back into me with so much force the headboard knocked against the wall. I slid my hands down his backside, gripping the hard muscle beneath my fingertips as I tried to pull him even deeper inside me. "Is this okay?" The cords in his neck stood out in sharp relief as he fought to hold on. "Yes." He groaned, feral, his lips so close to the overly sensitive skin of my neck I felt it more than heard it. Whatever thin filament of restraint he'd been clinging to seemed to snap with another sharp thrust of his hips. And then another. And another. "Mine," he growled, the speed of his thrusts increasing, his voice taking on a deep rumbling timbre I'd never heard from him before. I answered with an incoherent moan, writhing beneath him, pinned to the mattress by his strong hands and the relentless pace of his hips. He'd been a patient and giving lover earlier. Now, he was using me, my body--- my blood--- for his own pleasure. The realization that he wasn't going to let me out of his bed until he'd thoroughly had his way with me thrilled me.

Fingers brushed my hair out of my face, and a warm mouth grazed my temple. “You should have known better than to think I’d so easily let you go,” he whispered, the words so low and soft I barely caught them. I felt something flick my engagement ring, adjusting its position, and then footsteps padded out of the room.

I wake up. Immediately I have to figure out who I am. It’s not just the body—opening my eyes and discovering whether the skin on my arm is light or dark, whether my hair is long or short, whether I’m fat or thin, boy or girl, scarred or smooth. The body is the easiest thing to adjust to, if you’re used to waking up in a new one each morning. It’s the life, the context of the body, that can be hard to grasp. Every day I am someone else. I am myself—I know I am myself—but I am also someone else. It has always been like this.

Here's a stanza from page 68 where the heel of a narrator makes the following observations regarding his "girl-friend" during a post-tryst afterglow: Several hours later we were lying in her bed, exhausted... After that one, in the dim lamplight of her bedroom, diffused through the sheets as if through a scrim, I took a good look at her and tried to figure out how she got to me the way she did. Her face was long enough to qualify as horsy, with a nose to proportion, ever so slightly bulbous & two or three degrees off-true to the left; her teeth were a little too prominent, her lower incisors an ivory jumble, and with her hair up her ears looked like saucers. There was no denying, though, that she got me going in a way few others ever had. "Jesus, it's still freezing in here," she said.

A stanza from page 68 where the heel of a narrator makes the following observations regarding his 'girl-friend' during a post-tryst afterglow: Several hours later we were lying in her bed, exhausted... After that one, in the dim lamplight of her bedroom, diffused through the sheets as if through a scrim, I took a good look at her and tried to figure out how she got to me the way she did. Her face was long enough to qualify as horsy, with a nose to proportion, ever so slightly bulbous & two or three degrees off-true to the left; her teeth were a little too prominent, her lower incisors an ivory jumble, and with her hair up her ears looked like saucers. There was no denying, though, that she got me going in a way few others ever had. 'Jesus, it's still freezing in here,' she said.

She jerks on a pair of jeans and lifts her hair into a messy ponytail. Damn, she’s pretty. She picks up her bra, turns her back to me, and hides her arms in the shirt, adjusting the bra beneath the fabric. Within seconds, she’s ready to go. She slides on her boots and nods. “Ready?” she asks. “What? You look like you’ve never seen a woman get dressed quickly.” “I’ve never woken up with a woman,” I say. She stops moving and stares at me. “So, no, I’ve never watched one get dressed to start the day.” It’s usually a quick shrug into clothing after I kick someone out of my bed. Correction—after I make her come and then kick her out of my bed. But one day soon, I hope to watch her get dressed without holding the shirt over the best parts. “It seems really intimate, and I’ve never paid attention to anyone getting dressed after getting out of my bed.” I shrug. “I like it.” “I’m your first,” she teases, her face going soft. I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. “You’re my first,” I say, walking toward her. She thinks I’m going to squeeze her into a hug, and she leans into me. But I jerk her into the crook of my arm and give her a noogie instead. “That’s for messing with me,” I growl.

Be fair Ven, it's like wearing a blue wig and then saying don't look at my hair. It's one of those things it's imposable not to do," complained Kyle, trying to adjust to the gloom again. "You may as well have given us a donut and said not to lick our lips." "Did you be saying we have the donuts for eating?" inquired Al as his belly did somersaults. "Sorry big guy, no donuts." Ven wondered again how they had all survived so long, she really did despair at times. Their

I want you, chula,” I say, my voice hoarse. She presses against my erection, the pleasure/pain almost unbearable. But when I start to pull her panties down, she stills my hand and pushes it away. “I…I’m not ready for that. Alex, stop.” I move off her and sit back in the seat, waiting for my body to cool down. I can’t look at her as she adjusts her straps, covering her body again. Shit, I went too fast. I told myself not to get too excited, to keep my wits when I’m with this girl. Raking my hand through my hair, I let out a slow breath. “I’m sorry.” “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I urged you on and you have every right to be pissed off. Listen, I just got out of a relationship with Colin and I’ve got a lot of stuff going on at home.” She puts her face in her hands. “I’m so confused.” She grabs her purse and opens the door. I follow her, my black shirt open and flying in the wind behind me like a vampire’s cape. Either that or the grim reaper’s. “Brittany, wait.” “Please…open the door to the garage. I need my car.” “Don’t go.” I press the keypad code. “I’m sorry,” she says once more. “Stop sayin’ that. Listen, no matter what happened, I’m not with you just to get into your pants. I got carried away with the way we clicked tonight, your vanilla scent that I wanted to keep inhalin’ forever and…shit, I really messed this up, didn’t I?” Brittany climbs inside her car. “Can we take it slow, Alex? This is going way too fast for me.” “Yeah,” I say, nodding. I keep my hands in my pockets, resisting the urge to pull her out of the car. And dammit if Brittany doesn’t drive away.

Let me kiss you,” I begged, wishing there was something else I could do to ease him. I reached up and took those gorgeous cheekbones in my hands, bringing his mouth down to mine. My kisses were tender, brushing his soft lips with mine, licking into his sweet mouth. With gentle hands, I rubbed his arms and chest. I let my fingers sift down through the light hair on his belly, until I brushed his cock. “Oh,” he said into my mouth as I began to stroke him lightly. “Oh,” he said again as I grazed his nipple with my free hand, and tangled my tongue with his. I kissed him to say that everything was okay, no matter if we fucked or not. I kissed him to tell him how grateful I was that he loved me. So grateful. Josh shifted carefully. He adjusted the angle of his hips, and the effect was a bit of friction on my cock, which was still buried inside him. I couldn’t hold back my moan. It just felt so good. That seemed to make Josh feel brave. He put some weight on the headboard and experimented with lifting himself up my shaft. God in heaven, it was good. My kisses lost focus as Josh’s firm body slid up and then down my shaft. He tipped his hips further, then did it again. “Baby,” I breathed. But that’s all I said. Because speaking was beyond my capacity at the moment. Slowly, he thrusted again. And again. Each time he moved, I felt everything. His body hugged my cock in the most beautiful way. And his sweet breath brushed my face, his tongue skimmed my mouth. “It’s so…” I struggled to tell him how I was feeling. “…Hot inside you. So… intense. Are you all right?

The boys will take a little while to adjust, but I’m sure you’ll all get along,” her mother said. Boys? Megan’s mind was flooded with images of boys. Boys with missing teeth, their faces smeared with red Popsicle goo, their beady little eyes laughing at her as they lured her behind their house to see their new “puppy” and then lassoed her to a tree and hung her upside down. Greasy-haired, chubby-legged, evil little boys. Boys with worms in their pockets who ate gum off the ground and pulled her hair. “How many of them were there again?” Megan asked as she lowered herself shakily onto the edge of the couch. Her mother and father pondered this. “Seven at last count, I believe,” her father said. “Quite a brood.” Yes. Quite, Megan thought.

She wore a tan robe and headscarf, the clothes of a local... but didn't feel like a market regular. She moved slowly and gazed at everything with a child's wonder. Her eyes were large and clear, her hair as black as midnight. She had a warm smile on her pretty lips and was obviously murmuring 'hellos' and 'excuse mes' to people who really didn't care or want to talk. She walked with the grace of a cloud in the wind, like her body weighed nothing at all, and held her head high with easy dignity. Easy. Aladdin felt his heart contract. He had never seen her- or anyone like her- before. When the girl adjusted her scarf, she revealed an intricate diadem in her hair that had a ridiculously sized emerald in it. 'Ah, a rich girl, out for a day of shopping in the market without her servants. Living dangerously, playing hooky.

As I scramble for my shirt to cover my chest--thank God I’d decided against changing bras--I grumble, “Don’t you knock?” He crosses his arms and rests against the door frame. “It is my room.” My heart pounds in my ears. I should yell, kick him out, slam the door, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Russet skin, solid jaw line, caramel eyes, perfectly messy black hair. Shoulders and arm muscles stretching his baby-blue shirt tight. Is this Bruno or Luca? I adjust the shirt hiding me, equal parts embarrassed and flattered that someone so hot is checking me out. He brushes a hand over the tips of his hair before resting it up high on the doorjamb. I’m not sure I can feel my legs. I can’t believe I’m sharing an apartment with him for the whole summer. Chiara pushes past him into the room and stops, first looking me over, then frowning at him. “You did not knock?” He smirks. “It is my room.” Chiara spouts off in Italian, waving her hands around, and soon they’re pretty much yelling at each other. Then they erupt into laughter and he shoves her shoulder before pulling her in for a hug. “Bruno, this is my friend Pippa. Pippa, my cousin Bruno.” Bruno. The in-with-the-wrong-crowd Bruno. Divinely and supernaturally gorgeous Bruno. And he just winked at me. Not good.

Seriously, should I lose it?” I shrug. “It’s practical. I get it.” He yanks it off and shoves it into the pocket of his shorts. A shake of his head lands everything where it belongs. “Here,” I say, angling my candle toward him. “I already took care of the headband. Fire really isn’t necessary, is it?” I motion toward the unlit candle at his side. He smiles and raises it to mine. As he watches his wick ignite, I stare at the hundreds of tiny whisker-shadows dancing on his face and the contrast of the smooth, illuminated apples of his cheeks. He looks from his candle to me, his eyes glossy in the orange candlelight. “I was just kidding, you know. About your hair,” I say, reaching to adjust a stray curl. “But this is better.” Darren clutches my wrist and lowers my arm slowly, my eyes forced to meet his. The drums from the parade combine with the thump, thump, thump of my heart in my ears. Our smiles fade and my mouth is suddenly a desert. His fingers slide down my wrist until my hand rests loosely in his. A boom from a drum as it passes causes us both to jump. I exhale and take the opportunity to pull away and redirect my attention. Nearly the whole town joins the parade behind the band, some carrying candles, some walking arm in arm. Some holding hands. Did Darren really just try to hold my hand?

Put this one on right now,” he says, switching back into exaggerated, giddy-girl mode. “You better cut that out or you’re going to have me thinking things about you that you probably don’t want me to.” I giggle and tug the hat down on my head. Darren adjusts it for me, off-centering the brim from my forehead. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me to the mirror, moving sections of my hair from behind so it lies on my chest. My eyes take in the hat--which I secretly think I adore and must have--before they meet his gaze. Keeping his hands on my shoulders and his eyes locked on mine in the mirror, he tilts his head, leaning closer until his lips nearly brush against my ear. “What kind of things?” My whole body quivers as I close my eyes, unable to look at him looking at me that way if he’s not going to do anything about it. I’m so far gone now, there’s no turning back.

Part 1: Readiness and Reminders Choose a place where you’ll feel comfortable and are unlikely to be disturbed. Get your props ready, shut the door, dim the lights, and turn off the phone or whatever else might be distracting. Relaxation Pose (Shavasana) Stretch yourself out on a thick blanket or mat on the floor. Either close your eyes or keep them slightly open… To help you relax your hips and legs, try letting your heels be about two feet apart. It’s fine to make your own adjustments so that your legs and hips feel comfortable and at ease… Allow your feet and toes to rest out to the sides, and let go… Now, bring your attention to your hips… Notice how the weight of your hips is resting on the ground… If it feels uneven, lift them up slightly, then settle back down until it feels even and balanced on both sides. Shift your attention to your shoulders. Feel the placement of your shoulders, exactly where they are… You’re invited to move your shoulders down from your ears and tuck your shoulder blades under for more support. Have your arms out to each side with your palms up. Settle the very back of your head on the floor or thin cushion and tuck your chin so that it’s slightly lower than your forehead. Adjust your hair if it’s in the way. Make sure that your head and neck are nicely aligned with your spine. Feel free to adjust your clothing and props, making sure that every part of your body feels as steady and comfortable as possible. Remind yourself to let the yoga nidra process happen naturally by being openly aware. It’s common to tune out while feeling deeply quiet and at ease while vaguely aware of what’s happening outside. Return your attention to the guiding instructions if you get distracted unnecessarily. Go ahead and add your own personal reminders for keeping on track and having a more meaningful time. Say it positively and in the present tense. Please take a big breath in through your nose and sigh it out through your mouth… Feel free to breathe in and sigh out a few more times.

