Ayla Quotes

Justice was a god, and Ayla didn't believe in such childish things. She believed in blood.

I told you once I’m not a book to be read,” Ayla continued. “I take it back. I’m a book. Read me.

Ayla wanted to see her break things, wanted to see her broken, wanted to watch her break apart, wanted to be the cause of it.

A drop of water gleamed on Ayla's lower lip. Strangely, it made Crier want to—drink.

A tiny pathetic thought: the warmth of Ayla's touch rivaled the afternoon sun.

But when did you see her, talk to me? When did you see her go into the cave? Why did you threaten to strike a spirit? You still don't understand, do you? You acknowledged her, Broud, she has beaten you. You did everything you could to her, you even cursed her. She's dead, and still she won. She was a woman, and she had more courage than you, Broud, more determination, more self-control. She was more man than you are. Ayla should have been the son of my mate.

There was something terrible in her, something clawed and angry and afraid and sad… The truth of Ayla, the pain of her, was like a song you could feel vibrating on the air, even if you didn’t know the words. It was a hum, low and throaty and full of sorrow.

The truth of Ayla, the pain of her, was like a song you could feel vibrating on the air, even if you didn't know the words.

Ayla was as silent as the storm was loud in Crier's head. Her heart raced.

Which illness gives you stomach pains and a limp," Crier muttered, helping Ayla through the green door of the inn. "A bad one," Ayla retorted.

Ayla, I looked for you all my life and didn't know I was looking. You are everything I ever wanted, everything I ever dreamed of in a woman, and more. You are a fascinating enigma, a paradox. You are totally honest, open; you hide nothing: yet you are the most mysterious woman I've ever met.

I have a heart like you, Ayla." Crier repeated, pressing Ayla's hand harder against her chest. Ayla heard her own heartbeat and felt Crier's—a song tapping against her palm, a racing pulse beneath her fingers. Ayla was breathing too hard. She was breathing too hard. "I feel things too," Crier whispered.

She had known Ayla for less than an hour total, and already she knew what she wanted.

Ayla, she had written once. I could stand anywhere in this world and I swear my line of sight would end on you. I swear I’d find you in the dark.

You weren't being punished. You were waiting for me.

Those foxes were wild, though. Wild, frightened, ready to run. Claws and teeth and matted fur. Sometimes that was Ayla. Most times it was not.

Ayla just didn't seem like a woman who was about to join and establish a new hearth with a man she loved. There was no joy, no excitement. Something was missing. Something called Jondalar.

You keep comparing yourself to a book. That is not how I see you. If I want to learn about you, it’s not for...pleasure, or leisure, or the desired mastery of a subject. I am not trying to learn you like a language. I am trying, Ayla, to learn you like a person. Like people do, with the knowledge that I will never know everything. That it is impossible to know everything. Because you deserve to be known, in whatever capacity you wish. I am trying to become a person who deserves to know you.

Their faces were so close—she had the advantage of height over Ayla, and something about staring down into Ayla's face, even when it was all twisted with indignant anger, made Crier's blood sing.

Brun, this is the man Ayla saw as whole. This is the man who set her standard. This is the man she loves and compares with her son. Look at me, my brother! Did I deserve to live? Does Ayla’s son deserve to live less?” The

Did something happen?" "No," said Ayla, her voice wooden. "Nothing happened." That's a lie, Crier thought.

Ayla should have been the son of my mate." Brun to Broud, Clan of the Cave Bear.

There was only me and her. Not my past or hers. It was just us. Alessio and Ayla. Both of us lost in each other’s eyes. Both of us lost in each other.

Ayla, what am I doing wrong?" he asked, standing in front of her, dripping. "It's not you. I'm the one who's doingit wrong." "You're not doing anything wrong." "Yes I am. I've been trying all day to encourage you, but you don't understand Clan gestures.

We’re going to be here all night,” he growled in my ear. “Fucking until the sun rises. I’m going to have you every way, every position. This is what you signed up for when you asked for my help, Ayla.

She loved him, more than she could ever find words for, but this love he felt for her was not quite the same. It wasn't so much stronger, as more demanding, more insistent. As though he feared he would lose that which he had finally won.

Great Mother!I can't believe it!Now I understand."(Mamut) "I do not understand," Ayla said

Mog-ur has been spending all day and half the night in the place of the spirits. It must be a ceremony. While Ayla was gone, he wouldn't go near it; now he hardly ever comes out. When he does, he's so absentminded he forgets to eat. Sometimes he forgets to eat while he's eating.

