Brutal Prince Quotes

Trust is rarer than love. It's putting your fate, your happiness, your life in someone's hands. Hoping they keep it safe.

I can’t believe this. I’m marrying a child. And not a normal child—a demon hellspawn, like Chucky, or the Children of the Corn . . .

If you EVER talk to my wife like that again, I’ll empty that clip in your chest.

Calm water doesn’t need more water—you need wind to move your sail.

Every time he raised his hands on her. He killed a prince from a fairy tale somewhere deep within her heart, brutally.

You’re mine, Aida,” Callum growls in my ear. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to touch you.

Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

Do you want me, Cal?” “I don’t want you,” he moans, his voice husky and raw. “I need you.

I’ve never been one for grand romantic gestures, but even under the most liberal interpretations, I don’t think waterboarding counts as foreplay.

Real power isn’t working the system. It’s running the system. Building it yourself

Cal found me, just like he promised. It wasn’t my father, or my brothers. It was my husband. This man I didn’t even want. And now I can’t imagine being without him.

I'll always find you, Aida.

I love this woman. The day she set my house on fire was the luckiest day of my life. It truly is the luck of the Irish: perverse. Inexplicable. And utterly fantastic. “Do you forgive me for losing it in the first place?” she asks me, slipping her slim little hand into mine. “I shouldn’t tell you how much you could get away with, Aida,” I say, shaking my head. “But you already know that I’d forgive anything you do.

When he has a temper. When he’s angry. When he wants to kill somebody. That’s when I understand him. That’s when we finally have common ground.

I content myself with smiling up at him and saying, “In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.

I’m glad he made sure she was comfy before he tried to burn her alive.

Having recently been grazed in the arm by my loving wife, I can definitely attest that having a knife slowly, torturously burrowed into your guts is about a hundred times worse.

There’s nothing healthier than olive oil and red wine. You eat like an Italian and you’ll live forever. It’s not good to be too skinny.

Trust is rarer than love. It’s putting your fate, your happiness, your life in someone’s hands. Hoping they keep it safe.

I kiss her like I’ll never let her go. Because I won’t. Not ever.

The great Callum Griffin. He’s their JFK, and I’m supposed to be their Jackie Kennedy. I’d rather be Lee Harvey Oswald.

That's what I admire about her. She's wild and sh's fierce.

Aida's watching me with her cool gray eyes. I don't like this new quiet Aida. It makes me nervous, wondering what she's up to. I like it better when she blurts out whatever she's thinking as soon as it comes to her head. Even if it really pisses me off in the moment.

Handsome, but in a stark sort of way—like he’d push you off a lifeboat if there weren’t enough seats. Or maybe even if you forgot to brush your teeth.

Neither would I,” I promise her. “I’ll always find you, Aida.

That’s why there was no emotion on my side, just indifference. You need push and pull to feel love. Or hate.

I knew you were weak,” she says. “But I never realized the extent of it. The heir to the sea kingdom of Keto, who I had to beat into brutality. Who would sooner see a young prince drown than rip out his heart while it still beat. Who cried while she murdered my sister.

Understand this,” Callum says quietly. “You’re coming to that dinner tonight, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you like a caveman. You can be wearing the dress when I do that, or I swear to god, Aida, I will haul you there naked and make you sit in your seat in front of everyone. Don’t fucking test me.

Satan has certainly been the best friend the church has ever had, as he has kept it in business all these years. The false doctrine of Hell and the Devil has allowed the Protestant and Catholic Churches to flourish far too long. Without a devil to point their fingers at, religionists of the right hand path would have nothing with which to threaten their followers. "Satan leads you to temptation"; "Satan is the prince of evil"; "Satan is vicious, cruel, brutal," they warn. "If you give in to the temptations of the devil, you will surely suffer eternal damnation and roast in Hell." The semantic meaning of Satan is the "adversary" or "opposition" or the "accuser." The very word "devil" comes from the Indian devi which means "god." Satan represents opposition to all religions which serve to frustrate and condemn man for his natural instincts. He has been given an evil role simply because he represents the carnal, earthly, and mundane aspects of life.

Great,” I say. “But who’s going to protect me from my betrothed? That girl is a wild animal. Can you imagine her as a politician’s wife? I doubt she even knows how to walk in heels.” “Then you’ll teach her,” my mother says. “I don’t know how to walk in heels, either,” I say sarcastically. “How exactly am I supposed to teach her to be a lady, mother?