Hi, Dale, it’s Gabby...Clay’s girlfriend.”  It felt weird giving myself that title, but I pushed it aside.  Bigger issues to deal with.  “If he’s there, can I talk to him?” Dale chuckled.  “Sure, but I don’t imagine it’d be much of a conversation.” I heard him call out to Clay.  A moment later, a husky voice said, “Hello?” After not talking to me for so long, hearing his voice startled and annoyed me slightly.  He would talk to a perfect stranger, but not me?  I opened my mouth to say something about it, but the pain in my head insistently prodded me to get on with the important news. “Clay, I did it again.  I’m at the diner where we had breakfast.  I need you to come get me before it gets worse.” He didn’t say anything for so long that I looked at the phone to see if I still had a signal.  The screen said disconnected.  Would it have killed him to say “Okay” or maybe even “Bye” before hanging up?  His hello had been too shocking to recall the sound of his voice. I sighed and put my cell away.  With Sam’s frequent calls and Rachel’s occasional texts, my remaining minutes dipped into the double digits.  I needed to adjust my budget to buy more airtime.  Did life really need to throw me this many curveballs?  And all at once? I forced myself to eat more of my mostly untouched meal so the waitress wouldn’t bother me as I waited. The last of the waves hit me.  Only determination and a hand over my mouth kept me from whimpering.  After about ten minutes, I settled the bill and watched out the window for Clay, barely checking the need to curl into a ball and lie down on the padded bench.  The waitress kept a close eye on me, probably thinking she would need to clean up barf soon.  She might. Dale’s huge tow truck pulled into the parking lot.  Clay opened his door and leapt out while it still rolled to a stop.  Through the window, he spotted me.  His eyes never left me as he strode in and Dale pulled away. Clay still wore his greasy coveralls, and with his hair pulled back, he looked like an angel—a grimy one—coming to save me.  Again. “Hi,

You about ready for some input?” Noah asked. “It’s free advice, and you’re under no obligation.” “Go for it,” Sean said. “Forget all that—it’s in the past. You’ll work through it, hopefully without hurting each other. Right now? Get to know your daughter. It’s the most important part of this whole drama. Get to know Rosie. Whether you want to be a father or not, you are one, so press on—start a relationship with her right away. Both of you have been missing out.” “How’m I gonna do that?!” “Show up. Talk to her. Play with her. I let Ellie’s daughter put ribbons and clips and stuff in my hair. It’s a bonding experience for us both—I get to look stupid and she gets control.” “What if she asks…?” “Tell her before she asks,” Noah advised. “If you know for sure you’re her father, you better tell her the second you meet her. There’s a period of adjustment for both of you. Get started on it. All that stuff that went before? That separated you from Franci? You don’t have to work on that with Rosie. You and Franci will work that out. I’m available if you need me. I can help with that.” Sean just stared at him for a long moment, silent. Finally he asked, “Do you really know what you’re doing here?” “I do,” Noah said. “I actually studied and practiced counseling before the seminary. I have a degree and everything.” “What

You about ready for some input?” Noah asked. “It’s free advice, and you’re under no obligation.” “Go for it,” Sean said. “Forget all that—it’s in the past. You’ll work through it, hopefully without hurting each other. Right now? Get to know your daughter. It’s the most important part of this whole drama. Get to know Rosie. Whether you want to be a father or not, you are one, so press on—start a relationship with her right away. Both of you have been missing out.” “How’m I gonna do that?!” “Show up. Talk to her. Play with her. I let Ellie’s daughter put ribbons and clips and stuff in my hair. It’s a bonding experience for us both—I get to look stupid and she gets control.” “What if she asks…?” “Tell her before she asks,” Noah advised. “If you know for sure you’re her father, you better tell her the second you meet her. There’s a period of adjustment for both of you. Get started on it. All that stuff that went before? That separated you from Franci? You don’t have to work on that with Rosie. You and Franci will work that out. I’m available if you need me. I can help with that.” Sean just stared at him for a long moment, silent. Finally he asked, “Do you really know what you’re doing here?” “I do,” Noah said. “I actually studied and practiced counseling before the seminary. I have a degree and everything.” “What am I going to tell Luke?” “Everything or nothing,” Noah said. “The most important thing right now is not what you tell other people, it’s what you tell Rosie. She’s a little girl. Whether she knows it or not, she wants a father. She needs a father. You’re that person. Good luck—you’re going to have to learn fast to fully understand what that means.” “The next person who needs to know about this has to be my mother. In case you haven’t noticed, my mother is a very strong woman with very firm ideas.” “I’m not as good with mothers,” Noah admitted. “You’ll be fine. I bet she loves you.” Sean shook his head. “It never kept her from whacking me in the back of the head if I didn’t do what she liked. Strict. My mother was strict. All five of us were altar boys. She’s wanted grandchildren for a long, long time. The fact that she’s had one for this long without knowing? Oh, man, I’m never going to hear the end of that.” Noah chuckled. “Just duck,” he advised. *

THE WAY SHE SEES ME   My heart becomes increasingly unsteady like a Miura behind the sweltering gates of a charged arena. And even as I begin to feel an utter peace in this moment where I now belong to the purlieus of her love’s imagination. The way that she looks at me sends a clear signal of her need for that intimacy that she longs to feel from me. I feel myself melting from the inside out with this appetent yearning to love her. It is only a matter of time before our hearts engage in this extraordinary magic that descends upon us both. Never before have I felt such serene indulgence as this. Nor have I known silence to be embarked upon with such beauty.   She looks up at me as if she is lying underneath the stars as I lie next to her. She strokes my hair down passed my face and again back behind me in a calm manner that illustrates her intension with me. Tucking herself underneath me with both arms wrapped around me my heart softens as she gently places her face underneath mine, feeling her lips press firmly against my neck. She continues to adjust her nose and face against me as she tugs my shirt. Knowing that I am only here to surrender every part of me as she moves her hands down my waist I lean in to kiss her gently once more. She returns her welcoming smile as she lays her head back down next to mine kindling the flame inside of me that speaks to her. It is my heart that yearns for her as I do know without a doubt that her love is everything to me.

An hour later we were pulling into the hospital parking lot. Sparkly and shiny from my hair and makeup job, I had to stop and bend over six times between the car and the front door of the hospital. I literally couldn’t take a step until each contraction ended. Within an hour after checking in, I was writhing on a hospital bed in all-encompassing pain and wishing once again that I’d gone ahead and moved to Chicago. It had become my default response when things got rough in my life: morning sickness? I should have moved to Chicago. Cow manure in my yard? Chicago would have been a better choice. Contractions less than a minute apart? Windy City, come and get me. Finally, I reached my breaking point. It’s an indescribable feeling, the throes of hard labor--that mind-numbing total body cramp whose origin you can’t even begin to wrap your head around. After trying to be strong and tough in front of Marlboro Man, I finally gave up and gripped the bedsheet and clenched my teeth. I groaned and moaned and pushed the nurse button and whimpered to Marlboro Man, “I can’t do this anymore.” When the nurse came into the room moments later, I begged her to put me out of my misery. My salvation arrived five minutes later in the form of an eight-inch needle, and when the medicine hit I nearly began to cry. The relief was indescribably sweet. I was so blissfully pain-free, I fell asleep. And when I woke up confused and disoriented an hour later, a nurse named Heidi was telling me it was time to push. Almost immediately, Dr. Oliver entered the room, fully scrubbed and wearing a mask. “Are you ready, Mama?” Marlboro Man asked, standing near my shoulders as the nurse draped my legs and adjusted the fetal monitor, which was strapped around my middle. I felt like I’d woken up in the middle of a party. But the weirdest party ever--one where the hostess was putting my feet in stirrups. I ordered Marlboro Man to remain north of my belly button as nurses scurried into place. I’d made it clear beforehand: I didn’t want him down there. I wanted him to continue to get to know me the old-fashioned way--and besides, that’s what we were paying the doctor for. “Go ahead and push once for me,” Dr. Oliver said. I did, but only hard enough to ensure that nothing accidental or embarrassing would slip out. I could think of no greater humiliation. “Okay, that’s not going to work at all,” Dr. Oliver scolded. I pushed again. “Ree,” Dr. Oliver said, looking up at me through the space between my legs. “You can do way better than that.” He’d watched me grow up in the ballet company in our town. He’d watched me contort and leap and spin in everything from The Nutcracker to Swan Lake to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He knew I had the fortitude to will a baby from my loins. That’s when Marlboro Man grabbed my hand, as if to impart to me, his sweaty and slightly weary wife, a measure of his strength and endurance. “Come on, honey,” he said. “You can do it.” A few tense moments later, our baby was born. Except it wasn’t a baby boy. It was a seven-pound, twenty-one-inch baby girl. It was the most important moment of my life. And more ways than one, it was a pivotal moment for Marlboro Man.

She brushes a lock of hair back from her face and winces when she tugs through a snag. “Oh, my gosh. I must look like I’ve been tumbled in a dryer, right? Is it bad?” She starts to sweep through her hair and her hand sticks in another knot. “You wouldn’t happen to have a brush, would you? Crap,” she swears as she encounters a huge snarl. “Wait,” I say. “I’ll get it.” I start to work through the tangle with my fingers and she sits still while I work out every last one. When I’m done, her hair is silky and smooth and I am not ready to stop running my fingers through it, but I probably should. “Don’t stop,” she says quietly. “That feels really good.” She pulls her feet from the water. “Wait,” she says, and she adjusts so that she’s lying over my lap. “You don’t mind, do you?” Hell, at this point, I’d be sad if she made me stop. “It’s fine,” I tell her. She relaxes against me and says, “Talk to me, will you?” Her eyes close and I’m pretty sure if she got any more relaxed, she’d fall asleep. My insides settle in a way they never have before. Usually, I have a roiling, boiling sensation in my chest, like something is fighting to get out of me and I must work to contain it at all times. But now… Now I am at peace. My soul and my heart connect like tumblers lining up in a lock. Snap! It opens up. And it scares the hell out of me. I pull my hands from her hair, thinking that her proximity is the problem. But the tumblers don’t realign. They don’t lock her out. They let her in. They invite her in and offer her a fucking apple pie so she’ll sit and stay for a while. “Are you all right?” she asks. “Why wouldn’t I be?” “You stopped rubbing my hair.” I lift her off my lap and set her beside me. “All the tangles are out.” “Oh.” She sighs. “That’s good.” She suddenly looks uncomfortable and it kills me that I caused it. “Thank you for fixing my hair,” she says quietly.

There was something about the scent of apple, she thought, that was truly unique to just that fruit-- it really did touch on so many childhood memories. Probably because it was among the first baby foods so many ate. "This is going to be so very popular," she said thoughtfully. "I might tone down some of the earth notes, maybe bring up some of the brightness." Dylan observed as she made some exacting adjustments to the dials while simultaneously watching their correlating meters. Grace took a few quick sniffs, smiled, and then held the nose cup to his face again. He put his hand on hers and drew the cup even closer. "I think this balance would make a lovely cider or a blend to an organic cinnamon and apple oatmeal," she said. "Yes," said Dylan, nodding. "Hot from the pan on a cold autumn morning. I can absolutely smell that." "Let's bring up a spice note, warm up the composition a bit." Watching his face, her left hand still with his, her right hand reaching out to the dials, Grace adjusted the machine, and she could see from his face when she was hitting just the right notes. Dylan started laughing. "What?" she asked happily. "I smell my mother's apple pie." He pressed his warm hand to hers on the cup as he inhaled. "That's amazing!" Then he grabbed her hand and moved the cup toward her. "Here, you have to try this." Their hands still together, she inhaled. "Oh, this 'is' amazing. Yum." Grace reached for a dial and adjusted it. "I think I can bring up a butter note in here." A blissful expression came over her face as she sniffed the computer's new modulation. "Try this," she said, moving the cup toward Dylan. Eagerly, he leaned in to her, his head nearly against hers, their hair touching as she held the nose cup out for him. He took in a whiff. "How about just a little more butter?" She adjusted a dial and leaned even closer, so that they were both taking in the scent from the one nose cup. Grace turned to him and they locked eyes, their faces together, their hands together on the nose cup before them, which eased forth the intoxicating aroma of hot apple pie.