I like knowing there’s certain laws in the universe, Ayla’s father had said once, a very long time ago, before everything. You can’t count on much. Can’t trust most things to stay solid. But there is always some sort of force at work. Even way out there past the sky, so far away that we can’t even imagine it, things work the same. Your mother would explain it better. Everything is just bodies in motion, bodies in orbit, just like here. Pushing and pulling. You know what that’s called? The law of falling.

That is truly the loss of innocence, Ayla, when we understand what we must do in order to live. That

You're not breathing," Ayla finally said.

But you just do what you think is right, Ayla. It was never really a choice, was it? Wanting her. Killing her.

They melted into a series of deep, lush kisses, hot and dizzying and endless, lips moving together, Crier’s mouth opening beneath Ayla’s, the taste of her like summer rain. Ayla pushed into her over and over again, taking her mouth, already addicted to this, to her, to Crier, everything about her, taste and scent and the warmth of her skin under Ayla’s hands.

At a deep, unconscious level, Broud sensed the opposing destinies of the two. Ayla was more than a threat to his masculinity, she was a threat to his existence. His hatred of her was the hatred of the old for the new, of the traditional for the innovative, of the dying for the living. Broud’s race was too static, too unchanging. They had reached the peak of their development; there was no more room to grow. Ayla was part of nature’s new experiment, and though she tried to model herself after the women of the clan, it was only an overlay, a façade only culture-deep, assumed for the sake of survival. She was already finding ways around it, in answer to a deep need that sought an avenue of expression. And though she tried in every way she could to please the overbearing young man, inwardly she began to rebel.

Hey what's your name" "Candi." She's hesitant, like that beaten dog Jade mentioned. "Candi Woodward." "I'm Ayla Monroe." She laughs uneasily. "I know." "Out, Candi Cane," Jane orders.

They were still holding hands. They hadn’t let go, not even once. Ayla’s hand was sweaty; there was dirt and sweat and probably blood slicking their palms, but she didn’t want to lose this point of contact. This point of warmth, solidity, in the middle of a huge and frightening thing. The machinery of war.

Crier wasn’t a book or a map or anyth8ing else that could be read once and known in its entirety. Nothing finite like that. There was no beginning to her, no end, no parameters; her body was not the truth of her; Ayla knew that Crier herself was something as wide and endless as the ice fields or the black sea or the evening sky, just as the first stars were beginning to appear. Those first pinpricks of light.

A frown creased Ayla’s forehead. She remembered he had used that word to describe her when she used her sling, and she wasn’t sure if she understood the word the way he used it. “Are you artist?” she asked. He made a wry grimace. Her question had touched at the heart of an issue about which he had strong feelings.

The test is not just something hard to do, the test is knowing you can do it.

Did something happen?" "No," said Ayla, her voice wooden. "Nothing happened." , Crier thought.

Crier had been designed. Crier was made. But in the moment Ayla first touched her, Crier had learned what it felt like to be born.

Her head was pillowed on her arm and the actual pillow had been tossed carelessly to the floor and she was sleeping on top of the blankets like she always did, which was something Ayla knew and did not know how to unlearn.

It was a tense moment. If Norg refused them, they would have no choice but to return the long distance back to their cave. It would be a grave breach of propriety, but to allow Ayla entrance would be tantamount to accepting her as a woman of the Clan; at least it would give Brun a clear edge. Norg looked again at his mog-ur, then at the powerful one-eyed man who was The Mog-ur, then back at the man who was leader of the clan ranked first of all the clans. If The Mog-ur said so, what could he do?

Ayla got up and went outside the tent. A mist hovered close to the ground and the air felt cold and damp on her bare skin. She could hear the roar of the waterfall in the distance, but the vapor thickened into a dense fog near the back end of the lake, a long narrow body of greenish water, so cloudy it was nearly opaque. No fish lived in such a place, she was sure, just as no vegetation grew along the edge; it was too new for life, too raw. There was only water and stone, and a quality of time before time, of ancient beginnings before life began. Ayla shivered and felt a stark taste of Her terrible loneliness before the Great Mother Earth gave birth to all living things.

Did Automae . . . feel things like that? Could an Automa girl feel that tug in her lower belly, that fishhook pull, making her want more, want harder, want deeper, want sweeter? Want hands in her hair, on her waist, on her hips, want—? Don’t go there, Ayla told herself, but she couldn’t help it. Yesterday afternoon in the river, she had seen the whole of Crier’s body, and the yearning that drummed through her wasn’t anything she’d felt before, and her own reaction wasn’t anything she’d felt before, the oceanic pulse between her hips, the things she wanted. Skin on skin, fingers intertwined. She’d tracked the drops of water trailing down Crier’s throat, her collarbone, the curve of her back, down her bare legs when she climbed back up onto the riverbank, and looking hadn’t felt like enough. Did Crier feel the same? Could Crier feel the same? Maybe Ayla already knew the answer. The way Crier had touched her in Elderell, hands flying from Ayla’s arms to her face, fingers raking through her hair, lips parting . . .