You think she does not love you?” “I do not think so. I have been foul enough to her.” Will’s voice was wretchedness and misery and self-loathing all combined. “I think there was a time when she almost—I thought she was dead, you see, and I showed her—I let her see what I felt. I think she might have returned my feelings after that. But I crushed her, as brutally as I could. I imagine she simply hates me now.

The election is only a week away. Almost nothing can fuck this up for me now. As long as I can keep my wife in line.

I kiss her like I'll never let her go. Because I won't. Not ever.

And I'll use what I learn to destroy him.

I think the only dress I own is the Wednesday Adams costume I wore last Halloween.

I can’t believe this. I’m marrying a child. And not a normal child—a demon hellspawn, like Chucky, or the Children of the Corn . .

Actually . . .” I say slowly. “I do. I do love him.

I can’t believe it. I think I’m falling in love.

Our relationship has proceeded in such a funny, backward way. Marriage first. Then sex. Then getting to know each other. And finally...whatever it is. A feeling of warmth and desire and affection and connection spreads through my chest, a feeling that burns and grows stronger by the moment, especially when I glance over at the man sitting next to me. I can't believe it. I think I'm falling in love.

Isn't that the same with her ? She loves passion of any kind. She loves to be angry, stubborn, joyful, or mischievous. The only thing she doesn't like is a lack of feeling. Unfortunately, that's what I am. Cold. Restrained. Lacking in pleasure. Until I'm around her.

Let me tell you something, though. When she says those vows to me, she becomes my wife. She’ll belong to me. And what happens to her isn’t your concern anymore. She answers to me. What goes on between us is my business, not yours.

You like that?” he growls, his voice lower and rougher than ever.

Capisco. Si. Sarò lì presto.” She hangs up the call, turning to face me.

How are you feeling?” he asks me curtly. “Fantastic,” I say. “Can’t you tell?” “Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor,” he informs me. “I thought that was puns.

The young make threats. The old make promises,

But I know right now, if I find Aida, I'm not waiting a moment for anybody else. I'm going to go in and get my wife back.

I would never abandon you

I hold perfectly still. With five or six quick jerks, he’s cut the dress off my body, leaving it in pieces on the limo floor.

Have you ever done that before?” Another long pause, in which I think he won’t answer. Then, finally, he says, “Not like that.

I love you, Aida,” I say.

I don’t want to make this a cultural critique, but you Irish could learn to sip a drink once in a while. Not everything is a shot.

Trust is rarer than love. It's putting your fate, your happiness, your life in someone's hands. Hoping they keep it safe

I blinked several times, still unable to trust my vision. The man didn't have a penis. He had a damn battering ram. And worse... I blinked again. Yuupp. He had a freaking reverse Prince Albert piercing.

If it’s all connected, I don’t like it,” I muttered. “All this is too apocalyptic,” I said. “I can live with the notion that this world is a Savage Garden, that things are born and die for random reasons, that suffering is irrelevant to the great brutal cycle of life. I can live with all that. But I don’t think I can live with great overarching connections

You married a borderline psychotic who conquered the brutal circumstances he grew up in by being even more brutal. Add turning into a vampire and centuries of undead power struggles, and you have the crazy cruel bastard you fell in love with.

Where is she, you fucking psychopath?” I shout, fists up. Oliver swipes the back of his hand across his face as fresh blood seeps from his nose. “She belonged to me first, and she’ll belong to me last,” he growls. “She was never yours!” I shout.

Then, instead of handing over the watch, she flung it over the railing like a fucking psychopath.

I put my lips up against his ear and I whisper, “Do you want me, Cal?” “I don’t want you,” he moans, his voice husky and raw. “I need you.

The truth is, I do feel abandoned.

He’s giving me a wicked grin, like he can’t wait to see how Aida’s going to fuck up my life. Unfortunately, I think he might be right.

Armageddon would be a welcome respite from what’s actually about to happen.

An engagement party! As if there’s something to celebrate here, and not just a slow-motion train wreck in process.

I’m gonna strangle him in his sleep the first chance I get.

I broke up with Oliver Castle three months ago, but he isn’t taking the hint. He might need to take a mallet to the head instead if he doesn’t stop annoying me.

I’m fairly certain my parents only had children so they could mold us into our various roles within their empire.