The gown Lottie had decided to wear tonight was a pale blue satin overlaid with white tulle, with a daring scooped neckline that bared the tops of her shoulders. Lottie stood in the center of the bedroom while Mrs. Trench and Harriet pulled the billowing gown over her head and helped guide her arms through the puffed sleeves of stiffened satin. It was a gown as beautiful- no, more beautiful- than any she had seen during the parties at Hampshire. Thinking of the ball she was about to attend, and Nick's reaction when he saw her, Lottie was nearly giddy with excitement. Her light-headedness was no doubt encouraged by the fact that her corset was laced with unusual tightness, to enable Mrs. Trench to fasten the close-fitting gown. Wincing in the confinement of stays and laces, Lottie stared into the looking glass as the two women adjusted the ballgown. The transparent white tulle overslip was embroidered with sprays of white silk roses. White satin shoes, long kid gloves, and an embroidered gauze scarf were the final touches, making Lottie feel like a princess. The only flaw was her stick-straight hair, which refused to hold a curl no matter how hot the tongs were. After several fruitless attempts to create a pinned-up mass of ringlets, Lottie opted for a simple braided coil atop her head, encircled with fluffy white roses. When Harriet and Mrs. Trench stood back to view the final results of their labors, Lottie laughed and did a quick turn, making the blue skirts whirl beneath the floating white tulle.

A dark-haired, slightly-built young man in his late twenties stepped out in front of me. He had the air of a guy with a lot of diplomas on his wall and not too much trouble getting them. "I'm Doctor Devine. I'll be helping you get adjusted to your new life in a different world." How

Henny started to check things over—cables, speedometer, tire pressure, mirror adjustment—and then he sprayed the chain with WD40. He always does this, even if he’s going two blocks to the grocery. “Almost ready,” he said, when I thought he was all done. “I’m going to fill the water bottle and throw a bag of dried fruit into the seat pack.” Then he made one more trip for a bandage, just in case. When we finally got going, it was the hottest part of the day. I didn’t want to know how hot it was, but I knew Henny was going to tell me. “Did you check the thermometer?” he called up to me at the first intersection. “A hundred and five in the shade. It’s hot enough to uncurl your hair. We’ll die of heat exhaustion out here on the high-way. Can’t we go in something air-conditioned?” Henny never does anything without a few complaints. He has terrible things to say about trumpet lessons but he likes to play the trumpet. And then there are book reports. Henny reads the long, nonfiction books, the Yellow Pages, everything. Just don’t ask him to write up a report, because he will complain about it forever, and then turn in thirty pages.

Oh, my goodness! Megan Maureen McClare—you did, didn’t you?” Her mother’s jaw fell. “Uh-oh.” Alli’s voice squeaked with a nervous giggle, fingertips pressed to her lips as if to restrain further damage. She peeked at Meg out of the corner of her eyes, brows puckered in repentance. “Was I supposed to keep that a secret?” Meg laughed and hugged her tightly. “Not really, Al, so don’t worry. Not only will I have to adjust to this new me, but everyone else will too.” She glanced up at her mother with her usual sweet smile, although she was certain it lacked the timidity to which everyone was accustomed. “Please forgive me, Mother. I know a lady hopping aboard a motorbike with a near stranger is not the most dignified of scenarios. But Paris does something to you—it dares you, entices you, liberates you in ways I never expected.” “Sweet thunderation, Megs, you really and truly got on a motorbike with a complete stranger?” Cassie’s sagging jaw matched Meg’s mother’s. “Not exactly a stranger,” Alli piped up, eager to redeem herself, “a friend of the Rousseaus named Pierre.” She glanced at Meg with a sudden gleam of mischief in her eyes. “Apparently he was one of several smitten young men who asked Megs to marry him.” “What?” Uncle Logan was on his feet in a heartbeat, face ruddy with shock. “Megan Maureen, you best tell me there is nothing going on here, young lady—” “Nothing is going on, Uncle Logan, truly.” Meg offered a conciliatory smile, her gaze darting to where Bram was actually frowning—a most infrequent occurrence—before she returned to her uncle. “Pierre is Dr. Rousseau’s colleague’s son, and a dear friend of the Rousseaus, but I assure you, he and I are only friends.” “So, tell us, Bug,” Bram said, hunkering down on the table with a fold of arms, the lazy bent of his smile at odds with the slight narrowing of his eyes. “Exactly how many hearts did you break in Paris?” “More than I ever have, I can tell you that,” Alli said with a wink, shimmying in to prop her chin in her hand. “So tell us about riding the motorbike, Megs—was it exciting?” Meg’s gaze flitted to Alli with a mischievous grin that made her feel alive, as if she were coming out of the shadows for the very first time. “Oh, yes, very much so! The wind in your face while your hair whips behind you, free and unfettered.” She stole a glance at Bram, wishing his disapproval didn’t bother her so. “And I didn’t ‘break’ any hearts,” she said softly, “just the mold of who the old Meg used to be.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she peered over the edge of the bed at her husband. When he rolled to one side and then the other and finally settled for lying on his back, she arched an eyebrow. “Comfortable?” He made that Scottish harrumph sound. “Come on up here,” she said, patting the bed. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He made no response. Fine. Be that way. She scooted out of bed and unabashedly stretched out alongside her tall Highlander. The burgundy kilt did nothing to disguise the hardness of the floor, and her hip protested when she turned on her side to face him. “What are ye doing, lass?” His voice was so soft and close in the darkness, it made her shiver. She forgot all about the hard floor. “I always imagined that once I got married, I’d finally know what it was like to spend the night in a man’s arms. Will you hold me, so I can feel what that’s like? I won’t ask for more than that. Just hold me.” He rolled to face her and touched her cheek. “Ah, lass,” he sighed. “How can I deny you when you ask so sweetly? If ’tis holding ye want, holding you shall get. But the floor is no place for you and your bairn. Up in the bed with you.” “It’s no place for a married man, either,” she said, smiling at her small victory. He sighed again, a sound heavy with sentiment she could only guess at. She climbed under the blankets and held them up for him, but he was taking his sweet time. “Are you coming?” “Aye, lass. Just donning my plaid.” She bit back a huff of frustration. She determined to enjoy what little affection he would give her and didn’t want to push her luck by asking for more. Her hormones would have to learn patience; this was going to be a painfully slow seduction. When Darcy slipped into bed, bare-chested, but wrapped in layers of wool from the waist down, she cuddled into his open arms. All her frustration drained away as he gathered her in and the heat of his chest turned her into a melty puddle of contentment. She nestled her nose into the tuft of hair between his mounded pectorals and inhaled his scent of saddle leather and faint, masculine musk. Beneath her closed eyelids, her eyes rolled back in her head with bliss.

Rhi stood in the doorway and watched Henry. He was a fighter. Maybe that’s why she saved him. There was also a slim chance it was because he helped the Kings. “It’s a good thing you called me,” Usaeil, Queen of the Light, said as she came to stand beside Rhi. Rhi could’ve brought Henry to Usaeil’s manor on the west coast of Ireland, but then it would reveal to one and all power she’s managed to keep hidden from them. That was something she wanted to keep to herself. So she got Henry out of the prison and to the outskirts of Dublin. From there, it was simply a matter of asking Usaeil for help. Now all Rhi had to worry about was finding out how much Henry remembered. If he recalled seeing her teleport him out, then she would need to convince him to lie for her. Although Usaeil would want to know how Henry got out of his prison and how Rhi found him. Usaeil hadn’t begun those questions yet. But they were coming. “I’m glad you agreed to help,” Rhi said. Usaeil shoved her black hair over her shoulders and adjusted the coral sheath dress she wore. “He’s aiding the Kings. Why wouldn’t I help him?” Rhi wanted to roll her eyes, but she didn’t. “We might be Light, but we also use humans as the Dark do.” “We don’t kill them.” “No, we sleep with them once and ruin them for any other mortal. We don’t hurt them at all,” she said sarcastically, giving Usaeil a cutting look. Usaeil slid her silver eyes to Rhi. “I can easily toss Henry North out on his ass.” “Do it. What do I care?” “I think you care more than you’re ready to admit. Why else would you want to help him?” Usaeil sighed. “Rhi, we all know you went through hell at Balladyn’s hands. We know it’s going to take time for you to heal, but you will heal.” Rhi wasn’t so sure. She could feel the darkness within her, coiling and shifting. She had to fight to remember what she should do, instead of what the darkness wanted her to do. “Henry is healing nicely,” Rhi said, changing the subject. Usaeil nodded slowly. “His injuries were extensive. Had you not found him when you did, the internal bleeding would’ve killed him in a few hours. By the way, how did you find him again?” This was what Rhi had been waiting for. Everyone knew she couldn’t lie without feeling tremendous pain. She sank her nails into her palms, held Usaeil’s gaze and lied. “I found him in Dublin. As I said, I don’t know how he got there.” “So very odd.” The pain was gut wrenching. It twisted her insides and squeezed her lungs so that she couldn’t breath. Pain exploded inside her head. She began to shake. It was time for Rhi to change the subject again. “You should tell Con we have him.” The queen twisted her lips. “If I do, Con will want to come here and finish healing Henry himself, or want us to bring Henry to him. I’m not in the mood for either.” “Henry will be finished healing soon. What then? You want him to remain? In a place full of Light Fae?” Thankfully, the pain began to dull enough that Rhi could breath easier. “No,” Usaeil said with a frown. “Already his appearance has sparked interest. They’re trying to get in to see him. He’s a mortal, so he’ll succumb to any Fae he encounters.” Rhi took exception to that. “He’s stronger than that.” “He’s human, Rhi. Not a single one can resist us. It’s a fact. Henry is no different.” Rhi didn’t argue, but she knew she was right. Henry was different. She’d seen it the first time she met him in Con’s office months ago. He took in the fact his friends at Dreagan were actually dragon shifters with a nod, his solemn hazel eyes seeing things anew. She bit back a grin as she recalled how he’d become a little flustered when he saw her and learned who she was. Henry’s smile was charming, sweet . . . honest. He looked at her as if she were the only woman on the realm. Even though Rhi understood that it was the fact she was Fae that intrigued him, enthralled him, she took an instant liking to the human who never backed down.

Company procedures now require of me that…..at this INSANE moment, for absolutely NO logical reason, with NOTHING in sight, that I remain unmoving and clearly and calmly utter aloud but one word. It is said mostly to notify the co-pilot that I have not succumbed to the gut-churning apprehension inside me, had a heart attack and died at the controls and am still “in the loop”. Failure by me to issue the word promptly would result in the First Officer having to pass through the elation phase of moving UP a notch in seniority instantly and TAKE COMMAND (something all copilots have dreamed of since John Wayne slapped what’s-his-name in “The High and the Mighty”). I feel the coarse hairs of the rope noose on the outside of my hood as the hangman slides the rope slightly back and forth sideways. He is adjusting the large knots with the thirteen coils, setting it in just the right place to ensure a clean quick kill. With what I hope sounds like comfortable conviction and confidence, as proscribed by company procedures, as the Final Act approaches, I now utter my next line in this cockpit drama. One word.. “CONTINUING!