Ayla had grown accustomed to quiet and solitude over the past years. The mere presence of another person, while relished, required some adjustment and accommodation, but the emotional upheavals of the day had left her drained and exhausted. She did not want to feel, or think about, or react to, the man who shared her cave. She only wanted to rest.

The first snow sifted down silently during the night. Ayla exclaimed with delight when she stepped out of her cave in the morning. A pristine whiteness softened the contours of the familiar landscape creating a magical dreamland of fantastic shapes and mythical plants. Bushes had top hats of soft snow, conifers were dressed in new gowns of white finery, and bare exposed limbs were clothed in shining coats that outlined each twig against the deep blue sky.

Gece yarısı bir başka gezegendir; saat on ikiyi vurduğunda, uyuyorsan eğer, uyan dostum ve bu yeni gezegenin güzelliklerini keşfet: Sessizliği keşfet; sakinliği keşfet; baykuşlarla konuş; Ay’la konuş; kirpileri selamla ve sislerin arasında kaybol!

Iza se volvió frente a la gente que presenciaba la ceremonia. La adopción de Ayla había resultado una sorpresa tan grande para ella como para el resto del clan, y la niña podía sentir cómo el corazón le palpitaba rápidamente. «Eso tiene que significar que es mi hija, mi primera hija, pensó. Sólo una madre sostiene a la criatura cuando le ponen nombre y la reconocen como miembro del clan. ¿Hace siete días que me la encontré? Tendré que preguntárselo a Creb, pero creo que sí. Tiene que ser mi

Not only could he share the memories, and control them, he could keep the link intact as their thoughts moved through time from the past to the present. The men of his clan enjoyed a richer, fuller ceremonial interrelationship than any other clan. But with the trained minds of the mog-urs, he could make the telepathic link from the beginning. Through him, all the mog-urs shared a union far closer and more satisfying than any physical one—it was a touching of spirits. The white liquid from Iza’s bowl that had heightened the perceptions and opened the minds of the magicians to The Mog-ur, had allowed his special ability to create a symbiosis with Ayla’s mind as well. The traumatic birth that damaged the brain of the disfigured man had impaired only a portion of his physical abilities, not the sensitive psychic overdevelopment that enabled his great power. But the crippled man was the ultimate end-product of his kind. Only in him had nature taken the course set for the Clan to its fullest extreme. There could be no further development without radical change, and their characteristics were no longer adaptable. Like the huge creature they venerated, and many others that shared their environment, they were incapable of surviving radical change. The race of men with social conscience enough to care for their weak and wounded, with spiritual awareness enough to bury their dead and venerate their great totem, the race of men with great brains but no frontal lobes, who made no great strides forward, who made almost no progress in nearly a hundred thousand years, was doomed to go the way of the woolly mammoth and the great cave bear. They didn’t know it, but their days on earth were numbered, they were doomed to extinction. In Creb, they had reached the end of their line. Ayla felt a sensation akin to the deep pulsing of a foreign bloodstream superimposed on her own. The powerful mind of the great magician was exploring her alien convolutions, trying to find a way to mesh. The fit was imperfect, but he found channels of similarity, and where none existed, he groped for alternatives and made connections where there were only tendencies. With startling clarity, she suddenly comprehended that it was he who had brought her out of the void; but more, he was keeping the other mog-urs, also linked with him, from knowing she was there. She could just barely sense his connection with them, but she could not sense them at all. They, too, knew he had made a connection with someone—or something—else, but never dreamed it was Ayla.

It was the first time he had spoken. What Gift could Ayla give in return to the Mother that would be of equal value?” There was silence as everyone looked at Ayla. “I gave Her my baby,” she said, knowing in her heart that the child she had lost was one started by Jondalar, that it was her and Jondalar’s child. Will I ever have another baby that will be Jondalar’s, too? she wondered. “The Mother was honored deeply when that baby was started. It was a baby I wanted, wanted more than I can tell you. Even now, my arms ache with the emptiness of that loss. I may have another child someday, but I will never have that child.

