Enter The Fist Quotes

He shook his head, cupped each side of my face, and looked into my eyes. “Did you sleep with him?” Hot tears filled my eyes as I shook my head no. He slammed his lips against mine, and his tongue entered my mouth without hesitation. Unable to control myself, I gripped his shirt in my fists, and pulled him to me. He hummed in his amazing, deep voice, and gripped me so tight that it was difficult to breathe.

No prizefighter can go with high spirits into the strife if he has never been beaten black and blue; the only contestant who can confidently enter the lists is the man who has seen his own blood, who has felt his teeth rattle beneath his opponent's fist, who has been tripped and felt the full force of his adversary's charge, who has been downed in bloody but not it spirit, one who as often as he falls, rises again with greater defiance than ever.

While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself, and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its stinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to 'dear, kind God'! It's not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for, or there can be no harmony... I don't want harmony. From love for humanity I don't want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return him the ticket.

when she was 7, a boy pushed her on the playground she fell headfirst into the dirt and came up with a mouthful of gravel and lines of blood chasing each other down her legs when she told her teacher what happened, she laughed and said ‘boys will be boys honey don’t let it bother you he probably just thinks you’re cute’ but the thing is, when you tell a little girl who has rocks in her teeth and scabs on her knees that hurt and attention are the same you teach her that boys show their affection through aggression and she grows into a young woman who constantly mistakes the two because no one ever taught her the difference ‘boys will be boys’ turns into ‘that’s how he shows his love’ and bruises start to feel like the imprint of lips she goes to school with a busted mouth in high school and says she was hit with a basketball instead of his fist the one adult she tells scolds her ‘you know he loses his temper easily why the hell did you have to provoke him?’ so she shrinks folds into herself, flinches every time a man raises his voice by the time she’s 16 she’s learned her job well be quiet, be soft, be easy don’t give him a reason but for all her efforts, he still finds one ‘boys will be boys’ rings in her head ‘boys will be boys he doesn’t mean it he can’t help it’ she’s 7 years old on the playground again with a mouth full of rocks and blood that tastes like copper love because boys will be boys baby don’t you know that’s just how he shows he cares she’s 18 now and they’re drunk in the split second it takes for her words to enter his ears they’re ruined like a glass heirloom being dropped between the hands of generations she meant them to open his arms but they curl his fists and suddenly his hands are on her and her head hits the wall and all of the goddamn words in the world couldn’t save them in this moment she touches the bruise the next day boys will be boys aggression, affection, violence, love how does she separate them when she learned so early that they’re inextricably bound, tangled in a constant tug-of-war she draws tally marks on her walls ratios of kisses to bruises one entire side of her bedroom turns purple, one entire side of her body boys will be boys will be boys will be boys when she’s 20, a boy touches her hips and she jumps he asks her who the hell taught her to be scared like that and she wants to laugh doesn’t he know that boys will be boys? it took her 13 years to unlearn that lesson from the playground so I guess what I’m trying to say is i will talk until my voice is hoarse so that my little sister understands that aggression and affection are two entirely separate things baby they exist in different universes my niece can’t even speak yet but I think I’ll start with her now don’t ever accept the excuse that boys will be boys don’t ever let him put his hands on you like that if you see hate blazing in his eyes don’t you ever confuse it with love baby love won’t hurt when it comes you won’t have to hide it under long sleeves during the summer and the only reason he should ever reach out his hand is to hold yours

It’s universally known that the more forbidden something is, the more desirable it becomes. I feel this truth like a fist around my balls as I enter my classroom after lunch and find the forbidden object of my desire waiting for me.

We enter the world with fists closed and when we leave, our hands are open. He said I should make full use of the time given to me for my life

This is the touchstone of such a spirit; no prizefighter can go with high spirits into the strife if he has never been beaten black and blue; the only contestant who can confidently enter the lists is the man who has seen his own blood, who has felt his teeth rattle beneath his opponent's fist, who has been tripped and felt the full force of his adversary's charge, who has been downed in body but not in spirit, one who, as often as he falls, rises again with greater defiance than ever.

The moment John entered Viscount Gage's study, he was greeted with a punch to his face.