You’re a pirate?” Obviously. Still, hard to believe. He pressed forward, forcing on her a series of blows meant to test her strength and will. She parried and blocked his every move with an aptitude that amazed. “Aye. A pirate, and captain of the Sea Sprite,” she boasted, a wry smile upon her full lips. Indeed, she appeared very much a pirate in her men’s garb—a threadbare, brown suit with overly long sleeves she’d had to roll up. Her ebony hair had been pulled back in a queue and was half hidden beneath a rumpled tricorn. Also, like her men, was her look of desperation and the grim cast to her countenance that bespoke of a hard existence. “We offered you quarter,” she said as she evaded his thrust with ease. “Why didn’t you surrender? You had to know we outnumbered you.” He didn’t answer. In all honesty, he’d thought they could defeat the pirates, if not with cannon fire, then with skill. After hearing of all the pirate attacks of late, they’d hired on additional hands, men who could fight. If it hadn’t been for the damn illness… “It’s not too late. You can save what’s left of your crew. Surrender now, Captain Glanville, and we’ll see that your men are ransomed back.” A wicked gleam brightened her eyes as if victory would soon be hers. He should do as she asked. It would be the sensible thing, but pride kept him from saying the words. Not yet. He still had another opponent to defeat, and so far she hadn’t been an easy one to overcome. Despite his steady attack, she kept her muscles relaxed, her balance sure. Her attention followed his movements no matter how small, adjusting her stance, looking for weaknesses. “How do you know I’m Captain Glanville?” When work was at hand, he didn’t dress any differently than his men. “I know much about you.” Stepping clear of two men battling to their left, she blocked his sword with her own and lunged with her dagger. He jumped from the blade, avoiding injury by the barest inch. This one relied on speed and accuracy rather than power. Smart woman. “What do you want from us?” he asked, launching an attack of his own, this time with so much force and speed, she had no choice but to retreat until her back came up against the railing. “We only just left London four days ago. Our cargo is mainly iron and ale.” Her gaze sharpened even as her expression became strained. His assault was wearing her down. “I want the Ruby Cross.” How the hell did she know he had the cross? And did she believe he’d simply hand it over? Hand over a priceless antiquity of the Knights Templar? Absurd. He swung his sword all the harder. The clang of steel rang through the air. Her reactions slowed, and her arms trembled. He made a final cut, putting all his strength behind the blow, and knocked her sword from her hand. Triumph surged through his veins. She attempted to slash out with her dagger. He grabbed her arm before her blade could reach him and hauled her close, their faces nose to nose. “You’ll never take the cross from me,” he vowed as he towered over her, his grip strong. The point of a sword touched his back. Thomas tensed, he swore beneath his breath, self-disgust heavy in his chest. The distraction of this one woman had sealed his fate. Bloody hell.

Tatiana’s hands trembled whenever she thought of him. She trembled all day long. She walked through Stonington as if she were sleepwalking, stiff, unnatural. She bent to her son, she straightened up, she adjusted her dress, she fixed her hair. The churning inside her stomach did not abate. Tatiana tried to be bolder with him, less afraid of him. He wouldn’t kiss her in front of Jimmy, or the other fishermen, or anybody. Sometimes in the evenings, as they walked down Main Street and looked inside the shops, he would buy her some chocolate, and she would turn up her face to thank him, and he would kiss her on the forehead. The forehead! One evening Tatiana got tired of it and, jumping up on the bench, flung her arms around him. “Enough with the head,” she said, and kissed him full on his lips. His one hand on the cigarette, the other on Anthony’s ice cream, he couldn’t do more than press against her. “Get down,” he said quietly, kissing her back without ardor. “What’s gotten into you?” Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I give you man o’ war!

There,” Lucetta proclaimed. “You’re completely buttoned. Now all we have to do is fix your hair, and you’ll be perfect.” “I don’t know how you’re intending to fix my hair, especially since it’s still soaking wet, and . . . stiff with sea salt.” “I’m an actress. Fixing appearances is my specialty.” Lucetta looked a little smug as she adjusted the large hat she’d plopped over her head. “My hair is salt-soaked as well, but no one will notice since I’ve arranged my hat just so, lending me a rather mysterious air.” “You could plop a bowl of fruit on your head and you’d still look mysterious,” Millie said. “I wish I had one of my caps handy. That would solve my hair crisis nicely.” Everett caught Millie’s eye. “I never liked your caps.” “They’re practical.” “And ugly,” Lucetta added, smiling over Millie’s head at him. She pulled a hat from behind her on the seat that was a little squished, and stuck it on Millie’s head, pulling a pin out of the bodice of her dress and sticking it through the hat. “There—you’re adorable.” “I

We can always pass some time visiting my herd of sheep.” “I think I’ve seen all the animals I care to see today, thank you very much, and even though the thought of avoiding whatever unpleasantness is transpiring between Abigail and Iris is tempting, I really won’t be comfortable leaving Abigail for long, even with Archibald and Mr. Kenton to keep an eye on her.” “That’s very thoughtful of you,” Bram said, sending Lucetta a charming smile that had her knees going a little wobbly. Shoving aside the idea that he was far too attractive when he smiled, and ignoring the curious condition of her knees, Lucetta fell into step beside him and began chatting about the weather, of all things. As they walked into a stand of trees, the temperature dropped, easing some of the heat that still remained on Lucetta’s neck, heat that immediately returned when Bram drew her to a stop and smiled at her again. “If you’ll turn around, I’ll help you with those buttons,” he said. His suggestion had the heat traveling up her neck and settling on her face, a reaction that took her by complete surprise. Being an actress, she’d become used to having many people button her up over the years, male and female, but their assistance had never bothered her before. Out of necessity, she’d rarely given much thought to modesty over the past few years, but now, surrounded only by trees and a gentleman who had one of the nicest smiles she’d ever seen, thoughts of modesty were pushing their way to the forefront of her mind. “Tell me about your sheep,” she said as she stood rooted to the spot, unable to turn around, and unwilling to take him up on his offer to help with her buttons just yet. She was thankful when Bram didn’t press her to turn. “It’s a diverse herd, made up of a wide variety of once abused and neglected sheep, all of them having a mistrust of humans.” He shook his head. “They’re becoming fairly well adjusted now, and I have high hopes that the longer they’re here, the more they’ll realize they’re finally safe and will settle into happy lives, chomping high grass on the castle grounds.” “Where did you get them?” Bram shrugged. “Here and there. It’s become known that I’m always willing to take in strays, so . . . people drop off all sorts of animals at Ravenwood, or people send me letters, letting me know of animals that might need my help. My staff and I spend a lot of time tracking down neglected animals, and once we find them, we bring them here to live out the rest of their lives.” Lucetta’s heart gave a lurch. “You’re a collector of misfits.” Bram smiled. “I like misfits, probably because I’ve always been a bit of a misfit as well.” He moved an inch closer to her. “Shall I button you up?” “I should probably do it myself.” His smile turned remarkably sweet. “I won’t look, in fact, I can close my eyes if it’ll make you feel better.” Drawing in a deep breath even as she realized she was being a complete ninny because there was no way she could reach the buttons on the back of her gown, she presented Bram with her back. A second later she nearly jumped out of her skin when his finger slid against the nape of her neck, pushing hair still wet from her bath out of the way before he began securing one button after another. “There, all done, and I didn’t peek—not once.” He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Still

Lying On The Grass The solid earth has never yet complained. There is only the slight scrape Of the accommodating grass Adjusting around your body its bent blades. Part the grass with fingertips To follow the travels of ants And expeditions of other insects Through the weeds. On your forearm A light green mite Is blown when you breathe From its perch, a sunlit hair.

Dear God,” Evangeline breathed suddenly. “That’s not him, is it?” Rose glanced toward the opposite side of the room and saw that Lord Ashton had indeed arrived. He wore the new clothing she had arranged for him, and it fit him like a second skin. His black coat was tailored across his broad shoulders, revealing a cream waistcoat and dark trousers. His black hair was combed back, and when his green eyes rested upon her, she knew that this battle was lost. He fully intended to pursue her. “Yes. That is Lord Ashton, the Irishman I spoke of.” “He’s looking at us,” Evangeline blurted out, fanning herself suddenly. The young woman’s face reddened. “No, I’m wrong. He’s not looking at us. He’s looking at you.” And he was. Iain’s green eyes held a knowing look, as if Rose were the only woman here. His stare was filled with warmth and a sense of mischief. “He knows we are only friends,” she managed. “But I’ve told him about you. I think the pair of you should get acquainted.” Her friend’s expression turned curious. “I think I might just go find the library, Rose. It looks as if he wants to speak with you.” “Don’t go. I’ve been meaning to introduce you to him. Lord Ashton is—” “—entirely interested in you,” Evangeline finished. “And I am quite certain that I should leave the pair of you alone. Oh, Heavens, he’s almost here.” She stood up, and promptly stepped on her gown, lurching forward before she caught her balance. Iain was suddenly standing before them. Evangeline straightened, wincing as she adjusted the hem. “Rose, I’ll . . . just be going now.” “Not yet,” she said, catching her friend’s hand. “Lord Ashton, may I present Miss Evangeline Sinclair.” “A pleasure it is, to make your acquaintance, Miss Sinclair.” Iain offered the young woman a kind smile, and Evangeline blushed, fanning herself more rapidly. Then he bowed and greeted her. “Lady Rose, I am glad to see you once more.” The look in his eyes reminded her of what it was like to be in his embrace. Rose was well aware that he was here to claim the dance she owed him. She wanted to refuse, and yet, she was not one to break her promises. “Would

I’m furious with you,” he said almost idly. Curled in his arms, warm and safe with his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek, it was difficult to take his displeasure seriously. “Why?” “You left without saying goodbye this afternoon.” In the lightless, confined cabin, his Scottish accent seemed impossibly exotic, so much more noticeable than in the light of day. She buried her face in his brocade waistcoat and felt his hand rest on her coiled hair. If they weren’t careful, all Lise’s hard work would go for nothing and Campion would emerge from the carriage looking like she’d run through a hurricane. The spicy essence of lemon soap and Lachlan’s skin filled her senses. “I couldn’t bear to tell you that it was our last afternoon together.” He tensed against her and his heart kicked into a faster rhythm. “Last?” She raised her head. Her vision had adjusted enough for her to see the glitter of his eyes. “My aunt is sending me back to Sussex tomorrow.” “Damn it, Campion, you should have told me.” His embrace firmed as he pressed her closer. “I had things to say to you today. Important things.” Happiness had fluttered inside her like fledgling birds since she’d seen him. His somber tone pricked at her elation. “I suppose you want me to leave my aunt’s home and stay in London as your mistress,” she said flatly. He thrust her back against the seat so hard that she bounced. She flinched beneath his blistering anger as his hands tightened on her shoulders. “Of course I wasn’t going to say that, you lovely fool.” She hardly heard him. “I know I’m provincial and poor, but I’m proud of the Parnell name. My parents were fine people who loved me. I can’t bring shame upon their memory by accepting your carte blanche.” She blinked away the prickling rush of moisture. For a fleeting instant tonight, she’d imagined that she was done with tears, at least until Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day. “Whatever else I might choose to do if there were no other considerations.” “So are you saying that you’d like to be my mistress?” he asked slowly, in a tone she couldn’t interpret. She shrugged unhappily and risked the truth. “I don’t want to leave you.” His sigh expressed temper. “Yet you did leave me.” “Lachlan, don’t be angry. Not tonight.” She framed his face with her hands, although it was too dark to see his expression. He’d recently shaved. His skin was smoother than it had been this afternoon. “I know I was a coward, but it seemed easier on both of us if I just disappeared.” “Did it indeed?” The muscles of his cheeks were taut under her palms, but his question sounded merely curious. “I thought that was the last time I’d ever see you.