So all I’m saying is take that tiara back out, place it on your head, and prance around like a goddess. Paint your face, paint those pictures, paint the entire world if that’s what you want. Leave your colorful mark in this school, and together, we’ll wear our hearts on our sleeves and make the area explode with spouts of laughter.

kızmadan kızmış gibi yapabilir miyim? işte, bir biçare olduğum ortaya çıkıyor. her normal insanın kızıp köpüreceği sorunlar karşısında ben kayıtsız kalabiliyorum. çünkü içimden gelsin diye bekliyorum, içimden de bir şey geldiği yok. bunun bir nedeni olmalı. nedir o? buldum: ayla’yı sevmiyorum ben. sevseydim, deli ederdi beni bu konu. peki sevmediğim birine niçin katlanıyorum? bugünkünden daha iyi bir dünya düşünemiyorum da ondan. bunu bildikten sonra harekete geçmek niye? bir romanda okumuştum, irade teorisi yapan bir düşünür, bir tekerleğin orta yeri gibi sakin kalmaya alıştırıyordu kendisini. hayat gümbür gümbür dönüyor, ama o, orta yerde, istifini bile bozmadan hakaretsiz kalabiliyor. gerçekten büyün bir başarı. yalnız o adamla benim aramda önemli bir ayrım var: o bunu çaba ile elde etmek istiyor, bense doğuştan öyleyim galiba. doğuştan iradeliyim. öyle mi? yok, bununla kendimi kandıramam. davranışlarımın içimden gelmesini beklememeliyim, çünkü içim yok benim. belki kimsenin yok. herkes, yalan yanlış, daha iyi bir dünyanın ardına düşmüş, o dünya için, boşuna da olsa çırpınıyor, çalışıyor. üst yanı aylaklıktır. bizim ev de hep aylaklarla doluydu. gerçi şükrü’nün iddiaları var, ama ne yapıyor? bu iddiaları ile birtakım aylakların arasında vakit geçiriyor. demek ki o da aylaklık ediyor. anneannemin bu durumu sürdürmekten başka amacı yoktur. davut bey düşler ardında oyalanır. dündar bey dünü değerlendiriyor, ama bu değerlendirmesini bugün için kullanmıyor, belki de kullanmak istemiyor. nesime’ye gelince, içimizde en canlı olan odur bence, basit şeyler bekliyor yaşamaktan ve başka türlü düşünmeye yanaşmıyor: şükrü evlenmeye razı olursa, nesime de evlenir, ilerisi ne olur pek kurcalamaz. bir evi olsun, o ev şöyle böyle dönsün, yeter ona. kimi gün güler, kimi gün ağlar ve yaşamak budur der, o kadar. evinin temellerini sarsacak nedenler üzerinde durmaz. biz de durmadık. yeni bir ev, yaşamaya yeniden başlamak demektir, diye yazmıştım bu günlüğün başına. bense bu yeni evde düşünmeye başladım. çünkü öteki evimizin yıkılması beni uyandırdı. demek ki aylaklıktan ilk kurtulan ben olacağım bu evde. bunu sağlam bir temel olarak alıp oradan işe başlamalıyım." [aylaklar, melih cevdet anday, everest yayınları, syf. 177-178]

There was a silence when Ayla finished. Zelandoni who was First broke the silence. “In our Histories and Legends, the Great Earth Mother gave birth to all life, and then to those like us who would remember Her. Who is to say how Doni formed us? What child remembers its life in the womb? Before it is born, a baby breathes water and struggles to breathe when first born. You have all seen and examined human life before it was fully formed, when it was expelled early. In the first stages, it does resemble a fish, and then animals. It may be she is remembering her own life in the womb, before she was born. Ayla’s interpretation of her early experience with the ones she calls the Clan does not deny the Legends or the Mother’s Song. It adds to them, explains them. But I am overwhelmed that those we have called animals for so long would have such great knowledge of the Mother, and having such knowledge in their ‘memories,’ how they could not recognize Her.” The zelandonia were relieved. The First had managed to take what at first seemed like a basic conflict of beliefs, told by Ayla with such credible conviction that it could almost create a schism, and instead blend them together. Her interpretation added strength to their beliefs rather than tearing them apart. They could, perhaps, accept that the ones they called Flatheads were intelligent in their own way, but the zelandonia had to maintain that the beliefs of those people were still inferior to their own. The Flatheads had not recognized the Great Earth Mother.

Itu, ini dan yang sana. Semuanya Aya punya

İnsanlara sevgiyi öğretmek de bir gülünç düş aslında. Belki, öfkenin değil sevginin egemen olacağı bir düzenin koşullarını hazırlamaktır sorun; insanlara, savaşmanın değil, barış içinde, birinin ağzındaki lokmayı kapmak yerine, daha çok lokma üretmenin doğru olduğunu öğretecek bir düzen içinde yaşamanın güzelliğini anlatabilmektir...