I don’t know what you’re worried about. I’m pretty sure she can take care of herself.” Dante scowls. “Yes, she can,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean she’s unbreakable

You wanna play at being a gangster? You’re just a bitch-ass politician. What’re you gonna do, rubber stamp us to death?

The number one thing he taught me is never to fight when you can negotiate instead. Because the outcome of a fight is never certain.

Opposites have a kind of symmetry. Fire and ice. Stern and playful. Impulsive and restrained. In a way, they belong together.

Dear lord. I’m a pretty opinionated girl. I thought I knew what I liked and what I didn’t like. But I might have just discovered a whole new category . . .

I want to stay on her side forever.

I can't believe it. I think I'm falling in love.

When he has a temper. When he's angry. When he want to kill somebody. That's when I understand him. That's when we finally have a common ground.

When brutality is the only option left, it is holy.

Riona got her law degree, mostly to prove she could, I think.

You’re going to marry Callum Griffin in two weeks,” Papa says.

Well that’s just bullshit, isn’t it?” Callum says softly. “You came looking for trouble. And now you’ve got it.

Good to know you’re not completely awful at sex,” I say rudely. Now she glares back at me, eyes bright and ferocious once more. “Wish I could return the compliment,” she says.

I heard her father hired Demi Lovato to perform. I mean, it ain’t Halsey, but it’s still pretty good.

Oliver was so whiny, putting on the guilt trips . . . like Jesus dude, get on Tinder, get over it.

Did you know Ollie was that crazy? I thought he was just normal crazy, like ‘I don’t want my food to touch,’ or ‘talking to yourself in the shower’ crazy, not like full-out Shining.

Frankly, it’s the best sex I’ve ever had, with the person I like the least. What a conundrum. Because it almost makes me feel friendly toward him, and I wasn’t planning on that at all.

If Aida is a rock, then I’m the fucking ocean. And I’m going to beat against her, over and over, wearing her down one pebble at a time. Until I’ve broken her up and swallowed her whole.

That’s what I admire about her. She’s wild and she’s fierce. It takes everything I’ve got just to get her to wear a damn dress. She’d never grovel in front of Henry Castle. And neither will I.

But there’s a figure laying in the middle of the floor, hands tied in front of her, feet bound with rope, head propped up on a pillow. Nice. I’m glad he made sure she was comfy before he tried to burn her alive.

A prince chases power, but has no command of his own, forever waiting for his time to lead. Too blameless to be brutal, too decent to be a dick. He’s weak until he’s forced to make a real move. Good-hearted ‘cause he’s never been in the dark.

I can’t fucking believe his nerve, booking a bikini wax along with everything else. He thinks he owns my pussy already? He thinks he gets to decide how it looks? I should wait until he’s sleeping, then slap hot wax on his balls. Give him a taste of his own medicine.

It was cruel," said Dumbledore softly, "that you and Sirius had such a short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship." Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing Dumbledore's hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might even suspect that until his letter arrived Harry had spent nearly all his time at the Dursleys' lying on his bed, refusing meals and staring at the misted window, full of the chill emptiness that he had come to associate with the Dementors. "It's just hard," Harry said finally, in a low voice, "to realise he won't write to me again.

His season is ruined. Possibly the rest of his career. God, he might not even walk right after this. And it’s all my fault. The guilt is like a shroud, wrapping around and around and around my head. Each glance at Sebastian, each memory of my idiocy, is like another layer wrapping around my face. Soon it will smother me.

We happened to be at the same party, two summers ago. We drunkenly kissed in the boathouse, then he tried to put his hand down my bikini bottoms, and I shoved him in the lake. A couple of weeks later, we met again at a party in Wicker Park. He gave me shit about the lake thing, I told him he was lucky we were swimming, not mountain-climbing.

Even though great were this cruelty, oppression, and tyranny, though numerous were the oft-victorious clans of the many-familied Erinn; though numerous their kings, and their royal chiefs, and their princes; though numerous their heroes and champions, and their brave soldiers, their chiefs of valour and renown and deeds of arms; yet not one of them was able to give relief, alleviation, or deliverance from that oppression and tyranny, from the numbers and multitudes, and the cruelty and the wrath of the brutal, ferocious, furious, untamed, implacable hordes by whom that oppression was inflicted, because of the excellence of their polished, ample, treble, heavy, trusty, glittering corslets; and their hard, strong, valiant swords; and their well-riveted long spears, and their ready, brilliant arms of valour besides; and because of the greatness of their achievements and of their deeds, their bravery, and their valour, their strength, and their venom, and their ferocity, and because of the excess of their thirst and their hunger for the brave, fruitful, nobly-inhabited, full of cataracts, rivers, bays, pure, smooth-plained, sweet grassy land of Erinn"—(pp. 52-53).