Sam whispers something to Emilio and then Emilio steps back and hitches his hip against the wall. He grins. Something is up. I just don’t know what. “So,” Sam says really loudly. Friday is holding her phone up and she has the video on. What’s going on? I glare at Sam, because apparently I’m the only one who’s not in on the joke. “What?” I ask him. Then he pulls a box from his pocket and drops down on one knee in front of me. I cover my mouth with my hand. He pops the top of the box and I see a great big diamond ring shining back at me. “So, you wanna?” he says. “Do I wanna…?” I repeat. My heart is in my throat. “Marry me, cupcake.” He stares up at me, blinking those beautiful blue eyes. “Now?” We’re about to leave. I jerk my thumb toward the airport. I can’t make any more words. He laughs and shakes his head. “Not right this second, but soon. We can make little cupcakes together. You can be my plus-one. Or it can just be me and you. But you and me is not negotiable. I kind of need you, cupcake. Have ever since I met you.” I look down at him. He adjusts his stance. “How much longer are you going to make me kneel here on my bad knee?” He grins at me. “Oh, God!” I cry. I help him up and then I hold out my hand. “P-put it on me. I w-wanna.” My hand is shaking in the air, and he takes it in his and slides the ring onto my finger. That’s when I realize it’s Emilio’s mother’s ring. I look at him and he shrugs and smiles. Then Sam picks me up and spins me around. I’m dizzy when he finally sets me down and I cling to him. Cameras snap all around us, and I bury my face in Sam’s chest. He laughs and holds me close. “You sure?” he asks me quietly, so only I can hear. “More sure than I have ever been of anything.” And I mean it. I really do. Emilio gives me one last hug. “Did you know about this?” I ask him. He shrugs. “He came to see me yesterday to ask me for permission.” “And?” “And he just asked you, didn’t he?” He chuckles. “He’s a good one.” Emilio brushes a lock of hair back from my forehead. “I wouldn’t let just anyone marry one of my daughters. Particularly not the first one I ever had.” My

She scowled at the memory of his lordship’s jeers when Nigel came into the drawing room dressed as Father Christmas, leading Thomas the footman who carried the large tray of treats. Amelia thought Nigel looked wonderful in the dark velvet robe. The ermine trim brought out the cobalt depths in his eyes and the mistletoe wreath looked positively kingly atop his thick brown hair. Amelia had helped him with the wreath, and when he’d bent down a bit so she could adjust the fit, she’d been tempted to stroke her fingers through his silky locks. She’d blushed madly when he straightened up and thanked her with a teasing smile. Aunt

Aunt Lucy, sitting beside her on the settee, glanced at Amelia. “Is something wrong, my dear? You just heaved a very mournful sigh and you’re looking quite flushed and bothered.” Amelia flashed her godmother an apologetic smile. “No, Aunt Lucy, I’m fine. Just a trifle, um, hot.” Her gaze drifted back to Nigel. He was crouched down, his green robe flared out in a dramatic sweep, as he spoke with little Ned Haythrop. Ned’s ancient spaniel had died only last week and, according to his grandmother, Lady Peterson, he’d been inconsolable. But Nigel got him smiling and soon drew a giggle from the boy with a joke about swallowing the bean in the Twelfth Night cake. Even Amelia’s sister, Penelope, who at fourteen considered herself too old for such things as holiday pantomimes, had clearly fallen victim to Nigel’s quiet charm. As had Amelia. She’d only been too stupid to realize it until it bashed her over the head. Aunt Lucy looked at her skeptically but didn’t probe. Like Amelia, she turned to watch Nigel laughing with Ned and Lady Peterson. “He does make a splendid Father Christmas, doesn’t he?” her godmother said with approval. “Much better than Philbert. That man carried on as if he were about to submersed in a vat of flaming wassail. Just between us, I suspect his twisted ankle might be more imaginary than real. Philbert can be so dramatic.” Amelia blinked. One could characterize Philbert as rather mysterious, but dramatic? “Er, I’m sure you’re right, Aunt Lucy, and I agree about Mr. Dash. He’s a perfectly splendid, considerate man. He didn’t blink an eyelash when Lord Broadmore so rudely made fun of his costume.” She scowled at the memory of his lordship’s jeers when Nigel came into the drawing room dressed as Father Christmas, leading Thomas the footman who carried the large tray of treats. Amelia thought Nigel looked wonderful in the dark velvet robe. The ermine trim brought out the cobalt depths in his eyes and the mistletoe wreath looked positively kingly atop his thick brown hair. Amelia had helped him with the wreath, and when he’d bent down a bit so she could adjust the fit, she’d been tempted to stroke her fingers through his silky locks. She’d blushed madly when he straightened up and thanked her with a teasing smile. Aunt

Keep your weak hand up by your face, so that you can easily defend your head if a punch is unexpectedly thrown. Use the weak hand to scratch your head or cheek, brush your hair, wipe your brow, adjust your hat, etc., but keep that hand up. Remember that you will most likely be reacting to an assault, and therefore it will take too long to bring a hand up from your waist to your head to defend yourself against a sneak attack. Cover This block/cover comes from boxing, and is identical to the one taught in my book The Cook Method of the Sap for Law Enforcement and Civilians. The weak (left) hand comes up and brings the hand to the ear as though you are talking on the phone. The upraised elbow and bent arm create a large, strong defense against any type of blow, especially a hook punch, which is difficult to defend against by trying to parry or block with the hand. You can also think of this move as raising the left elbow upward. In close, this shielding move can be used as a strike, hitting the attacker with an upward elbow strike. Train this move by having a partner slowly and lightly swing with his right hand at your head. If you get boxing headgear and gloves, you can gradually increase the speed and power of this strike. It is also possible for your partner to swing at your head using the punch mitts. Hammerfist As the left elbow comes up and the left hand is placed just off your ear, your right hand –which has been resting near your left armpit-- snaps outward, striking with the bottom of the fist. Aim for the opponent's jawline. A problem with punching on the street is that it's easy to damage your knuckles when hitting someone's skull or teeth. The bottom-of-the-fist blow, also known as a hammerfist, is a very powerful blow that can be delivered with little risk of injury to the knuckles or wrist. It has proven itself to be devastatingly effective in the full-contact cage matches of the mixed martial arts. Practice doing both motions at the same time; raising the left elbow up to cover the head while striking out with the right hammerfist. Practice slowly at first, then move to the heavy bag. You can also have a partner with the focus mitts swing the right mitt while holding the left mitt up as a target for you to hit with the right hand. Once you have the form down, make the move explosive. Burst outward with the elbow and hammerfist simultaneously. Snap the hammerfist, bringing it quickly back to the start position. Another tip as you practice this move is to drop your head down, so that your chin and the side of your face are not exposed. With your chin down, the striking right hand and arm will help to shield your head from attacks with the opponent's left hand. This is how you defend yourself when an opponent has surprised you with a flurry of punches –not by trying to block a rain of blows, but by striking while protecting your head.

Papina had grey hair and a purple face. She was like a trained mouse, one of those small white ones that sit up on their tails and then fall flat, their stomachs slapping the ground. She got up on her tail and stayed there through some miracle of balance, to the confusion of all who saw her walking around on her little bow legs and funny round feet. Yet her hands were so quick and lively that one couldn’t even feel her buttoning up a dress, lacing a belt or pulling a skirt round the hips to adjust it. As she took the blue trousers and yellow sash from the wardrobe for Irma, she walked behind Gioia and shook the girl’s shoulders. “Quickly, my lovely! If you sit there under a spell, the prince can’t carry you off to the wedding…” She’d read all the fairy stories and took delight in being irresistibly droll, so instead of wedding she’d said werewolf; she was imitating Macario, whom she’d seen at the cinema.

open, looking for any flash of color, any sign of Meghan. It was dark down there, and mentally he scrambled for all of the possible spells he could use to help him in a situation like this, but he could think of none. Even his origami dragons would be of no use now to light up the night, for they were a sopping wet mess in his component vest pocket. Desperately he searched for Meghan, waving his hands around through the water. His lungs felt like they were going to burst. He came up for air and whipped his head around, looking for any sign of her, but there was nothing. Then down he went again. Please! he screamed in his mind, thinking of Lani and Samheed. I can’t lose everyone. That thought nearly made him break apart, but it also gave him the strength to dive deeper, to search harder. He surfaced once more, panting, and looked everywhere. Only the boat, upright again and drifting toward the shore, was visible. He knew there was no time to waste. He sucked in an enormous breath and down he went a third time, deeper, farther, until his ears ached and popped. He strained to reach anything he could touch in the murky water. Just when he was about to give up he kicked his feet, and his toes got tangled up in something. It was hair. He turned sharply and reached for her hair, grasping it with his hand, and yanked as hard as he could, rushing, kicking, with all of his might, pulling her up alongside him and then pushing her above him to the surface. When they broke through, Alex gasped and sucked in air, flipping on his back and holding Meghan tightly to his chest, trying to float, and unable to do another thing until he had replenished his oxygen stores. He squeezed Meghan’s stomach and started kicking toward the shore. “Breathe!” he cried. And then, between ragged breaths, he chanted to keep himself focused. “Breathe. Please breathe.” Meghan choked and silently coughed up water. She took a raking breath in and coughed some more. “Come on,” Alex said. “Breathe! That’s it!” Meghan struggled. The sharp thorns around her neck cut into Alex’s chest like lethal scatterclips hitting their mark, but he couldn’t do anything to adjust his pain or hers right now. Waves constantly washed over their faces, causing them to feel like they were drowning over and over again. “Come on, now,” Alex said again, barely whispering. “We’re going to make it. We’re going to make it.” He put

...every word, every breath was too loud, every smell too strong, the light too bright. Keeping still throughout it all was easier than moving, than adjusting to the strange, strong body that was now mine. I couldn't even touch my hair without the slight difference in my fingers jarring me. On and on, until every newly heightened sense was chafing and raw, and Tamlin at last noticed my dull eyes, my silence, and toom my arm.

We think they’re better than us, the white-haired folks we call grandma and grandpa. But being old doesn’t mean you’ve adjusted to the loneliness. They are saddened, desiring, passionate folks who want adventure.

J-Just m-my throat,’ I stuttered, my lips quivering from the cold. ‘Let's get you out of here, then,’ Marcel said. He slid his arms under me and lifted me without effort-like picking up an empty box. His chest was bare and warm; he hunched his shoulders to keep the rain off me. My head lolled over his arm. I stared vacantly back toward the furious water, beating the sand behind him. ‘You got her?’ I heard Sam ask. ‘Yeah, I'll take it from here. Get back to the hospital. I'll join you later. Thanks, Sam.’ My head was still rolling. None of his words sunk in at first. Sam didn't answer. There was no sound, and I wondered if he were already gone. The water licked and writhed up the sand after us as Marcel carried me away like it was angry that I'd escaped. As I stared wearily, a spark of color caught my unfocused eyes-a a small flash of fire was dancing on the black water, far out in the bay. The image made no sense, and I wondered how conscious I was. My head swirled with the memory of the black, churning water of being so lost that I couldn't find up or down. So, lost… but somehow Marcel… ‘How did you find me?’ I rasped. ‘I was searching for you,’ he told me. He was half-jogging through the rain, up the beach toward the road. ‘I followed the tire tracks to your truck, and then I heard you scream…’ He shuddered. ‘Why would you jump, Bell? Didn't you notice that it's turning into a hurricane out here? Couldn't you have waited for me?’ Anger filled his tone as the relief faded. ‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘It was stupid.’ ‘Yeah, it was really stupid,’ he agreed, drops of rain shaking free of his hair as he nodded. ‘Look, do you mind saving the stupid stuff for when I'm around? I won't be able to concentrate if I think you're jumping off cliffs behind my back.’ ‘Sure,’ I agreed. ‘No problem.’ I sounded like a chain-smoker. I tried to clear my throat and then winced; the throat-clearing felt like stabbing a knife down there. ‘What happened today? Did you… find her?’ It was my turn to shudder, though I wasn't so cold here, right next to his ridiculous body heat. Marcel shook his head. He was still more running than walking as he headed up the road to his house. ‘No. She took off into the water-the bloodsuckers have the advantage there. That's why I raced home- I was afraid she was going to double back swimming. You spend so much time on the beach…’ He trailed off, a catch in his throat. ‘Sam came back with you… is everyone else home, too?’ I hoped they weren’t still out searching for her. ‘Yeah. Sort of.’ I tried to read his expression, squinting into the hammering rain. His eyes were tight with worry or pain. The words that hadn't made sense before suddenly did. ‘You said… hospital. Before, to Sam. Is someone hurt? Did she fight you?’ My voice jumped up an octave, sounding strange with the hoarseness. Marcel’s eyes tightened again. ‘It doesn't look so great right now.’ Abruptly, I felt sick with guilt-felt truly horrible about the brainless cliff dive. Nobody needed to be worrying about me right now. What a stupid time to be reckless. ‘What can I do?’ I asked. At that moment the rain stopped. I hadn't realized we were already back at Marcel’s house until he walked through the door. The storm pounded against the roof. ‘You can stay here,’ Marcel said as he dumped me on the short couch. ‘I mean it right here I'll get you some dry clothes.’ I let my eyes adjust to the darkroom while Marcel banged around in his bedroom. The cramped front room seemed so empty without Billy, almost desolate. It was strangely ominous-probably just because I knew where he was. Marcel was back in seconds. He threw a pile of gray cotton at me. ‘These will be huge on you, but it's the best I've got. I'll-a, step outside so you can change.’ ‘Don't go anywhere. I'm too tired to move yet. Just stay with me.

He [Tom Klay]'d watched people tend to corpses thousands of times. They straightened eyeglasses, fixed neckties, picked away bits of makeup, adjusted stray hair. They leaned into caskets and kissed the dead on the forehead, the cheeks, the lips. They spoke to them. Klay had seen so many dead he couldn't remember his first, but he didn't understand it. A corpse was not a person. It was a thing--an abandoned thing, no more worthy of sentiment than was a dead person's shoes or toothbrush.