En büyük yanılgılardan biri de bu. İnsan sevdiklerinin mutlu olmasını ister. Kendi ölçülerine göre bir mutluluktur bu. Oysa, her insanın mutluluktan anladığı şey aynı değildir ki...

Sólo unos cuantos niños se quedaron a observar con ávido interés, mientras ellos descargaban los fardos. A Ayla no le molestaban. Llevaba años enteros sin ver un niño, desde que se separara del Clan, y sentía tanta curiosidad como ellos. Liberó a Corredor del arnés y de la brida; luego dio a los dos animales unas palmaditas a modo de caricias. Después de rascar con ganas al potrillo y abrazarlo afectuosamente, levantó la vista. Latie miraba con avidez el potro. — ¿Tú quieres tocar caballo? —preguntó Ayla hablando con dificultad el idioma de los Mamutoi. — ¿Podría? —Ven. Dame mano. Yo muestro. Cogió la mano de Latie y la sostuvo contra el apelmazado pelo de invierno del potro. Corredor giró la cabeza para olfatear a la niña y la tocó con el hocico. La sonrisa de gratitud de Latie era todo un regalo. — ¡Le gusto! —Él gusta que rasquen, también. Así —observó Ayla, indicando a la criatura los lugares donde mayor comezón sentía el potrillo. Corredor estaba encantado con aquellos mimos y no dejó de demostrarlo; Latie no cabía en sí de alegría. El potrillo la había atraído desde un principio; Ayla les volvió la espalda para ayudar a Jondalar; no vio, pues, que se aproximaba otro niño. Cuando giró en redondo, ahogó una exclamación: sintió que su rostro se demudaba. — ¿No importa si Rydag toca el caballo? —preguntó la niña—. No sabe hablar, pero yo sé que lo desea. Rydag siempre provocaba sorpresa en la gente, y ella lo sabía. — ¡Jondalar! —llamó Ayla, con un susurro ronco—. Esa criatura. ¡Podría ser mi hijo! ¡Parece Durc! Él, al volverse, abrió los ojos con atónita sorpresa. Era un niño de espíritus mezclados. Los cabezas chatas (aquellos a los que Ayla siempre llamaba “el Clan”) eran, para casi todos, animales; los niños como aquél eran considerados por la mayoría como “abominaciones”, mitad animales, mitad humanos. Para él había sido un desagradable golpe enterarse de que Ayla había dado a luz a un hijo híbrido. Por lo común, la madre de semejante criatura era una paria, descastada por miedo a que atrajera otra vez al maligno espíritu animal, haciendo que otras mujeres alumbraran nuevas abominaciones. Algunos ni siquiera querían admitir que existían; descubrir a uno viviendo allí, con la gente, era algo más que inesperado: era asombroso. ¿De dónde había salido aquel niño? Ayla y el pequeño se miraban mutuamente, sin prestar atención a nada más. «Es delgado para ser medio Clan —pensó Ayla—. Por lo común son de huesos grandes y musculosos. Ni siquiera Durc era tan delgado. Está enfermo». Su mirada de mujer adiestrada en la medicina le reveló que era un problema de nacimiento, algo que afectaba a ese músculo fuerte que latía dentro del pecho, haciendo mover la sangre, supuso. Pero archivó esos datos sin pensar en prestarles mayor atención. Estaba observando con mayor interés el rostro y la cabeza, en busca de las similitudes y las diferencias entre aquella criatura y su propio hijo. Los ojos pardos, grandes e inteligentes, eran como los de Durc, incluso en la expresión de antigua sabiduría, muy superior a la edad. Sintió una punzada de nostalgia y un nudo en la garganta. Pero había también dolor y sufrimiento, no siempre físico, jamás experimentados por Durc. Se sintió llena de compasión. Las cejas del niño no eran tan pronunciadas, apostilló tras un estudio detallado. Durc tenía las protuberancias supraorbitales bien desarrolladas incluso a los tres años, al marcharse ella; sus ojos y su ceño saliente eran del Clan, pero la frente era como la de aquel niño: no echada hacia atrás y achatada, como la del Clan, sino alta y curvada como la suya. Sus pensamientos comenzaron a divagar. Durc ya tendría seis años, edad suficiente para ir con los hombres cuando practicaran con las armas de caza. Pero sería Brun quien le enseñara a cazar, no Broud. Al recordar a Broud sintió un arrebato de ira. Jamás o