I content myself with smiling up at him and saying, “In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity.” Callum stares at me blankly. “What . . . what the fuck are you talking about? Does that mean you’re going to try to make the best of this mess?” “Sure,” I say. “What else can I do?” Actually, it’s a quote from The Art of War. Here’s another one I like: “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.

Aida tilts her lips up for a chaste kiss. To show her who’s boss, I seize her by the shoulders and kiss her roughly, forcing my tongue into her mouth. Her lips and tongue taste sweet. Tart and fresh. Like something I haven’t tasted in a very long time . . . Strawberries. I can already feel my tongue going numb. My throat starts to swell, my breath coming out in a whistle. The church whirls around me in a kaleidoscope of color, as I slump to the floor. That fucking BITCH!

After having taken a long and hard look at the echelonment of the various appendices of the sexual function, the moment appears to have arrived to expound the central theorem of my apocritique. Unless you were to put a halt to the implacable unfolding of my reasoning with the objection that, good prince, I will permit you to formulate: "You take all your examples from adolescence, which is indeed an important period in life, but when all is said and done it only occupies an exceedingly brief fraction of this. Are you not afraid, then, that your conclusions, the finesse and rigour of which we admire, may ultimately turn out to be both partial and limited?" To this amiable adversary I will reply that adolescence is not only an important period in life, but that it is the only period where one may speak of life in the full sense of the word. The attractile drives are unleashed around the age of thirteen, after which they gradually diminish, or rather they are resolved in models of behaviour which are, after all, only constrained forces. The violence of the initial explosion means that the outcome of the conflict may remain uncertain for years; this is what is called a transitory regime in electrodynamics. But little by little the oscillations become slower, to the point of resolving themselves in mild and melancholic long waves; from this moment on all is decided, and life is nothing more than a preparation for death. This can be expressed in a more brutal and less exact way by saying that man is a diminished adolescent. 'After having taken a long and hard look at the echelonment of the various appendices of the sexual function, the moment seems to me to have come to expound the central theorem of my apocritique. For this I will utilize the lever of a condensed but adequate formulation, to wit: Sexuality is a system of social hierarchy

I know what the cynics will say. I know how the scoffers will sneer. I know the non-dreamers believing only in the brutal ways of force will laugh me off as impossibly naive. But I don’t care. I’ve grown immune to their strain of unbelief. I’ve turned a corner. I believe that what Isaiah dreamed of, Jesus died for. I believe that what Isaiah said would come to pass in the last days, Jesus inaugurated in his resurrection. I’ve caught a glimpse of the better world that can be—a world that Jesus came to give and continues to offer us. I believe the world of peace is possible in Christ. I won’t let the doomsday preppers with their Armageddon obsession talk me out of it. Jesus has already spoken the first word of a new world—the word peace. So things have changed. I have changed. I’ve prayed my last war prayer and preached my last war sermon. I’ve given up bellicose flag waving and singing lustily about bombs bursting in air. I’ve bid a final farewell to Mars. From now on I follow the Prince of Peace. I know others will come with me. Maybe you will be one of them. I hope so.

What If God Is a Creep? What if God is a creep who wishes He was taller who didn't get the girl who picks on people not His own size? What if God laughed when Jesus had second thoughts? What if His sense of order is no more complex than kids playing King of the Hill or Smear the Queer? What if God is really a creep who beats His wife embezzles when He can and jerks off to violent porn? Perhaps God put Darin on earth to help us understand that the very traits of man which survive the longest and determine the fittest are God's own favorite attributes? Maybe He's a boss who expects favors a professor who makes others feel stupid a witness obstructing justice. What if God is really just a creep? Maybe Machiavelli was His inspired son and The Prince remains our most sacred text. What if Hitler sits at God's right hand tended by a heavenly host of bigots, bullies, soldiers and other serial killers who look to an angel name Manson for advice. A God capable of biological brilliance and genetic genius is no more likely to care about justice and kindness than His creations are. Why assume that God likes women any more than men do? Why imagine He wouldn't hurt His children? God's morality might be just as steeped in struggle as accented by abuse as spiced with exploitation and as baked with brutality as our own common recipes. Drink up. One taste and you are in Heaven. If God really is a creep that certainly would explain a lot.

