Arya A Girl Quotes

Be careful you don't cut yourself. The edges are sharp enough to shave with.' 'Girls don't shave', Arya said. 'Maybe they should. Have you ever seen the septa's legs?

I wish I was home", She said miserably. She tried so hard to be brave, to be fierce as a wolverine and all, but some times she felt she was a little girl after all.

I bet this is a brothel," she whispered to Gendry. "You don't even know what a brothel is." "I do so," she insisted. "It's like an inn, with girls.

The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leathery wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window.

You look different now. Like a proper little girl." "I look like an oak tree, with all these stupid acorns." "Nice, though. A nice oak tree.

I'm named Bella," the girl told Gendry. "For the battle. I bet I could ring your bell, too. You want to?" "No," he said gruffly. "I bet you do." She ran a hand along his arm. "I don't cost nothing to friends of Thoros and the lighting lord." "No, I said." Gendry rose abruptly and stalked away from the table out into the night. Bella turn to Arya. "Don't he like girls?" Arya shrugged. "He's just stupid. He likes to polish helmets and beat on swords with hammers.

An old man sat down beside her. "Well, aren't you a pretty little peach?" His breath smelled near as foul as the dead men in the cages, and his little pig eyes were crawling up and down her. "Does my sweet peach have a name?" For half a heartbeat she forgot who she was supposed to be. She wasn't any peach, but she couldn't be Arya Stark either, not here with some smelly drunk she did not know. "I'm . . ." "She's my sister." Gendry put a heavy hand on the old man's shoulder, and squeezed. "Leave her be." The man turned, spoiling for a quarrel, but when he saw Gendry's size he thought better of it. "You sister, is she? What kind of brother are you? I'd never bring no sister of mine to the Peach, that I wouldn't." He got up from the bench and moved off muttering, in search of a new friend. "Why did you say that?" Arya hopped to her feet, "You're not my brother." "That's right," he said angrily. "I'm too bloody lowborn to be kin to m'lady high." Arya was taken aback by the fury in his voice. "That's not the way I mean it." "Yes it is." He sat down on the bench, cradling a cup of wine between his hands. "Go away. I want to drink this wine in peace. Then maybe I'll go find that black-haired girl and ring her bell for her." "But . . ." "I said, go away. M'lady." Arya whirled and left him there. A stupid bullheaded bastard boy, that's all he is. He could ring all the bells he wanted, it was nothing to her.

She should be more frightened herself, she knew. She was only ten, a skinny girl on a stolen horse with a dark forest ahead of her and men behind who would gladly cut off her feet. Yet somehow she felt calmer than ever had in Harrenhal. The rain had washed the guard's blood off her fingers, she wore a sword across her back, wolves were prowling through the dark like lean grey shadows, and Arya Stark was unafraid. Fear cuts deeper than swords, she whispered under her breath, the words that Syrio Forel had taught her, and Jaqen's words too, valar morghulis.

Ow!" she cried out. She would have a fresh bruise there by the time she went to sleep, somewhere out at sea. A bruise is a lesson, she told herself, and each lesson makes us better. Syrio stepped back. "You are dead now." Arya made a face. "You cheated," she said hotly. "You said left and you went right." "Just so. And now you are a dead girl." "But you lied!" "My words lied. My eyes and my arm shouted out the truth, but you were not seeing." "I was so," Arya said. "I watched you every second!" "Watching is not seeing, dead girl. The water dancer sees. Come, put down the sword, it is time for listening now.

What were you doing to that cat, boy?” Myrcella asked again, sternly. To her brother she said, “He’s a ragged boy, isn’t he? Look at him.” She giggled. “A ragged dirty smelly boy,” Tommen agreed. They don’t know me, Arya realized. They don’t even know I’m a girl. Small wonder; she was barefoot and dirty, her hair tangled from the long run through the castle, clad in a jerkin ripped by cat claws and brown roughspun pants hacked off above her scabby knees. You don’t wear skirts and silks when you’re catching cats. Quickly she lowered her head and dropped to one knee. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize her. If they did, she would never hear the end of it. Septa Mordane would be mortified, and Sansa would never speak to her again from the shame.

They have been with you every day, my lord. Sansa prays quietly, but Arya …” He hesitated. “She has not said a word since they brought you back. She is a fierce little thing, my lord. I have never seen such anger in a girl.