Wish I Was The silence fusses heveling my heart beats forstay steadily The thousand voices fill my head, they whisper that they want me dead With the waterfalls into the night There are things that sing and things that bite I walk and walk until I fall in the water rim Don't know the thing that might? I know they will still rain The birds that fly, they dip and rise They say they want me home by night So I'll stay longer then, I walk in so I'll reach the end I'm not outta my mind but I wish I was I'd give it all to hear the voice inside I'm not out of my mind but I wish I was I'd be outta my mind with a simple push And I ain't ready to fall To break free of these walls And I ain't ready to fall To break free of these walls I ain't ready to fall To break free of these walls

In general, repression had been good to Luka. As he’d discovered through talking with the copy of Ellie he’d brought with him from the San Francisco, repression had enabled him to function in circumstances where others might have given up. But repression was only one tool, and Luka now knew that the structures one built were often defined—or at least profoundly influenced—by the tools one used to build them. Repression was like constantly building upward in order to avoid the work of building out a more stable foundation, but eventually the instability compounded to the point where your life had no choice but to topple. Another problem with the past was that every year, it came back around. The cycle of the Gregorian calendar was like the constant rotation of a cylinder with 365 chambers, and the longer you lived, the more rounds filled those holes. Except these bullets were never fully spent, and rather than proving lethal, the wounds they left were a gradual accumulation of debilitating injury. A much better calendrical system would have been one where days never repeated; where lives were marked with infinitely incrementing integers, constantly leaving the things everyone wanted to forget further and further behind; where every second of every day was a chance to completely reinvent oneself out of newly created time that had no inherent knowledge whatsoever of the past. In the one year since Luka and Ayla had been alone together aboard the Hawk, they had each experienced a lot of anniversaries: the days they’d left their home pod systems as children; the times each had lost people they loved; the moments they’d been forced right up to the very edge of death—in fact, well past the point of peace and acceptance—only to be unexpectedly pulled back into the worlds they thought they were finally leaving behind. And the day that was

You’ve got your hands full with Ayla.  The clock is ticking Pierce.  You’re the only one that can’t hear it yet.” “I’ve got perfect hearing.” Pierce looked over at his companion who was watching him and wondering what he’d say next.  He’d stopped just short of insulting her on several occasions this evening and she wondered when he’d cross the line.  He was a Sloan and it was coming, she could feel it.  “Tell them Ayla.  Tell them how things are between us.  They obviously don’t believe me.” God only knows what possessed her. She bowed in deference to Pierce and then smiled serenely at Deacon and Dorothy. “Gladly Pierce.” She winked at Dorothy before saying, “I wouldn’t marry a Sloan if every other man on the planet had the last name of Marconi.” Dorothy erupted in a giggling fit and Deacon fought to stay in control of his own laughter. Pierce was the only one at the table that found no humor in her remark.  His eyes darkened to a violet shade of blue and he tilted his head slightly towards her.  Ayla knew that look and knew it well.  Her skin grew hot and her hands itched to touch him.  She wouldn’t though.  Not unless he gave her permission.  Even though he’d never caused her one second of pain, he was still Dominant to her Submissive.  He might be her big Teddy Bear, but she still called him Sir.

You are newbuilt,” said Lady Dear, as if just now realizing it. “Newborn. You’re a child.” Ayla bristled. “I am not. I’m sixteen. Crying doesn’t make me a child.

find of the basket’s contents, then reworked the cinch-basket-harness arrangement, fastening the two spears the way they had fallen, points down. She attached the grass mat, which had been wrapped around the deer, to both poles, thus creating a carrier platform between them—behind the horse but off the ground. She lashed the deer to it, then carefully tied down the unconscious cave lion cub. After she relaxed, Whinney seemed more accepting of the cinches and harnesses, and she stood quietly while Ayla made adjustments.

Un deseo que Ayla no podía nombrar.

Ayla sintió otra oleada de satisfacción. Automa o no, Kinok no era diferente de los hombres humanos. Su orgullo era su punto más débil.

Crier la tomó por la cintura, suavemente, pero con firmeza y la jaló hacia un lado. Se acercó a la chica y pese a la niebla de sus preocupaciones, sus ojos quedaron cautivados por sus pecas salpicadas en la nariz. Por la forma de su boca, bella y carnosa. Ahí estaba de nuevo, la indignación, la rabia dura que hacía a Ayla ser quien era. Esa vibra salvaje que atraía Crier una y otra y otra vez…

La poza. La cama. Otra vez la luz de la luna. La tibieza y la suavidad, el olor de Crier por todas partes, en las almohadas y las sábanas. Cuando Ayla había puesto su cara contra la almohada e inhaló, sus pulmones se llenaron de ella. Debió haber sido como un veneno. Pero no lo fue. Debió haber pasado la noche pensando en hundir un cuchillo en el pecho de la hija de Hesod. Pero no lo hizo. En cambio, pensó en las extrañas atenciones de su ama, en sus preguntas, en su curiosidad infinita… dulce, muchas veces ingenua, casi infantil, pero siempre llena de emoción, siempre fascinada con las repuestas que su criada estuviera dispuesta a darle.