Anna sat down and studied her brothers. Both were nearly six feet tall. The older, Addison, was muscular with a darker shade of brown hair compared to the younger, blue-eyed Purl, who was leaner and lighter complexioned. Anna noticed that Purl’s wrists showed below his shirt and coat jacket, hand-me-downs from the uncles. All eight children had trouble adjusting after their parents’ death, but Purl’s situation was the most regrettable—three foster homes since he was fifteen. The moves had been hard on him emotionally. Anna suffered too. She’d felt helpless that she was too young to take him herself, and had watched him slowly lose his youthful vigor.

Luca groaned softly. Cass looked over at him; he was still asleep. He had dirt and leaves in his hair, and his chemise had managed to lose a button in the night. Cass couldn’t help but notice that his right shoulder was bleeding through the garment. She reached out to touch the bloom of red and he flinched. “I don’t know,” he muttered, twitching in his sleep. His shirt fell open, exposing a series of jagged red scars down the front of his chest. Cass gasped. Luca opened his eyes. He blinked hard. “What is it?” “You’re bleeding.” Luca looked down at his shoulder. “It’s fine. The water carried me into a mooring post last night. I think I got caught on a nail.” “And this?” Cass reached out one shaking finger and traced down one of the scars. Luca stiffened. He sat up abruptly, adjusting the fabric so that he was covered. “It isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said quickly. “What…what did they do to you?” Cass’s voice trembled. “I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice softened. “What’s done is done, Cass. We need to look forward, not back.

Bryce nodded, her mind clearly still on the conversation at hand. “I guess I just…Sometimes I catch myself enjoying a moment, and I worry I’m enjoying it too much, you know? Like something could come along and ruin all of this if I let myself have too much fun or get too accustomed to feeling happy.” “I know the feeling.” He couldn’t stop himself from letting his fingers curl in the ends of her hair. “It’s going to take time to adjust.” He was still adjusting, too. He couldn’t get used to walking around without a pit in his stomach as he wondered what horrors the day would bring. Being in charge of himself, his future…The Asteri could take it all away again, if they wished.

Eight hours later, long after the sun had gone down, the warmth of the medicine fading away, I took the eyeshades off, adjusting to the dim light. First I looked at Olivia. Then I pulled my hair up into a messy bun. I slumped over and buried my head in my hands. I felt as though an eighteen-wheeler truck had been parked in front of my house for as long as I could remember, emitting a low, polluting hum and blocking out the daylight. Now, as it drove away, leaving only peaceful silence and sunlight streaming in, the calm was disorienting. I didn’t miss the noise, but I also didn’t know how to live without it. Part of me wanted to jump onto the back as it drove away.

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With these uneasy thoughts urging me onward, I hurried toward home, praying I would make it in time for dinner and thereby avoid having to answer to my mother. That was the only way my day could get worse. I was forced to adjust that conclusion, however, when I spotted Saadi loitering nearby. The moment he laid eyes on me, I knew he’d been waiting for me, and I groaned. Why couldn’t he leave me alone? “Shaselle!” he called, coming toward me. I gritted my teeth, knowing I could not escape. The traffic on the thoroughfare had thinned, as was generally the case at this time of day, no longer providing the cover I needed to dart past him. He came abreast of me, but I didn’t slow or acknowledge him. “I’m glad I caught you,” he said, and in my peripheral vision, I could see him smoothing that damn bronze hair forward, an impossible task, for as always it kinked upward at the midpoint of his hairline. “Can’t say the same.” “I didn’t take you to my sister.” He sounded like this small mercy should be eliciting gratitude from me. “I realize that.” Saadi exhaled, baffled and exasperated. “How can you be angry with me?” I halted and stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not! You’re the Cokyrian soldier who arrested me when I broke the law. Our relationship ends there. It would be a waste of my time to be angry with you.” “That’s it?” he said, eyebrows rising, and I was sure I detected disappointment. “I thought…I don’t know. I thought you were angry with me before, for not having mentioned I’m Rava’s brother. Weren’t you?” “No,” I lied. I still didn’t understand why it upset me to know that this annoying tag-along was related to the woman I hated with such intensity that my insides burned. But there was no reason to complicate things by letting him know the truth. “Well, I saved you today, didn’t I? Just like I saved you before. You walked out of the Bastion free, without a scratch, and if any Cokyrian but me had caught you with that dagger, you might be drawn and quartered by now.” “You didn’t save me from that butcher,” I said irritably. “But you’re right. About today, I mean.” I could sense his satisfaction, which irritated me all the more. “So accept my thanks, but stay away from me. We’re not friends, you know.” I was nearing my neighborhood and didn’t want anyone to see me with him. He stepped in front of me, forcing me to stop. “We’re not friends yet. But you’ve thought about it. And you just thanked me.” “Are you delusional?” “No. You just said thank you to the faceless Cokyrian soldier who arrested you.” “Don’t you ever stop?” I demanded, trying in vain to move around him. “I haven’t even started.” “What does that mean?

Shea took her time braiding her hair, fussing over her blue jeans, adjusting her ribbed cotton shirt, allowing her mind time to cope with the new knowledge. It was frightening yet fascinating. She wished she had observed it in someone other than herself. It was hard to accept it clinically when it was her own body she was studying. Such a nice body. She nearly dropped her brush. Will you stop! Just the low velvet touch of his voice sent heat curling through her body. It was sinful and unfair to have such a voice. I did not think you would ever speak with me as a lifemate would. I waited long for that impatient comment. There was a teasing note now.

Like a thickening woman, one halter top strap off the shoulder, like a man adjusting his thin hair while his sports car idles, there is evidence that summer is going to seed, leaving you to nurse regret through the fall, the season of penitence.

MONDAY: Badass Baseline Perform one round of this routine. Jumping Jacks: 75 repetitions Sit-ups: 40 repetitions Squats: 30 repetitions Push-ups: 20 repetitions Burpees: 10 repetitions Jumping Jacks: 75 repetitions WEDNESDAY: Single Jump Jump Perform three rounds of this routine. Step-ups: 15 repetitions Bench Dips: 15 repetitions Jump Rope: 50 repetitions Double-under Jump Rope: 10 repetitions (A double-under is a jump rope exercise. You turn the rope for two rotations in one single jump. So you jump once and while you are in the air the rope cycles twice instead of just once like regular jump rope.) FRIDAY: Booty Lift Perform four rounds of this routine. Lunges: 5 repetitions on each leg Inchworms: 10 repetitions Toe Touches: 10 repetitions on each leg Jump Squats: 10 repetitions MONDAY: Double Your Fun Perform four rounds of this routine. Set a timer for 16 minutes and try to do all four rounds before it goes off. Sexy Back Push-ups: 6 repetitions Jump Squats: 10 repetitions on each side Sit-ups: 20 repetitions Jumping Jacks: 40 repetitions WEDNESDAY: Let Your Hair Loose Timed sequence: Set a timer for 10 minutes and perform the following round as many times as you can before it goes off. Mountain Climbers: 20 repetitions as fast as you can Hamstring Rollouts: 7 repetitions as fast as you can Pike Push-ups: 5 repetitions FRIDAY: Get Dirty with It Perform five rounds of this routine. Floor Wipers: 5 repetitions Clapping Push-ups: 7 repetitions Jump Squats: 10 repetitions MONDAY: Sweat Like an Animal Timed sequence: Set a timer for 6 minutes and perform the following round as many times as you can before it goes off. Burpees: 5 repetitions as fast as you can Lunges: 10 repetitions as fast as you can Squats: 15 repetitions as fast as you can WEDNESDAY: Max Your Effort Perform three rounds of this routine. Rest one minute between each round. Round 1: V-ups: 30 Left Single-Leg Squat: 20 repetitions Right Single-Leg Squat: 20 repetitions Round 2: V-ups: 20 repetitions Left Single-Leg Squat: 15 repetitions Right Single-Leg Squat: 15 repetitions Round 3: V-ups: 10 repetitions Left Single-Leg Squat: 10 repetitions Right Single-Leg Squat: 10 repetitions FRIDAY: Beach Body Aspirations Perform five rounds of this routine. Sky Humpers: 10 repetitions Bench Dips: 12 repetitions Bicycle: 20 repetitions MONDAY: I Dip, You Dip, We Dip Perform five rounds of this routine. Rest 30 seconds between each round. Floor Wipers: 10 repetitions Bench Dips: 20 repetitions Lunges: One, hold lunge in the lunge position for 45 seconds. If you have to adjust, the time stops and restarts when you start your lunge again. WEDNESDAY: Core Basics Timed sequence: Set a timer for 10 minutes and perform the following round as many times as you can before it goes off. Hamstring Rollouts: 5 repetitions Pike Push-ups: 10 repetitions Sit-ups: 20 repetitions FRIDAY: Sculpt Me Booty-licious Timed sequence: Set a timer for 5 minutes and perform the following round as many times as you can before it goes off. Rest 2 minutes between each round. Jumping Lunges: 5 repetitions on each side Squats: 10 repetitions V-ups: 5 repetitions

Preening Preening actions may also signify attraction if they are done to draw attention towards an attractive part of a person. Similarly, it can be a reaction to something negative. For example, when people find someone attractive, they almost automatically straighten up, adjust their clothing, or flick their hair. Also, when experiencing a distasteful event, preening is used to provide the individual with a momentary means of distraction.

You taste like the forest, wild and untamed and so erotic you make me crazy.” The admission broke from her, the confession of a grave sin. The bubbles fizzed and burst against their sensitized skin, foamed on their most intimate parts. Mikhail leaned back, taking their weight, securing her on his lap. Her rounded bottom brushed against him, sent sweet fire streaking through their blood. “You taste like sweet, hot spice, addictive and so sensual.” His teeth grazed the nape of her neck, and sent a shiver of excitement down her spine. Raven lay quietly in his arms, her mind reeling under the impact of what she had done. She would never get enough of Mikhail. There was a wildness between them that could never be sated. Raven was unable to piece it all together; her brain simply refused to acknowledge what she might have become. She had no idea what he meant when he said his species “fed.” The impressions were there, but she only had knowledge of what Mikhail shared with her. Was sex always involved? He had said no, but she couldn’t imagine taking blood deliberately. She closed her eyes tightly. She couldn’t do this with anyone else. She couldn’t imagine taking blood from a human. Mikhail pressed her head to him, his fingers soothing in her hair. He murmured softly, his voice pitched low and compelling. She needed time to adjust to her Carpathian blood, the intense emotions and urgent needs. She had willingly participated in the mating ritual. She had made the blood exchange without his silent compulsion. They were irrevocably bound, and there was no reason for her to suffer needless human recriminations and fear of the future. Let her mind accept this new reality slowly. Mikhail was brutally honest with himself. After waiting several lifetimes for this woman, he didn’t want her with anyone else. He had never thought of feeding as an intimate thing, only a simple necessity. But the idea of Raven biting into another man’s neck, taking his life force into her body, was abhorrent to him. Every time he gave her his blood, he felt sexual excitement, an overwhelming need to protect and care for her. He had no idea what other Carpathian men felt for their mates, but he knew any man near Raven would be in grave danger. It was just as well her human mind refused to allow her to accept their way of preying on humans.

It is essential to find the other assassins. I cannot let any danger come near you. You will be safe here. I am not asleep, and I can touch your mind with mine. You can just as easily reach for me if necessary. There is no need for fear.” “I’m not the stay-at-home-and-be-safe type,” she objected. He turned, large, powerful, his face an implacable mask. Mikhail looked menacing, invincible. Raven stepped backward involuntarily, her blue eyes darkening to a deep sapphire. Instantly Mikhail took her hand and brought it to the warmth of his mouth. “Do not look at me like that. Your life was nearly taken from me. Do you have any idea what it was like for me to awaken to your cry? To feel your fear, know that disgusting excuse for a man hit you? To feel the blade slice into your body again and again? You nearly died in my arms. I breathed for you, kept your heart beating. I made a decision I knew you might never forgive me for making. I am not ready to take a chance with your life. Can you possibly understand that?” She could feel his body trembling with his intense emotion. His arms wrapped around her to drag her even closer to him. “Please, Raven, let me just keep you in a cocoon, at least until I get that sight out of my mind.” His fingers tunneled into the thick mass of blue-black hair. Mikhail molded her slender form to his larger frame, held her close as if he could shelter her from any further harm. Raven wound her arms around his neck. “It’s all right, Mikhail. Nothing is going to happen to me.” She nuzzled his neck, seeking to reassure him, to push his fear away, as well as her own. “I guess both of us are going to have to make some adjustments.