Desmond ushered the man inside. He was stooped and ugly, with an unkempt beard and unwashed clothes, yet Father greeted him pleasantly and asked his name. “Yoren, as it please m’lord. My pardons for the hour.” He bowed to Arya. “And this must be your son. He has your look.” “I’m a girl,” Arya said, exasperated. If the old man was down from the Wall, he must have come by way of Winterfell. “Do you know my brothers?” she asked excitedly. “Robb and Bran are at Winterfell, and Jon’s on the Wall. Jon Snow, he’s in the Night’s Watch too, you must know him, he has a direwolf, a white one with red eyes. Is Jon a ranger yet? I’m Arya Stark.” The old man in his smelly black clothes was looking at her oddly, but Arya could not seem to stop talking. “When you ride back to the Wall, would you bring Jon a letter if I wrote one?” She wished Jon were here right now. He’d believe her about the dungeons and the fat man with the forked beard and the wizard in the steel cap.

Ned looked down gravely at the sword in his hands. “This is no toy for children, least of all for a girl. What would Septa Mordane say if she knew you were playing with swords?” “I wasn’t playing,” Arya insisted. “I hate Septa Mordane.” “That’s enough.” Her father’s voice was curt and hard. “The septa is doing no more than is her duty, though gods know you have made it a struggle for the poor woman. Your mother and I have charged her with the impossible task of making you a lady.

Harwin's eyes went from her face to the flayed man on her doublet. "How do you know me?" he said, frowning suspiciously. "The flayed man . . . who are you, some serving boy to Lord Leech?" For a moment she did not know how to answer. She'd had so many names. Had she only dreamed Arya Stark? "I'm a girl," she sniffed. "I was Lord Bolton's cupbearer but he was going to leave me for the goat, so I ran off with Gendry and Hot Pie. You have to know me! You used to lead my pony, when I was little." His eyes went wide. "Gods be good," he said in a choked voice. "Arya Underfoot? Lem, let go of her." "She broke my nose." Lem dumped her unceremoniously to the floor. "Who in seven hells is she supposed to be?" "The Hand's daughter." Harwin went to one knee before her. "Arya Stark, of Winterfell.

A reflection of nothing more than a broken, shattered girl. I was drowning in life. I didn’t know if I could swim to shore... it seemed so much easier to give in and float away. Forever.

Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart’s desire. She had Ned’s long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collected dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. I think that she must be dead too.

In Sansa's dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.

A thousand years ago, she had known a girl who loved lemon cakes. No, that was not me, that was only Arya.

Humans aren’t afraid of the dark because of the lack of light; we’re afraid of the dark because we fear the places our own minds will take us.

The biggest mistake we make is to believe that our lives are solely ours to control. We are often mere puppets even in our own stories and I’m positive there is nothing more terrifying than that.

It was a woman's voice, high and sweet, with a strange music in it like none that he had ever heard and a sadness that he thought might break his heart. Bran squinted, to see her better. It was a girl, but smaller than Arya, her skin dappled like a doe's beneath a cloak of leaves. Her eyes were queer--large and liquid, gold and green, slitted like a cat's eyes. No one has eyes like that. Her hair was a tangle of brown and red and gold, autumn colors, with vines and twigs and withered flowers woven through it. "Who are you?" Meera Reed was asking. Bran knew. "She's a child. A child of the forest.

“What were you thinking? My girl. My sweet, sweet girl. What were you trying to do?” I can barely recognize his tone, it’s so steeped in anguish, cracking around the edges. His eyes are now red rimmed and delirious, his shaking hands traveling over every inch of my body. “You could have been killed. You knew you were going to be killed! How dare you. How dare you almost fucking die, Arya! You think my life for yours is an even trade? It’s not! It’s not. Do you think I’d want to live after you died in my arms? DO YOU?”

He walked as if he were floating; he oozed confidence and zero self-doubt—character traits I believed all men should come equipped with. Women, well, we couldn’t be like that since we were wired to be creatures of self-doubt. Self-doubt that would ultimately consume us and every action we took.