...As I lie there in this position, letting my eyes wander down my breast and legs, I notice the twitching motion made by my foot at each beat of my pulse. I sit up halfway and look down at my feet, and at this moment I experience a fantastic, alien state I’d never felt before; a delicate, mysterious thrill spreads through my nerves, as though they were flooded by surges of light. When I looked at my shoes, it was as though I had met a good friend or got back a torn-off part of me: a feeling of recognition trembles through all my sense, tears spring to my eyes, and I perceive my shoes as a softly murmuring tune coming toward me. Weakness! I said harshly to myself, and I clenched my fists and said: Weakness. I mocked myself for these ridiculous feelings, made fun of myself quite consciously; I spoke very sternly and reasonably, and I fiercely squeezed my eyes shut to get rid of my tears. Then I begin, as though I’d never seen my shoes before, to study their appearance, their mimicry when I move my feet, their shape and the worn uppers, and I discover that their wrinkles and their white seams give them an expression, lend them a physiognomy. Something of my own nature had entered into these shoes --- they affected me like a breath upon my being, a living, a breathing part of me…

Fictional Characters" Do they ever want to escape? Climb out of the white pages and enter our world? Holden Caulfield slipping in the movie theater to catch the two o'clock Anna Karenina sitting in a diner, reading the paper as the waitress serves up a cheeseburger. Even Hector, on break from the Iliad, takes a stroll through the park, admires the tulips. Maybe they grew tired of the author's mind, all its twists and turns. Or were finally weary of stumbling around Pamplona, a bottle in each fist, eating lotuses on the banks of the Nile. For others, it was just too hot in the small California town where they'd been written into a lifetime of plowing fields. Whatever the reason, here they are, roaming the city streets rain falling on their phantasmal shoulders. Wouldn't you, if you could? Step out of your own story, to lean against a doorway of the Five & Dime, sipping your coffee, your life, somewhere far behind you, all its heat and toil nothing but a tale resting in the hands of a stranger, the sidewalk ahead wet and glistening. "Fictional Characters" by Danusha Laméris from The Moons of August. © Autumn House Press, 2014. Reprinted with permission

no prizefighter can go with high spirits into the strife if he has never been beaten black and blue; the only contestant who can confidently enter the lists is the man who has seen his own blood, who has felt his teeth rattle beneath his opponent's fist, who has been tripped and felt the full force of his adversary's charge, who has been downed in body but not in spirit, one who, as often as he falls, rises again with greater defiance than ever.

It is fact!” I smack a hand on the table. “It would be like fisting myself!” Jess drops her head into a hand, sighing, and only then do I realize that River had just entered the room holding a tray of snacks for us. He makes a U-turn without pausing and silently exits.

Sit down," she ordered Peabody. "I prefer to stand." "And I prefer to give you a good boot in the ass, but I'm restraining myself." Eve reached up, fisted her hands in her own hair and yanked until the pain cleared most of the rage. "Okay, stand. You couldn't sit with that stick up your butt, anyway. One you shove up it every time Subject Monroe, Charles, is mentioned. You want to be filled in, you want to be briefed? Fine. Here it is." She had to take another deep breath to insure her tone was professional. "On the evening of March twenty-six, at or about nineteen-thirty, I, accompanied by Roarke, had occasion to visit Areena Mansfield's penthouse suite at The Palace Hotel, this city. Upon entering said premises, investigation officer found subject Mansfield in the company of one Charles Monroe, licensed companion. It was ascertained and confirmed that LC Monroe was there in a professional capacity and had no links to the deceased or the current investigation. His presence, and the salient details pertaining to it, were noted in the report of the interview and marked Level Five in a stupid, ill-conceived attempt by the investigating officer to spare her fat-headed aide any unnecessary embarrassment." Eve stomped back to her desk, snatched up her coffee, gulped some down. "Record that," she snapped. Peabody's lip trembled. She sat. She sniffled. "Oh, no." In genuine panic, Eve stabbed out a finger. "No, you don't. No crying. We're on duty. There is no crying on duty.