—Sí —respondió Ayla, casi con desgano—. Quiero decir que sí se ve bien.

—¿Qué enfermedad te causa dolor de estómago y te hace cojear? —masculló Crier mientras ayudaba a Ayla a atravesar la puerta de la posada. —Una muy mala —respondió Ayla.

—Ayla—repitió Crier, esta vez con un tono más suave—. Te… te pido perdón.

Crier se movió exactamente al mismo tiempo, llevando sus manos a cada lado del rostro de Ayla y se besaron. Fue un beso furioso, encendido y desesperado.

—Sé cómo es —siguió el chico—. Sé cómo es amar a alguien que es… imposible tener. Sé mejor que nadie lo que se siente. Ayla se quedó sin palabras. —Pero haz lo que creas que sea lo correcto, Ayla. Nunca hubo opción, ¿o sí? Deseándola. Matándola.

—Si una araña teje su telaraña para atrapar moscas, pero lo que atrapa es una mariposa, ¿qué hace la araña? Benjy no dijo nada. —Se come a la mariposa —dijo Ayla.

De saber que amaba a Ayla.

Pero Crier no había matado a la familia de Ayla. Ese pensamiento terrible, pero cierto, cayó sobre ella como agua.

Crier fue diseñada. Fue creada. Pero en cuanto Ayla la tocó, comprendió lo que se siente nacer.

Necesitaba que se lo quitaran. Ayla no había logrado quitarle el corazón, así que Crier lo haría por las dos. Quería que le sacaran la pasión, quería sacársela ella misma, como quien corta la parte podrida de una fruta. Como quien quema las partes infectadas de una rama; matar esa parte del árbol para que el resto pueda sobrevivir.

No tenía nada que ver con la belleza de Crier. Con la forma en que funcionaba su mente, con el cuidado con el que usaba sus palabras, con la cautivadora historia que le contó a Ayla esa noche.

Crier sonrió. —Faye. Ayla la miró. —Disculpa pero, ¿por qué Faye vive en el ala este? Crier parecía casi orgullosa. —Yo lo solicité.

Tenía que acordarse de respirar. Ayla prefería que respirara.

still did. It wasn’t a lie. She had to remind herself of all the reasons: Crier was naive and arrogant, fool enough to think she could help them, could help Ayla. She was clueless and hardheaded and stubborn and

sanatta her zaman bir bilinçsizlik vardır. fûga 'hayatın süzülmesi' insanın benliğini doğa'nın yaratıcı ve artistik ruhuyla tıpkılaştırmasından fûga yaşantısı çıkar, bu nedenle insan iyi dostlarını çiçeklerde, kayalarda, sularda, yağmurda, ayışığında bulur. Bu fûga ruhuna bağlanan kimse, doğa'yı benimser, dört mevsimin dostu olur, gördüğü her şey ona çiçekleri hatırlatır, daldığı her düşünce ay'la ilişki kurdurur ona.

It may be a stone you have never seen before or a root with a special shape that has meaning for you. You must learn to understand with your heart and mind, not your eyes and ears, then you will know.

moved down to her waist. She slid up against my body like a fluid, her lips parted and her head thrown back as I found her mouth with mine and strained her to me. We clung to each other, our bodies molding together until she pulled her lips from mine. For a moment, she looked up into my face, silently, then her hand went behind my head and pulled it down to hers again. Last night, when I had looked at her she had seemed beautiful and cool, relaxed and almost lethargic in her movements. She was different now, close against me, her long body moving hungrily, her lips searching my mouth and her tongue darting and curling. I slid my hands over the swell of her hips, up the arching curve of her back and gripped the fragile straps at her shoulders. In a moment, she moved away from me, dropped her arms to her sides and let me ease the dress from her shoulders and down over her breasts while she looked at me, breathing through her mouth. When I let go of the cloth and pressed my hands against the smoothness of her, she moved her fingers briefly at the side of the dress, then slid it down over her hips, let it fall and stepped from it, naked, toward me. I picked her up, carried her to the divan and lowered her to it, fumbled with my clothes and then sank to the divan to lie full-length beside her, reaching for her with my lips and my hands and my body. Ayla placed both her palms against my chest and whispered almost inaudibly, "Wait, Shell." For what seemed a long time she held me from her, then she smiled. Her eyes closed. "Hold me. Love me." When I pulled her close her arms went around me and she pressed the length of her body almost violently against mine. Her lips were moist and clinging as they kissed me and pressed against my flesh and nibbled at my skin, and the long fingernails traced fire down my spine. Then she was softness, an incredible softness, every touch of her hands, her breasts, her thighs, a velvet softness, and warmth that swallowed me, enveloped me, for an immeasurable time.