His fingers closed into a fist, crushing Sansa’s letter between them. “And she says nothing of Arya, nothing, not so much as a word. Damn her! What’s wrong with the girl?” Bran felt all cold inside. “She lost her wolf,” he said, weakly, remembering the day when four of his father’s guardsmen had returned from the south with Lady’s bones. (...) She had gone south, and only her bones had returned.

Until now, I haven’t had the best luck with Siddhartha. But every day before today, I was jealous of his girlfriends. I wondered if he would ever think of the girl who found him on the internet and wrote a book about it. Every day before today, I used to look at the bittersweet letters that he never read. And today, when I look back at that time, it feels nice. The guy who was just a daydream. Today he hugged me, and I have a Polaroid of us. It might be his worst, but it’s my storybook New Year’s Eve. — Arya Kashyap

Who would hold her hand and guide her through that darkness? ‘Am I not here, my girl?’ The affectionate words of Mother Earth gave her the strength of a thousand elephants. Her mother was independent. She would go to her mother. Her mother was omnipotent. So she could take Sita into her embrace. Sita had now seen it all—sons, fathers, sons’ obedience to fathers, wives’ faithfulness to husbands, motherhood. But there was one thing she had not seen. Nor had Ahalya, Surpanakha or Urmila experienced it. It was what Renuka had faced—the brutality of her own son. She had seen the dharma-bound cruelty of her son who, taking his father’s word as the word of the Vedas, was ready to hack her head off. She then realized what the foundation of that cruelty was. How many whirlpools must have stirred in her heart then? And how deep they must have been? In fact, so deep as to challenge Arya Dharma itself.

She tilts her head to the side after taking a sip of her tea, studying us. “You know, I can’t get over how beautiful you two are together. One of those couples you love to follow on Instagram, you know, the really cute ones that are so sickening in love that you can’t get enough of them.” Way to drop the love bomb, Mom. Jesus. Thankfully Emory doesn’t show any kind of hatred for the term but instead says, “Like Jennifer Lopez and A-Rod?” “Yes,” my mom answers with excitement. “Oh my gosh, I’m obsessed with watching their stories. The little videos they do together, I just can’t get enough of them. J-Rod,” my mom says dreamily. “Oh gosh, what would your couple name be?” She thinks about it for a second. “Emox . . . or Knemory. Oh I love Knemory. Sounds so poetic.” “Knemory does have a nice ring to it,” I add. “I don’t know, what about Emorox?” “Ohhh, that sounds like a name that belongs in The Game of Thrones.” Taking on a more masculine voice, my mom says, “Look out, Jon, Emorox is coming over the hill, with her fire-spitting dragons, Knemory and George.” “George?” Emory laughs out loud, covering her mouth. “Why George?” “Well, look at the names they have in that show? They’re all exotic names you’ve never heard before—Cersei, Gregor, Arya—and then in waltzes good old Jon Snow. It’s only fair that the dragons have a lemon in the bunch as well.” “Uh, Jon is anything but a lemon, Mom,” I defend. “He was raised from the dead.” My mom’s mouth drops, pure and utter shock in her face. “Jon Snow dies?” Shit. Emory elbows my stomach. “Where the hell is your GOT etiquette? You never talk about the facts of the show until the air is cleared about how far someone is in watching. You are one of those people who spoils everything for someone just catching up to the trend.” *Ahem* “I mean . . . uh . . . he doesn’t die.” “You just said he is raised from the dead,” my mom says. Feeling guilty, I reply, “Well, at least he’s still alive, right?” She slumps against the cushion of the couch and mutters, “Unbelievable.” “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gentry, that your son is a barbarian and broke your GOT trust.” Pressing her hand against her forehead, my mom says, “You know, I blame myself. I thought I taught him a shred of decorum, I guess not.” “Don’t blame yourself,” Emory coos. “You did everything right. It comes down to the hooligans he hangs out with. There’s only so much you can control after they leave the nest.” “You’re absolutely right,” my mom agrees and leans across the couch to smack me in the back of the head. “Hey,” I complain while rubbing the sore spot. I look between the two women in my life and I say, “I don’t like this ganging up on me shit.” “You wanted us to get along, right?” Emory asks. “Well, I happen to like your mom, especially since she complimented my bosom.” “Ah, I see.” I continue to look between the two of them. “You’re okay with my mom catching you with your shirt off now, moved past the embarrassment?” Emory’s eyes narrow. “With that kind of attitude, it might be the very last time you see me topless.” My mom raises her fist to the air, as if to say, “Girl Power.” And then she says, “You tell him, Emory. Don’t let him push you around.” “I wasn’t pushing her around—” “You keep that beautiful bosom under lock and key, and if you have a temptation to show anyone, just flash me.” “Mom, do you realize how wrong that is?” “Want to go to the bathroom right now, Mrs. Gentry?” “I would be delighted to.” They both stand but before they can make a move, I pull on Emory’s hand, bringing her back down to my lap. “No way in hell is that happening. Jesus, what is wrong with you?