Taking out her gun, she turned to Monique. “You have any offensive capabilities? Know how to fire a weapon?” “My face and my body are my weapons, Guild Hunter.” A hint of that upper-class sneer entered her tone. “Sex is about as physical as I get.” “Bully for you.” She slammed a fist on the garage door. “Hurry, Janvier!

places he’s known that a person can enter and then emerge from into a different time altogether. A boxcar is one of them. So is a forest. So is a single tree. So is a library. So is a battlefield. And so is—though Everett will only realize this later, after occupying one for so long—a prison cell. And so is this supply box, he says, with his throat clenching like a fist. He brushes his lips against Willow’s sweet head and lifts the latch.

A flash of lightning ghosts into the room, and when it leaves again, my eyes follow it back out to sea. In the window's reflection, I glimpse a figure standing behind me. I don't need to turn around to see who creates such a big outline-or who makes my whole body turn into a goose-bump farm. "How do you feel?" he says. "Better," I say to his reflection. He hops over the back of the couch and grabs my chin, turning my head side to side, up and down, all around, watching for my reaction. "I just did that," I tell him. "Nothing." He nods and unhands me. "Rach-Uh, my mom called your mom and told her what happened. I guess your mom called your doctor, and he said it's pretty common, but that you should rest a few more days. My mom insisted you stay the night since no one needs to be driving in this weather." "And my mother agreed to that?" Even in the dark, I don't miss his little grin. "My mom can be pretty persuasive," he says. "By the end of the conversation, your mom even suggested we both stay home from school tomorrow and hang out here so you can relax-since my mom will be home supervising, of course. Your mom said you wouldn't stay home if I went to school." A flash from the storm illuminates my blush. "Because we told her we're dating." He nods. "She said you should have stayed home today, but you threw a fit to go anyway. Honestly, I didn't realize you were so obsessed-ouch!" I try to pinch him again, but he catches my wrist and pulls me over his lap like a child getting a spanking. "I was going to say, 'with history.'" He laughs. "No you weren't. Let me up." "I will." He laughs. "Galen, you let me up right now-" "Sorry, not ready yet." I gasp. "Oh, no! The room is spinning again." I hold still, tense up. Then the room does spin when he snatches me up and grabs my chin again. The look of concern etched on his face makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to keep my mouth shut. "Works every time," I tell him, giving my best ha-ha-you're-a-sucker smirk. A snicker from the entryway cuts off what I can tell is about to be a good scolding. I've never heard Galen curse, but his glower just looks like a four-letter word waiting to come out. We both turn to see Toraf watching us with crossed arms. He is also wearing a ha-ha-you're-a-sucker smirk. "Dinner's ready, children," he says. Yep, I definitely like Toraf. Galen rolls his eyes and extracts me from his lap. He hops up and leaves me there, and in the reflection, I see him ram his fist into Toraf's gut as he passes. Toraf grunts, but the smirk never leaves his face. He nods his head for me to follow them. As we pass through the rooms, I try to remember the rich, sophisticated atmosphere, the marble floors, the hideous paintings, but my stomach makes sounds better suited to a dog kennel at feeding time. "I think your stomach is making mating calls," Toraf whispers to me as we enter the kitchen. My blush debuts the same time we enter the kitchen, and it's enough to make Toraf laugh out loud.

In Summation A poem by Taylor Swift At this hearing I stand before my fellow members of the Tortured Poets Department With a summary of my findings A debrief, a detailed rewinding For the purpose of warning For the sake of reminding As you might all unfortunately recall I had been struck with a case of a restricted humanity Which explains my plea here today of temporary i n s a n i t y You see, the pendulum swings Oh, the chaos it brings Leads the caged beast to do the most curious things Lovers spend years denying what’s ill fated Resentment rotting away galaxies we created Stars placed and glued meticulously by hand next to the ceiling fan Tried wishing on comets. Tried dimming the shine. Tried to orbit his planet. Some stars never align. And in one conversation, I tore down the whole sky Spring sprung forth with dazzling freedom hues Then a crash from the skylight bursting through Something old, someone hallowed, who told me he could be brand new And so I was out of the oven and into the microwave Out of the slammer and into a tidal wave How gallant to save the empress from her gilded tower Swinging a sword he could barely lift But loneliness struck at that fateful hour Low hanging fruit on his wine stained lips He never even scratched the surface of me. None of them did. “In summation, it was not a love affair!” I screamed while bringing my fists to my coffee ringed desk It was a mutual manic phase. It was self harm. It was house and then cardiac arrest. A smirk creeps onto this poet’s face Because it’s the worst men that I write best. And so I enter into evidence My tarnished coat of arms My muses, acquired like bruises My talismans and charms The tick, tick, tick of love bombs My veins of pitch black ink All’s fair in love and poetry Sincerely, The Chairman of The Tortured Poets Department