You are my everything , Ayla. I just need you to wake up.

I finally had Ayla in my arms. she was safe she was with me - but she wasn't here. My angel was gone. In her place was an empty shell

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The website Bossip included Ayla in a roundup of “mediocre mayo packets who spent their whole entire pay day splattering not-very-subtle racism all over Al Gore’s world wide web

Ayla shared the meme on Twitter, where she kept an account under the name Wife with a Purpose. Reactions were swift, and some were furious. “Girl, fuck you,” one Twitter user wrote.

Several hours later, Heather sat on Jeremy's living room couch marveling at how humanity had survived for thousands of centuries. It seemed impossible, considering they had to spend excessive amounts of energy raising children, who by their very nature, were designed to suck every last drop of energy from one's veins.

For two and a half years, my heart has continued to beat because of you. Do you know how many heartbeats that is, Ayla? One hundred million.

Then what do you want?” There’s an edge of desperation to my voice. I have to know. I need to know. His expression shifts again, and for the first time since he crashed into my life in a flurry of violence and chaos, I see something like vulnerability in his eyes. His free hand moves to my face, his knuckles dragging down the side of my cheek. “You, Ayla. I want you.

I tried to be as appropriate as possible with you, Ayla. Then you showed up at my garage and flashed your wet, virgin pussy at me. You let another man run game on you. Now we’ve got a big problem.

Control yourself. I repeat those two words to myself day in and day out. Whether Ayla is in the vicinity or not, I must concentrate on my behavior. Focus on reining in these impulses that apply only to her. Impulses that feel as though they’ve existed in me since the beginning of time. Get inside of her. Get her pregnant. Claim her forever.

Y-your angel?” she whispers now. “That’s right.” Control yourself. The mantra doesn’t quite work this time, unfortunately. Not when she’s standing so close, looking so fucking beautiful and we’re alone. Alone for the very first time. I prop a forearm on the roof of the car and lean down until our foreheads are less than an inch apart. “My. Angel.” “You’ve never even spoken to me.” “I speak to you without words, Ayla. And you hear me loud and clear.” “No, I…I don’t.” “Oh yes, you do.” Can’t help it, I push a little closer until her tits touch my chest and I hiss in response, finally allowing myself to privilege of touching her forehead with mine. “What do I say to you in class?

have to tell you something, Ayla,” I say, turning up the speed of my flickering tongue against her clit, keeping at it until her thighs are wrapped around my head and that bud is starting to pulse. “What is it?” she gasps, yanking at the ends of my hair, pulling me closer, lifting her hips. “I’ve got a real big dick, baby,” I pant, trailing my tongue back up the middle of her sweet, heaving body, my fist wrapped around the appendage in question. “And you’re awfully tiny. I might have to force it a little the first time.” “Force it?” she whispers, eyes glazed with lust.

I don’t like being lied to, Ayla. In fact, it’s one of the few things in the world I won’t fucking tolerate. So you wanna try that again?

Wat zijn dat, Creb?’ gebaarde Ayla, zwijgend omhoog wijzend. ‘Vuren in de hemel. Elk ervan is de vuurplaats van iemands geest in de andere wereld.’ ‘Zijn er zóveel mensen?’ ‘Het zijn de vuren van alle mensen die naar de wereld der geesten zijn overgegaan en van alle mensen die nog niet geboren zijn.

Mom, I need a mask. “You really don’t need a mask.” Yes, I do. It’s a masquerade, and Lady Ayla says that means we all disguise ourselves. As Flowridia questioned how to explain the dilemma of ‘Dearest, you know you’re a wolf, right?’ Ayla chuckled and spared her the headache. “Let me see what I can conjure. Give me just a few minutes.” Ayla disappeared into a shadow. She’s going to be my favorite mom if you don’t step up.

Ayla loved these moments of solitude. Basking in the sun, feeling relaxed and content, she thought about nothing in particular, except the beautiful day and how happy she was.