Believe, in the faith of Believing

The world doesn't just let girls decide what they're going to be...

She looked at Arya. “What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He’s very gallant, don’t you think?” “Jon says he looks like a girl,” Arya said. Sansa sighed as she stitched. “Poor Jon,” she said. “He gets jealous because he’s a bastard.” “He’s our brother,” Arya said, much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.

The man I married, the man I had a family with, thought I was nothing more than disposable trash. No one believed me, and that was the most terrifying thing I’d ever felt. I was the girl who cried wolf.

Noah and Liam took turns on their massive yachts carrying the bodies they couldn’t burn, disposing them in the middle of the ocean where no one would ever dare to look. Those were the nights they’d host lavish dinner parties on said yachts. The night Noah proposed to me was the night he had disposed of at least three girls. My stomach twisted at that.

This man was sick; he was a psychopath. He was clearly doing something unethical and illegal. Fear dripped through every part of my body. My husband was possibly a serial killer surgeon. Where was he finding these innocent girls? Was Riya one of them? What was he doing with these organs?

You really tell yourself that don’t you? That all these women had it coming? What about those young girls who weren’t married to Noah? What did they ever do to deserve this?

In life there are moments, crossroads, really, in which we stand there and look side-to-side and know one path is the one we need, and the other is the one we want.

The problem is, sometimes the path we need, is the one that hurts us the most. It’s unfair really, how life works against us, and we don’t even realize it’s happening until we’re thrown into situations we are forced to be in. Situations that wrap us up in a wrath like a deadly tornado and then when we’re finally out of it, all we are left with is immense destruction. The worst part of it all is knowing had we listened to our inner sirens, perhaps we could have avoided the storm and its aftermath.

Fear is a simple reaction, but strength is a decision. Make the decision that can save your life.

Because there is no such thing as perfect. And sometimes the more perfect something seems; the more secrets are hidden away.

I remember watching Titanic and thinking Rose was brilliant for not risking her life for Jack. I admired her for not making room for him and letting him die.

You are every bit of sunshine and light that the world needs. I love you, my little butterfly. To those that are in the middle of a storm—I hope you remember that it’s just a chapter and not your whole story. You are strong enough to weather it and the sun always comes out. I pinky promise. This is our now.

dream. Maybe that’s why I loved to read so much. I could escape my reality and live a thousand lives through the pages

Except, there’s a reason we are conditioned to be in a constant state of fear. Because humans are capable of committing atrocious crimes, wrecking lives, and making sure the dreams we hoped for never comes true. The biggest mistake we make is to believe that our lives are solely ours to control. We are often mere puppets even in our own stories and I’m positive there is nothing more terrifying than that.

No one leaves the Ivory Estate unless they are released. Just like birds. Chirp, chirp!” He mocked.

All because the music concealed the truth. Because that’s what music does; it removes us from reality and loses us into the melodies and words that resonate with us, or don’t, but either way, we hope to find some form of truth in the songs.

denial allows us to be blind to the truth we don’t want to see since our minds don’t think we’re ready to handle them.

To those that are in the middle of a storm—I hope you remember that it’s just a chapter and not your whole story. You are strong enough to weather it and the sun always comes out. I pinky promise. This is our now.

Situations that wrap us up in a wrath like a deadly tornado and then when we’re finally out of it, all we are left with is immense destruction. The worst part of it all is knowing had we listened to our inner sirens, perhaps we could have avoided the storm and its aftermath.

But that’s the thing about monsters; they don’t lurk in the shadows like stories convince us… no, they prowl right in the open.