You might be pregnant?” he asked huskily. “I’m almost certain of it.” Devon stared down at her dazedly, a flush covering his face. “My sweet, beautiful love, my angel--” He began to look over her intently, pressing kisses along her body, caressing her stomach. “My God. This settles it: I am the luckiest sod in England.” He laughed quietly, his hands wandering over her with reverent gentleness. “I have some good news to share as well, but it pales in comparison to yours.” “What news?” she asked, her fingers lacing through his hair. He was about to explain when a new thought seemed to occur to him. His smile faded, his expression turning perplexed. Adjusting his position so that he could look directly into her eyes, he said, “Your condition would have become obvious before long. What were you going to do? When were you going to tell me?” She glanced up at him sheepishly. “I had considered the possibility of…going somewhere…before you found out.” “Going somewhere?” He looked thunderstruck. “Leaving me?” “I hadn’t made a decision--” she began apologetically. A low growl interrupted her, leaving no doubt as to what he thought of that idea. He leaned over her, radiating ferocious heat. “I would have found you. You’ll never be safe from me.” “I don’t want to be--” she began, and would have said more, but he had taken her mouth with a deep, aggressive kiss.

That's the way They do you. That's the way They set you up for it. There ought to be a warning bell on the happy-meter, so that every time it creeps high enough, you get that dang-dang alert. Duck, boy. That glow makes you too visible. One of Them is out there in the boonies, adjusting the windage, getting you lined up in the cross hairs of the scope.

Good morning, class. Good morning, red of face and scowl of mouth. Good morning, starched of shirt and waved of hair. This morning we will speak of consciousness. Where does it come from? What does it do with itself? Does it connive? Does it seek advantages? How does it learn its ways—as billions of neurons self-conceiving in neural circuits, revise, adjust, reorganize, multiply responding behaviorally to outer-world creature experience—in a process of natural selection or neural Darwinism, according to Edelman? Does that include you, pretty-boy warmaker? Are you the culmination of this evolutionary brainwork? Crick, on the other hand, opts for the role of the claustrum or maybe the thalamus. Abjure claustrumphobia. Remember the thalamus! In any event you have no soul. But neither do Edelman or Crick. And neither does scowler here, though he will kill to prove that he has one. But that is the pretense of the brain. We have to be wary of our brains. They make our decisions before we make them. They lead us to still waters. They renounceth free will. And it gets weirder: If you slice a brain down the middle, the left hemisphere and the right hemisphere will operate self-sufficiently and not know what the other is doing. But don’t think about these things, because it won’t be you anyway doing the thinking. Just follow your star. Live in the presumptions of the socially constructed life. Abhor science. Sort of believe in God. Put your failings behind you. Present your self-justifications to the bathroom mirror.

I forget where I am, why I’m in a twin bed instead of my California king. Where is the musty smell of old wood beams? The sound of surf crashing? And that acrid scent that Dad emitted as he grew sicker and sicker? You can still sometimes smell it in parts of our house when it’s humid. Instead I’m in a cramped rectangular room, swimming in sweat, my legs slick, my armpits, face, and scalp—hair twisted and matted. The A/C unit is rattling, but no cool air is coming out. I shut it off and reset it. I feel around until my eyes adjust, until I realize there is a moon, big and yellow. It is not actually that dark. I can make out the daisies in their turquoise vase, the dresser, the writing desk with my laptop setup. It is bright enough to see the far wall, to make out the photograph Hannah has taken and Paul has framed. The Ponte Sisto at night, buzzing silver and gold.

Her whole body was racing with heat, and she felt about two touches away from spontaneous combustion. She was seized by a fleeting impulse to run away; at the same time, she wished he would touch her forever. The costume, the posing, the mysterious alcohol that was dissolving her inhibitions. Cass felt wild and alive, even more so than she had the night they went to the brothels. That night she had been someone else, but tonight she was posing as herself, and she loved it. Falco stepped back to consider his work. “Almost perfect.” “Almost?” Cass pretended to pout. “I know.” Falco rooted around in the armoire and returned with something folded inside his hand. He held it up for Cass to see--a necklace made of shining amethyst. It reminded her of something, but she wasn’t sure what. Probably one of Mada’s thousand necklaces. That girl had more jewelry than the Doge’s entire family. Cass shivered as Falco clasped the necklace around her throat. The stones felt like ice against her neck. “All right. How about a demure look? A stretch for you, I know.” Cass widened her eyes and pursed her lips, just slightly. She tilted her head to the left. Falco shook his head. “You look like you’ve swallowed a bee. Forget shy. Let’s try something that comes a little more naturally. How about disdain?” Her eyebrows instantly went up. “I am not disdainful!” “Perfect.” He downed the rest of his muddy liquor. His brush began to flow across the canvas. Cass felt a charge of excitement, but tried her best not to smile. As she held her position, Falco painted in frantic bursts, pausing occasionally to move the lamps or adjust ringlets of her damp hair. Each time he stopped, she would beg to see the progress and he would shake his head and tell her she had to wait.

As my cab rolled up to the front of the magnificent white colonial building with black shutters, I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful setting. The grass was perfectly cut, leaving perfectly aligned traces of the mower’s blades. The landscaping was immaculate, with freshly planted seasonal flowers artistically clustered about. It had tan and brown tiles on the walkway around the building and looked impressive, as a wide path led up to the front door. The large American flag flying from a tall flagpole, and the emblem identifying the building as a United States Consulate, left little doubt but that I had arrived at the right place. There were no guards, and when I entered the building from the bright sunshine, my eyes had difficulty focusing. I could barely make out the reception desk on the other side of the lobby. Knowingly, a beautiful olive-skinned, dark-haired girl sat there laughing. Once my eyes adjusted, her laughter turned into a delightful, fetching smile. I didn’t know what to expect when she greeted me, but I noticed that she spoke English with a French accent. Wasn’t this a little piece of the United States? Her accent threw me, but I was cool about it and pretended not to notice. “Hi,” I said. “I’m here to get some...

Yeah, either that or he's going to put two in the back of my fuckin' head. A few minutes later, I see headlights coming around the bend and feel my balls tighten instantly in response. He's here. Shit. “Get a grip,” I mutter to myself. “He can't kill you. Otherwise he gets nothing.” It's something I've repeated to myself a million times already. And even now, after saying it one million and one times, it doesn't make me feel one iota better. Trujillo is a wild card. He's unpredictable and I never know what he's going to do, let alone what he’s thinking. He very well could decide that I’m more trouble than it’s worth. That he'll eat the money I owe him just to wash his hands of me. I just don't know. And it's that uncertainty that has my balls climbing up into my throat. The black SUV pulls into the rest stop, as I’m trying to avoid comparing the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires with the sound my bones would make beneath those same tires. The SUV pulls to a stop in front of me and the driver cuts the lights. After being nearly blinded by the headlights, it takes my eyes a minute to re-adjust to the darkness. I hear the door open. Blinking away the spots, I watch as the driver walks around to the rear door and opens it. Gabriel Trujillo steps out of the vehicle and makes his way over to me. His dark hair is slicked back, and his thick beard neatly trimmed. The dark designer suit is well-fitted to his frame, with a vibrant blue pocket square, complete with matching tie - providing the only bit of color. Trujillo looks the part of a respectable businessman. He's anything but respectable though. Gabriel Trujillo is the head of one of the most notorious, violent, and brutal drug cartels in Mexico. Like most of the cartels, he's expanded his business operations into the U.S., moving drugs, guns, and girls. He's also eliminating his competitors along the way. The mass graves that seem almost commonplace south of the border these days, have been cropping up in places like Arizona and New Mexico. Recently, a couple had even been found in southern Colorado.

He was a man uneasy on the earth. He recognized himself as purposeless and of a species purposeless and born into a universe that had no purpose. He saw human life and indeed all life as the result of a series of accidental cosmic occurrences. He viewed the human mind as he viewed the beak of a bird or the roots of a tree, saw it as nothing more nor less than the latest chapter in the history of adjustments to those reasonless occurrences. With a deathly seriousness, he divined that everything about himself, as well as about his entire serious kind, possessed an element of exquisite and excruciating comedy. Occasionally he laughed at the huge joke of human pomposity; more often then long thin crooked fingers of his powerful hands would rise quickly and nervously to his head, and there try to caress the crop of thick black wiry hair into some kind of order... From the enormous futility, he derived no sense of liberty whatever, but instead only a kind of bleak, questioning unrest. Any horror might be true: there was no golden Book or Rules to prevent it.

Great, but maybe you should mind your own damn business,” I snap. He’s standing there in his normal, causal stance with his hands in his pockets, his stupid sexy glasses hanging off his stupid sexy nose. “Wow, someone’s uptight this morning. Monday blues? You know, I know of something that can ease that tension.” God the nerve. How does he get away with it? I take a few menacing steps towards him, but he never drops that smile. “You know. You may have everyone fooled here. But not me. Ohhhh no! I see right through you. The ‘I’m just this nice innocent science teacher, who compliments old ladies’ cardigans and plays with baking soda and test tubes’. But nope. I know the real you. The condescending type. Thinks all highly of himself. With his big bad muscles and fake—” Peter grabs for me, pulling me into his classroom. The door shuts behind him and my back is thrown against the wall and his mouth is on mine. I spend a half-second thinking of fighting him off before I fight him in a different way, kissing him just as aggressively. God this is so hot. What is wrong with me!? His movement is quick and brutal. He doesn’t bother asking, but takes, as he spreads my legs with his knees, his hands hiking up my skirt. His mouth breaks from mine, his breath caressing my earlobe as he speaks. “We have exactly three minutes before that bell rings. Now you can waste it, or you can enjoy what I’m most definitely going to.” I don’t say a word, because his hand on my thigh is burning a hole through my skin. My silence is his green light, and he raises his hand, pushing my panties aside. The smirk on his face has a lot to do with the realization that I’m already soaking wet. He uses my juices to spread me open then pushing a thick finger inside. His mouth back on mine abusing my lips with his touch while his finger fucks me, in and out, the pleasure, heavenly. “Two minutes,” he says between nips and licks, his finger pulling out and two entering me. God, this is messed up, but so hot. I’m so turned on; my hands are pulling at his hair. “One minute,” he moans into my mouth and I find myself riding his hand thrust for thrust. It’s like I can hear the seconds ticking by, knowing that if I don’t come before that minute ends I will die. “Thirty seconds,” he murmurs across my lips and his pressure increases, his pumps wild, my back riding up and down the wall. He starts counting down from ten, the numbers getting louder and louder in my brain as he slams a third finger inside me and hooks, putting pressure on just the right spot. I explode. I squeeze his fingers so tight and come all over his hand, just as he grunts out the number one. We both hear the bell sound and he pulls out, adjusting my skirt. Taking his fingers into his mouth, he sucks off my juices, never taking his eyes off me. Before I can say anything, the doorknob begins to jiggle. Light appears from the outside and the door opens as a sea of children scatter in. “Thank you Ms. Gretchen, I will most definitely try out three finger servings of baking soda in today’s explosion experiment.” Smiling heftily at me, “But, you should really be getting to class now. The precious youth is waiting for you.” With that he holds his door open, and in a daze, I walk past him. What the fuck…