If the past is a foreign country, it is a shockingly violent one. It is easy to forget how dangerous life used to be, how deeply brutality was once woven into the fabric of daily existence. Cultural memory pacifies the past, leaving us with pale souvenirs whose bloody origins have been bleached away. A woman donning a cross seldom reflects that this instrument of torture was a common punishment in the ancient world; nor does a person who speaks of a whipping boy ponder the old practice of flogging an innocent child in place of a misbehaving prince. We are surrounded by signs of the depravity of our ancestors’ way of life, but we are barely aware of them. Just as travel broadens the mind, a literal-minded tour of our cultural heritage can awaken us to how differently they did things in the past. In a century that began with 9/11, Iraq, and Darfur, the claim that we are living in an unusually peaceful time may strike you as somewhere between hallucinatory and obscene. I know from conversations and survey data that most people refuse to believe it.1 In succeeding chapters I will make the case with dates and data. But first I want to soften you up by reminding you of incriminating facts about the past that you have known all along. This is not just an exercise in persuasion. Scientists often probe their conclusions with a sanity check, a sampling of real-world phenomena to reassure themselves they haven’t overlooked some flaw in their methods and wandered into a preposterous conclusion. The vignettes in this chapter are a sanity check on the data to come.

Feyre,' he said, his voice hoarse. As if he'd been screaming. 'Yes,' I said. He studied my face- the taloned hand at my throat. And released me immediately. I lay there, staring up at where he now knelt on the bed, rubbing his hands over his face. My traitorous eyes indeed dared to look lower than his chest- but my attention snagged on the twin tattoos on each of his knees: a towering mountain crowned by three stars. Beautiful- but brutal, somehow. 'You were having a nightmare,' I said, easing into a sitting position. Like some dam had been cracked open inside me, I glanced at my hand- and willed it to vanish into shadow. It did. Half a thought scattered the darkness again. His hands, however, still ended in long, black talons- and his feet... they ended in claws, too. The wings were out, slumped down behind him. And I wondered how close he'd been to fully shifting into that beast he'd once told me he hated. He lowered his hands, talons fading into fingers. 'I'm sorry.' 'That's why you're staying here, not at the House. You don't want others seeing this.' 'I normally keep it contained to my room. I'm sorry it woke you.' I fisted my hands in my lap to keep from touching him. 'How often does it happen?' Rhys's violet eyes met mine, and I knew the answer before he said, 'As often as you.' I swallowed hard. 'What did you dream of tonight?' He shook his head, looking toward the window- to where snow had dusted the nearby rooftops. 'There are memories from Under the Mountain, Feyre, that are best left unshared. Even with you.' He'd shared enough horrific things with me that they had to be... beyond nightmares, then. But I put a hand on his elbow, naked body and all. 'When you want to talk, let me know. I won't tell the others.' I made to slither off the bed, but he grabbed my hand, keeping it against his arm. 'Thank you.' I studied the hand, the ravaged face. Such pain lingered there- and exhaustion. The face he never let anyone see. I pushed up onto my knees and kissed his cheek, his skin warm and soft beneath my mouth. It was over before it started, but- but how many nights had I wanted someone to do the same for me? His eyes were a bit wide as I pulled away, and he didn't stop me as I eased off the bed. I was almost out the door when I turned back to him. Rhys still knelt, wings drooping across the white sheets, head bowed, his tattoos stark against his golden skin. A dark, fallen prince.

The great Callum Griffin. He’s their JFK, and I’m supposed to be their Jackie Kennedy. I’d rather be Lee Harvey Oswald.

and even worse to hear Sirius’s name thrown out casually by Slughorn. “It was cruel,” said Dumbledore softly, “that you and Sirius had such a short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship.” Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing Dumbledore’s hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might even suspect that until his letter arrived, Harry had spent nearly all his time at the Dursleys’ lying on his bed, refusing meals, and staring at the misted window, full of the chill emptiness that he had come to associate with dementors. “It’s just hard,” Harry said finally, in a low voice, “to realize he won’t write to me again.