The thing about everything fitting too perfectly together is that it really means jagged pieces were shaved down to fit so perfectly. It means the rough edges were smoothed down and hidden away. Because there is no such thing as perfect. And sometimes the more perfect something seems; the more secrets are hidden away.

To those that are in the middle of a storm—I hope you remember that it’s just a chapter and not your whole story. You are strong enough to weather it and the

Maybe that’s why I loved to read so much. I could escape my reality and live a thousand lives through the pages and words of others.

Sometimes it’s not the number of tears we shed that measure our pain… sometimes it’s the number of smiles we forge.

And that’s the thing… the truth will always be more terrifying than a lie. Because the truth can’t be altered, but a lie can.

The biggest mistake we make is to believe that our lives are solely ours to control. We are often mere puppets even in our own stories and I’m positive there is nothing more terrifying than that. CHAPTER ONE If there is one thing in life that I know with absolute certainty, it’s that there is a vast difference between surviving and thriving.

sometimes the path we need, is the one that hurts us the most.

Because I feel the fucking pain that I’m inflicting on myself, but at least… at least, I’m the one inflicting it this time.

It’s unfair really, how life works against us, and we don’t even realize it’s happening until we’re thrown into situations we are forced to be in.

The memories flooded my mind. I wasn’t raised in Gatlinburg. I wasn’t born here. I could still picture it all. Us, boarding the plane from our small village in India with the strange men with light skin and hair I’d never seen before. My sister clutching a worn teddy bear, lacing her fingers into mine as our parents counted through stacks of money. They didn’t even look at us; they didn’t kiss us goodbye or shed tears of sadness. Instead, they smiled. The paper in their hands brought them more happiness than their own daughters.

Trent… knows I’m here?” I began looking around the room wildly, terrified that the man who made me kill my sister was here waiting to kill me, too. “Demi… you were sold to him. The reason they never hurt you was because you were always intended to come here. You were always intended to be a part of this family.” “I don’t understand?” I placed my hand over my heart, praying it’d slow down. “Trent has folders, too—binders full of the women he’s bought from parents, kidnappers, and more. Conrad hand-selected you from a folder.” “Conrad?” I gasped. “You’ve always been the favorite girl, just like Mrs. Ivory once was. You were chosen to marry Conrad Ivory—just like Dr. Ivory’s father bought Mrs. Ivory for him—and eventually, the two of you will continue this family legacy.

Do you want to know what happens to the women who don’t bleed?” Bradley was still holding me, but I had tilted my head away from his chest to look into his eyes. I shook my head, too afraid to ask. “They end up on Ian Ivory’s office wall.” Sucking in a breath, I stumbled back as my lips parted in shock. “That decorative wall behind his desk you’ve been dusting off are the bones of all the women who didn’t bleed on their wedding night. The Ivory family loses so much money if that happens.

He’s an orthopedic surgeon, well… was. He no longer performs actual surgeries that aren’t for his amusement. He rips the bones out of their bodies and saves them. He crafts out of them.” “The peony garden…” I trailed. Nodding, Bradley took a deep breath. “The peony garden is where they bury the bodies. They are convinced those women fertilize the soil and produce the most fragrant peonies. The perfume anyone wears in this house or the wine we are forced to drink all come mixed from the peonies that grow from the ground of death.” He rubbed his hand over his face before filling the space between us again. “Demi, this has been the way of the Ivory family for generations. I really hope you have a son first.” He brushed my hair from my face before tracing my lips with his thumb.

What happens if I had a daughter?” My voice shook as I looked into his eyes. “Oh, Demi⁠—” “No, wait, don’t tell me. I’m not going to get pregnant. I’ll figure something out.” “Well, for three months, you won’t have to.” Bradley turned and grabbed a second wrapped present. It was a small, thin rectangular package. Slowly peeling the paper off, I slanted my eyes as I stared at the bright blue packet. “What…” I pulled the paper out from it, revealing four rows of pills. “Oh…” I felt a wave of relief. “I was only able to get a three-month supply. It should give you some time to deal with everything around you and being married to him before having to get pregnant. And I have a way for you to hide them.” Bradley picked my Nike shoes up and gripped the heel of one. Sliding it off, he revealed a divot he must have had cut in.