Theism and materialism, so indifferent when taken retrospectively, point, when we take them prospectively, to wholly different outlooks of experience. For, according to the theory of mechanical evolution, the laws of redistribution of matter and motion, tho they are certainly to thank for all the good hours which our organisms have ever yielded us and for all the ideals which our minds now frame, are yet fatally certain to undo their work again, and to redissolve everything that they have once evolved. You all know the picture of the last state of the universe which evolutionary science foresees. I cannot state it better than in Mr. Balfour's words: That is the sting of it, that in the vast driftings of the cosmic weather, tho many a jeweled shore appears, and many an enchanted cloud-bank floats away, long lingering ere it be dissolved—even as our world now lingers, for our joy-yet when these transient products are gone, nothing, absolutely NOTHING remains, of represent those particular qualities, those elements of preciousness which they may have enshrined. Dead and gone are they, gone utterly from the very sphere and room of being. Without an echo; without a memory; without an influence on aught that may come after, to make it care for similar ideals. This utter final wreck and tragedy is of the essence of scientific materialism as at present understood. The lower and not the higher forces are the eternal forces, or the last surviving forces within the only cycle of evolution which we can definitely see. Mr. Spencer believes this as much as anyone; so why should he argue with us as if we were making silly aesthetic objections to the 'grossness' of 'matter and motion,' the principles of his philosophy, when what really dismays us is the disconsolateness of its ulterior practical results? No the true objection to materialism is not positive but negative. It would be farcical at this day to make complaint of it for what it IS for 'grossness.' Grossness is what grossness DOES—we now know THAT. We make complaint of it, on the contrary, for what it is NOT—not a permanent warrant for our more ideal interests, not a fulfiller of our remotest hopes. The notion of God, on the other hand, however inferior it may be in clearness to those mathematical notions so current in mechanical philosophy, has at least this practical superiority over them, that it guarantees an ideal order that shall be permanently preserved. A world with a God in it to say the last word, may indeed burn up or freeze, but we then think of him as still mindful of the old ideals and sure to bring them elsewhere to fruition; so that, where he is, tragedy is only provisional and partial, and shipwreck and dissolution not the absolutely final things. This need of an eternal moral order is one of the deepest needs of our breast. And those poets, like Dante and Wordsworth, who live on the conviction of such an order, owe to that fact the extraordinary tonic and consoling power of their verse. Here then, in these different emotional and practical appeals, in these adjustments of our concrete attitudes of hope and expectation, and all the delicate consequences which their differences entail, lie the real meanings of materialism and spiritualism—not in hair-splitting abstractions about matter's inner essence, or about the metaphysical attributes of God. Materialism means simply the denial that the moral order is eternal, and the cutting off of ultimate hopes; spiritualism means the affirmation of an eternal moral order and the letting loose of hope. Surely here is an issue genuine enough, for anyone who feels it; and, as long as men are men, it will yield matter for a serious philosophic debate.

Oskar adjusted his spectacles and thought for a moment before nodding. “True. There’s little to be done about dear Glipwood, I fear. It’s only a matter of time before the Fangs at Fort Lamendron realize something’s amiss.” “Aye, and Gnorm said he was under orders from General Khrak himself. He’ll be expecting Gnorm and the carriage in a few hours. When it doesn’t show, they’ll send forces here.” “I’ve heard the Fangs can run like lightning when they’ve a mind to—faster than a horse,” Oskar said, pushing a wisp of hair behind one ear. “If that’s true, we don’t even have until morning before more Fangs arrive. Fort Lamendron has hundreds, maybe even thousands of the beasts.

The runner sped past a woman pushing a lime green jogging stroller. Despite his fast pace, the jogger didn’t look winded. Adjusting his white Adidas cap as he turned into the public park, he scanned the area from behind Oakley running glasses. His brown hair could barely be seen peeking out.

Stay right where you are,’ he commanded. ‘Don’t move. Don’t cover yourself.’ Megan’s hands curled into fists by her sides as she watched him slide back the shower screen and step inside to turn on the taps, taking his time to adjust the temperature and the twin shower heads to his satisfaction till he returned to her. ‘Come,’ he said, and took her hand in his. He led her into the middle of the stall, where the streams of water met, positioning her so that the shower rained down like a tropical storm over her, front and back, plastering her hair to her head and travelling over her curves in erotic rivulets. Her gasp was one of surprise, for she’d never imagined water could be so erotic. When she closed her eyes and tipped her head back to clear her hair from her face, the hot spray beat even harder on her uplifted

He had, though, hadn’t he, benefited from that shift—addiction recast as a reaper who could enter any home, making crime-tough fogies adjust their timeworn tune. His lawyer had worked to ensure it. Iron your suit, comb your hair, all reminders of a lifelong lesson: that class and its comportment offered a proximity to whiteness that could make you a person in another’s eyes, one deserving of a second chance.

I’m betting I can stimulate my hair follicles to match your society better.” Seeing Jaxon start to vigorously poke and rub at his face made Joe laugh. “Come on, let’s go. Jaxon. Jaxon! You can’t just grow a beard on command. It takes-” “Adjust!” Jaxon snapped his fingers, and a quarter inch of hair burst from his face in the same pattern that most of the male Dwarves wore.

A half-naked corpse of a squirrel lies in a growing pool of blood at the middle balcony stage, illuminated by tangerine spotlights. A man in black leather pants and a bare torso kneels beside the corpse, and an orange-haired woman, similarly undressed, stands behind the man. Two makeup artists are painting on the woman’s breasts and the man’s back, flicking slim brushes as they discuss the design. Nearby, several colourists sample the hues of the spotlights and blood, adjusting the cochineal supply pipes for both. The gold-glittered throne at the back of their stage is murky, its holographic occupant rapidly shifting—from a king to a clown, a shark, and a kid who bullied you in primary school.

What manner of books?” Gwyn asked. “Romances,” Emerie said, adjusting her own hair, the thick black braid full of reds and browns in the sunlight. Nesta started. Emerie’s eyes lit. “You too? Which ones?” Nesta rattled off her top five, and Emerie grinned,

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She listens without interrupting and when I'm finished, I put my head on her shoulder and it feels right and there's an electricity between us as we sit in the warm glow of the setting sun. I look up at her and see something in her eyes that I can't define even as her face comes closer to mine, until our lips touch in a mix of tenderness and uncertainty. Her hand brushes back wisps of hair from my forehead and I pull her closer, adjusting my body so that we fit perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle.

Gwyn retied her shining hair at the nape of her neck. “Do you like to read?” Emerie’s mouth curled upward. “I live alone, up in the mountains. I have nothing to do with my spare time except work in my garden and read whatever books I order through the mail service. And in the winter, I don’t even have the distraction of my gardening. So, yes. I like to read. I cannot survive without reading.” Nesta grunted her agreement. “What manner of books?” Gwyn asked. “Romances,” Emerie said, adjusting her own hair, the thick black braid full of reds and browns in the sunlight. Nesta started. Emerie’s eyes lit. “You too? Which ones?” Nesta rattled off her top five, and Emerie grinned, so broadly it was like seeing another person. “Have you read Sellyn Drake’s novels?” Nesta shook her head. Emerie gasped, so dramatically that Cassian muttered something about sparing him from smut-obsessed females before heading farther into the ring. “You must read her books. You must. I’ll bring the first one tomorrow. You’ll stay up all night reading it, I swear.

What Is the Strongest Biotin for Hair Loss? A Balanced, Practical Comparison Many people search for the “strongest biotin” hoping to support the normal appearance and condition of their hair. In reality, the strength of a biotin supplement is not only about the number on the label. It involves formulation quality, absorption, supporting nutrients, and whether the supplement is easy to take consistently. Below is a practical comparison of common biotin formats, using NUTRAHARMONY products as examples. What “Strongest” Should Mean in Biotin Supplements A truly effective biotin supplement should focus on: consistent daily intake a clean, reliable formulation normal nutrient absorption supportive ingredients that play a role in general metabolic functions The goal is to help maintain the normal structure of hair, skin, and nails — not to treat or correct medical conditions. Types of Biotin Supplements Commonly Used for Hair Support 1. High-Dose Biotin Capsules These products focus purely on biotin in a fixed, predictable serving. They are simple to take and easy to integrate into a daily routine. Key characteristics: stable dosage straightforward composition convenient for long-term use Supports: normal protein and nutrient metabolism the natural appearance of hair, skin, and nails 2. B-Complex Capsules or Tablets B-complex formulas include biotin along with other B-vitamins that assist with normal energy production and metabolic processes. This makes them a more balanced option for people who want general nutritional support. Key characteristics: broader nutrient profile supports daily metabolic activity contributes to overall wellness Supports: normal cell function and energy metabolism the healthy appearance of hair, skin, and nails 3. Liquid B-Complex with Biotin Liquid vitamins may be easier for some people to take and can offer flexible serving adjustments. These formulas often combine biotin with additional B-vitamins. Key characteristics: easy-to-consume liquid form flexible dosage may be suitable for those who prefer liquids over capsules Supports: normal nutrient utilization overall wellness and the natural condition of hair and nails How NUTRAHARMONY Products Fit These Categories NUTRAHARMONY Biotin Capsules Clean, simple formulation Consistent, reliable biotin serving Easy to use daily Designed to support the normal structure of hair, skin, and nails NUTRAHARMONY Vitamin B-Complex Liquid Drops Biotin combined with the full spectrum of B-vitamins Liquid format for flexible intake Supports normal metabolic functions Ideal for those who prefer a broader nutritional approach Which Biotin Is the “Strongest”? There is no single universal “strongest” biotin supplement. The best option depends on individual preferences and how you plan to integrate it into your daily routine. Choose biotin capsules if you want: a fixed, predictable biotin amount a straightforward single-nutrient supplement long-term daily convenience Choose a liquid B-complex if you want: a flexible serving format additional B-vitamins to support normal metabolic processes an option that may be easier to take regularly Conclusion The strongest biotin is the one you can take consistently and that fits your nutritional needs. NUTRAHARMONY Biotin Capsules offer a simple, reliable daily option, while NUTRAHARMONY Vitamin B-Complex Drops provide a broader approach for those who prefer a liquid formula. Both formats are designed to support the normal structure and appearance of hair, skin, and nails.

Is Liquid Biotin Better Than Capsules? A Practical Comparison Many people wonder whether liquid biotin works better than capsules. After comparing both forms within the NUTRAHARMONY product line, here is a clear and practical explanation to help you choose the right format for your routine. What’s the Difference Between Liquid and Capsule Biotin? Biotin is the same vitamin B7 in both forms — the real difference is how your body absorbs it and how convenient each format is for daily use.

Is Liquid Biotin Better Than Capsules? A Practical Comparison Many people wonder whether liquid biotin works better than capsules. After comparing both forms within the NUTRAHARMONY product line, here is a clear and practical explanation to help you choose the right format for your routine. What’s the Difference Between Liquid and Capsule Biotin? Biotin is the same vitamin B7 in both forms — the real difference is how your body absorbs it and how convenient each format is for daily use.

Mum looks over the menu, adjusting her glasses. She’s wearing a good dress, her lipstick and perfume, her crystal earrings from Dad. Her hair falls in short cloudy waves. Mum frowns over the big print, pretending to decide, but really she’s looking for something cheap. “I’ll have the Tommy Tucker,” she tells the waitress. “That’s a children’s plate,” the waitress says. “Oh,” Mum says. She blushes, because now the waitress knows. “I’m not very hungry. It looked small.” “Children only.” So Mum orders a hamburger like the rest of us, her cheeks blazing. Is she thinking of Jackie with her bone china and embroidered linen? She starts to chuckle, because the Tommy Tucker sounds so funny, and now we’re all laughing, even as I redden up myself on Mum’s behalf. Back in the car, we take turns saying, “I’ll have the Tommy Tucker!” as the highway exits zip past. “And here I was,” Mum says, hooting now, “all dressed up! Can you imagine the waitress in the back, telling the cook, ‘That woman ordered the Tommy Tucker, and she was wearing crystal earrings!’” “I’ll have the Tommy Tucker!” “Ya can’t miss it!

Several years had passed since the Battle of Solas. Eva Nine, now in her late teens, tied up her long white hair and adjusted her brightly patterned clothing. She dashed past the marked-up maps and naturalistic drawings of plants and animals that hung on the walls of her home. Stepping out onto the planked walkway that connected her hut with all the rest in her tower at Lacus, she spotted Rovender adjusting the cable that stretched across the round bowl shape of the village. Fringed multicolored pennants and flags caught the light of the late-day sun as they hung from the cable. “Is it on there?” Eva asked. “It is.” Rovender pointed to the string of flags flapping about in the breeze. “See?” Eva’s eyes followed the cable. Among images and words sewn onto the flags was a familiar robotic face. “Hostia did a great job painting these. She got Muthr’s face just right.” “She did. I might like it better than the one she did of Arius.” Rovender smiled. “I’m glad Muthr is hanging next to your father.” Eva watched the flags. “I wish she could have met him. I think they would have had a lot to talk about.” “Who’s to say they haven’t met?” Rovender put his arm around Eva’s shoulder. “Who knows what the next journey holds?” Eva nodded in agreement, her mind filled with reflection. “You’ll have to let Hostia know how much you like it tonight at dinner.