It made sense. It all made sense. Or at least desperation had me colorblind to any red flags.

Now, now, Mason. Don’t forget once she’s designed for you, she’s no longer your product but rather your beautiful blushing bride.” “What do you think, Bradley?” Dr. Ivory asked. “Bradley?” This time, anger laced his tone. “Yes, sir?” Bradley looked at him with defeated eyes. “Do you think product number five will look good in this for the wedding night?” He sneered, and I swore it took every ounce of willpower not to jump across the table and gauge his fucking green eyes out. “Look at it, Bradley. Look at the outfit and tell us exactly your thoughts.” Dr. Ivory knew what he was doing. He was torturing that innocent young woman’s brother. The binder slid over toward us, and I looked at the image. A black lace outfit, combined with a dog collar-looking choker and leash was on the page, and the page beside it contained a white lace outfit with the same dog collar and leash. Suddenly it all started to piece together. The ‘white-therapy’ had to be some distorted way to make these women submissive? But how? This wasn’t some kind of rehabilitation; this was molding women to be subservient wives for these disturbed men.

I feel you, Mother and Father; now, your blood is coursing through my bride’s body, too.” My stomach flipped and I immediately bent over and vomited. It was their blood. He made me drink his parent’s blood, and worst of all, he drank his parents’ blood, too.

As soon as I peeled the wrapping paper away, I broke into tears. An orange box with a giant white Nike logo. “Bradley…” I opened it and couldn’t contain my emotion. This was too much. I was crying so hard that snot began to drip and intertwined with my sobs. “Hey, hey… it’s okay, Demi. It’s just shoes. And, they actually make noise when you walk.” “No, Bradley… it’s not just shoes.” I placed the brand-new Air Jordans down. They were pink, black, and white, with a light pink Nike logo across.

Why do they make you do this? This blonde hair, green-eye obsession? Isn’t Mrs. Ivory a brunette, too?” “Yes, but they don’t care. Ian is obsessive-compulsive with everything, and this is something that would kill him. He needs his home to be a specific way. He’s obsessed with the idea of perfection. It is thought that green eyes are demonic. Evil, really. That the green-eyed demon is superior than the black-eyed demon. I mean witches, monsters, demons all possess green eyes historically. They are wicked.” I shook with chills. Ian Ivory wanted to live a wicked, demonic life. “I love your eyes.” I immediately looked away. “Demi, I love everything about you. I loved your curly black hair. I love the way you never listen and talk way too much. I love that… I love that even when you’ve seen nothing but horror, there’s still hope inside those stunning brown eyes.” He moved closer and his warm, minty breath grazed my skin. “You’re absolutely sure?” His fingers traced my abdomen, sending goosebumps everywhere. I leaned in and kissed Bradley.

It’s quite funny, you were never Conrad’s first choice. You were the substitute. But your promiscuous sister couldn’t keep her legs closed, and well, she was no longer pure for the Ivory family.” Becca clicked her tongue. My body went cold. My eyes blurred and everything Becca said no longer sounded like a language I understood. “My… sister? No, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Layla had no idea who this family was. She… she was raped by Trent.” “Did you actually see her being raped? Or is that what she told you?” Becca pursed her thin lips at me. Blinking rapidly, I thought about how I hadn’t seen Layla being raped; I’d just hear them. Hear them… having sex? But she’d always come back into the closet with me. She’d always look repulsed and heartbroken. “She fell in love with Trent, and he loved her, but business is business. When he found out Ian Ivory was no longer buying Layla for the two million dollars he had promised him, he couldn’t handle it. Layla was supposed to be his largest transaction and his way out of the Nashville slums. He couldn’t believe having sex with her had wrecked him. So… he set it all up, and he put Layla up to it as well. He said if she helped him get you to go to the Ivory’s house, he’d marry her.” Becca paused. Leaning in, she brushed my hair from my face with her blood-stained palm. “It must really hurt to know your sister didn’t want you, either.” She frowned at me with insincere sadness.

Men like Ian, his father, and now, Conrad, help remind us, my darling Demi, that we are not meant to live like a bird soaring through a sky alone. Those are the birds that become prey, and we are safest in the cages. We are safest when we do as we are told. Procreate, respect our men, serve their every need. We are creating the new generation of women who will raise the best men.

Sometimes I think the people who are accused of being a little off are the ones who are the most truthful. Perhaps it is the ugly truth that makes them seem off?

She’s definitely a favorite girl,” Dr. Ivory quipped. “Her bones are flawless. No signs of deterioration. Completely submissive after intensive white-therapy, and as you can see here,” he pointed to another page in a separate binder, “she’s a confirmed virgin.

I can’t believe after five years on your waitlist… it’s finally my turn. I’ve been waiting for her. I can’t wait to…” He and Ian Ivory exchanged a nauseating look with a wicked laugh. “Well, you do remember the wedding night must take place in the holy room. This is our way of coping with letting one of our beautiful birds fly free.” Ian cleared his throat.

He couldn’t be serious. He was going to make us watch his parents consummate their marriage while… I couldn’t handle any of this. Death had to be better.

What most people don’t understand is that poverty and fear are two of the worst things a human has to live with. When combined that means they are in the lowest and darkest parts of a valley that is killing them every single day.

Who sold her?” “My mom sold her to a man named Trent Smith. We’re originally from Tennessee, and he’s the largest trafficker in the state.” Trent… Smith? “How… how is that possible?” Bradley’s forehead creased as his eyes drooped slightly. “Demi… none of this was a coincidence. Trent Smith works for Ian Ivory. Just like a butcher has an animal-supplier; Ian Ivory has a supplier for trafficked women.

No…” I shook my head with tears running down my cheeks. “I saw the ad, the listing. I applied for this job. Raina…” I paused, thinking about how Raina just so happened to be driving exactly where I was. “Raina dropped that paper off to your motel room in hopes that’d make the process easier for you. Raina was paid to follow you and pick you up. Raina is basically the Ivory’s adoptive daughter, and her husband Jax once worked here.” “How’d they escape? How did they manage to not tell anyone about what’s happening here?” “Demi, you just don’t get it.” Bradley rubbed his forehead as if it were aching. “It’s not white-therapy; it’s white-torture. We all went through it. You’re the first they haven’t done it to in years. For two years, we all lived in those sound-proof rooms, eating nothing but plain white food. No sounds, no color, no stimulation. It stripped us of emotion. It made us completely submissive and devoted to this family.” “But you don’t seem submissive. You seem like you’re just pretending so you could be here for Daisy?” “I can’t imagine leaving this place. I’m messed up, Demi. I wanted to help Daisy escape, but thought I’d probably stay here and work for the family. Because if they caught me, they’d put me back into a cage. No one speaks to you, you hear no noise, no sounds, you see no color or anything. They shave your head and put you in all-white. You stare at four white walls all day and eat white food so your senses are depleted.” Fear churned inside of me as my legs trembled and I forced myself to sit down. “Why do they do this?” “Because they need staff. Loyal staff who will help them with their business. They sell these women as mail-order brides essentially, and their wait list is filled with the world’s richest men. Each woman is guaranteed to be completely obedient, subservient, and designed to be exactly what that man wants. Each woman sells for one to three million dollars.

Why is she in there?” “Demi, she’s in there by choice. The caged girls sound worse than it is. These are all women who signed up for an experimental study. They are all psychiatric patients of Dr. Ivory’s friend, Dr. Decker Sterling, who were unable to do well with treatment. Now, they are here to be rehabilitated through The Ivory Experiment.

Why is she in there, Conrad?” My voice shook as I closed my eyes with my hand across my pounding heart as if I could steady it. “She’s in there by choice.” “If she has psychiatric issues, then why is she not seeing a psychiatrist? Why would she need your dad?” “My dad is helping them, Demi. He’s doing a free experimental study—it’s actually FDA approved. He’s saving the lives no one else could.” Conrad tilted my head up, forcing me to open my eyes and look at him. “Do you actually believe that?” I squinted at him as his fingers traced my jawline. “Yes, I do.

Even if it was being wanted by the devil himself. The Ivory family did anything and everything for one another. They put their family first. They’d never let one of them be hurt or get hurt. That’s what I was becoming. One of them. And I think, maybe, I needed that. Maybe, it was the only way I could ever survive.

They let a brown girl in with jet black hair.” I chuckled. ‘I miss you, sissy.’ The smile on my face melted as I heard her voice and flung around. She’s not here. She’s gone. She’s dead. Because of you. You didn’t protect her, Demi. It’s all your fault.

Really? How does one become tired of music?” She flipped the water off and dried her manicured hands. “When the noise is used to conceal your thoughts, and you no longer can hear the one voice that will help you survive.” I shuddered as I thought back to the small window that shook and vibrated as music rose from the bars below. They couldn’t hear our screams, they couldn’t hear our cries… they couldn’t hear the pain in our prayers. All because the music concealed the truth. Because that’s what music does; it removes us from reality and loses us into the melodies and words that resonate with us, or don’t, but either way, we hope to find some form of truth in the songs. I never found truth in the often-melodramatic country songs—I hated it all. I hated the optimism, the way the musician would take heartbreak or pain and guarantee a positive outcome. Meanwhile, we were right there, hovered in the dark—shaking, bleeding, aching… Aching for them to stop singing. So maybe then, someone, anyone, could hear us. But they never did…

The worst position to be in is a person without choices, because that means others can make decisions for you.

Looking over my shoulder as we walked ahead, one of the women who had to be no more than twenty rolled her eyes upward without moving her head and mouthed something at me. Scrunching my face, I shook my head. I couldn’t make out what she was trying to tell me. So, she did it again and this time, there was no missing it. Her thin, pale lips breathed out, “Run.

Ian and Daphne Ivory were laying on the floor, side-by-side, with their throats slit, and in the middle sat a table with two wineglasses full of red liquid. The pool of blood around his parents grew by the minute. Their arms were tied together above their heads. “Conrad!” I slapped my hands across my mouth, while my heart pounded rapidly against my chest. He didn’t move, he didn’t react. Reaching back, he grabbed my arm and steadied me. “Come, my love. They sacrificed for us.” Lifting the wineglasses, he handed me one. My hands shook as my eyes darted between them both. “They… killed themselves?” “Yes.” “How are you not⁠—” “This was always the plan, my love, and one day, you and I will go into the eternal heavens together for our son and his bride, too.” “To be pure even after I take your purity away tonight, we must drink this to protect our morals and souls.” Clinking his glass against mine, he lifted it to his lips and began to drink. “Drink it, Demi. Now.” His voice shifted, and fear rose inside me as my body felt paralyzed. “Demi!” he yelled as he licked the liquid from his lips. Placing my mouth on the rim, I slowly sipped. The thick taste of iron burned my mouth and I immediately choked and coughed. “Drink it, or lay dead with them!” He slapped my glass upward.

the truth will always be more terrifying than a lie. Because the truth can’t be altered, but a lie can.

Fear is a simple reaction, but strength is a decision.

You don’t realize that when you’re in a hole, it’s already dark. It’s already hard to breathe. No one can see you or help you. So why would you scream if you’re never going to be heard?

They could easily be Edward Cullen’s biological parents.

You’d never assume he was a monster. But that’s the thing about monsters; they don’t lurk in the shadows like stories convince us… no, they prowl right in the open.

Today, everything felt the way it does before a storm and you’ve left your umbrella at home.

sometimes, it’s the truth that hurts the most.

I really didn’t want to drink the dark tea while wearing all white and sitting on an all white chair, but they were watching me intently, so I said a quick prayer and took a sip.

The biggest mistake we make is to believe that our lives are solely ours to control.

the sun always comes out.

I do, Bradley,

Baby girl, Indigos are not weak. We aren’t the prey. If you feel that way, then you need to get in control and be the hunter. We don’t let anyone or anything bring us down. You will be okay, because you have to be okay, Serena. There isn’t another choice.” He looked at me sternly.

Demi, you have to dress for the job you eventually want, not the job you’re qualified for.” Raina’s face shifted.

And it was all coming out of Tallulah’s brain, because the girl gang from Hades was all hair and no braincells.

The half-brown thing may have been okay, especially in an area like Primrose Hill where there was a rapidly growing population of wealthy Indian people, and increasingly, mixed children too. But the twitching, the anxiety that was visible to all, the shaking, the hiding – I was a marked girl before I uttered my first word.

She was just so adorable I wanted to break her. It was some weird mix of my affection for Joey and my obsession with this fey girl-creature that brought out a kind of violence in me.