Oh, so I’m not living, because I was a little hesitant to waltz into something called the Globe of Death? Or because I’m not keen on breaking and entering? Sorry for my pesky self-preservation instincts.” I puff up a lock of hair that’s fallen in my face and try to walk away, but before I know what’s happening, Sebastian backs me up against the dilapidated wall, his fists resting against it on either side of my head. “That’s where you’re wrong. You may be scared, but your self-preservation instincts are lacking. Otherwise you wouldn’t be out here with us. And you damn sure wouldn’t be thinking you’re safe right now with me.

Sometimes when, trying to understand him, she spoke of the good work he was doing for his serfs, he would be vexed and reply: “Not in the least; it never entered my head and I wouldn’t do that for their good! That’s all poetry and old wives’ talk—all that doing good to one’s neighbor! What I want is that our children should not have to go begging. I must put our affairs in order while I am alive, that’s all. And to do that, order and strictness are essential. . . . That’s all about it!” said he, clenching his vigorous fist. “And fairness, of course,” he added, “for if the peasant is naked and hungry and has only one miserable horse, he can do no good either for himself or for me.

I said nothing about myself, nor did she about herself. But the reasons for that reticence were very different. I had no intention of putting into words what had happened to me: it was a bare fact, it had to do with my body, its physiological reactivity. That for the first time a tiny part of another body had entered it seemed to me irrelevant: the nighttime mass of Sarratore communicated to me nothing except a sensation of alienness, and it was a relief that it had vanished like a storm that never arrives. It seemed to me clear, instead, that Lila was silent because she didn’t have words. I felt she was in a state without thoughts or images, as if in detaching herself from Nino she had forgotten in him everything of herself, even the capacity to say what had happened to her, what was happening. This difference between us made me sad. I tried to search in my experience on the beach for something equivalent to her sorrowful-happy disorientation. I also realized that at the Maronti, in Barano, I had left nothing, not even that new self that had been revealed. I had taken everything with me, and so I didn’t feel the urgency, which I read in Lila’s eyes, in her half-closed mouth, in her clenched fists, to go back, to be reunited with the person I had had to leave. And if on the surface my condition might seem more solid, more compact, here instead, beside Lila, I felt sodden, earth too soaked with water.

Yes, that’s right, you ladies are fine, you’re beautiful, you’re more than just a smooth piece of skin with a beating heart. You’re women, damn it, you have the power to take down any man you want to, and do you know why?” I pointed at them and then gripped my tits and crotch. “Because we hold the ticket to that pestering one-eyed pant snake that is trying to eat up our gentle lady folds any chance it gets. We get to tell it when it can enter and when we can clench around the swiveling little worm and suffocate him until he squirts his man seed.” I clenched my fist and held it in the air as I spoke. “We hold the cards, ladies. Now, let’s stand up, smack our tits together, and show those men who’s in charge.

I’ve lived on both sides of the abuse. I wear bruises on both sides of my fist. I have wept “what am I doing” and I have cried “why did they do that”. The child of an alcoholic and the alcoholic of a child. It’s strange how broken spirits, broken hearts, and broken homes walk hand-in-hand. How they leave a clear trail of shattered to follow. We are all picking out sins of the father like shrapnel left over from the day we were born. Bang. Welcome to life. Try not to step on a landmine before you get to twenty. Here are your parents. They hate you. Sorry that you won the race. Me? I’ve got a piece of broken mirror lodged dangerously close to my heart. I never know which twist in the story will be the one to open up my insides and help me drown in my own soul. People asked me where I picked up the wisdom. I don’t know that any of this actually is made of wisdom. There’s just too much fluff and well-meaning for my taste. For me, the path was always made of pain. I haven’t found feel better or act right yet... not for myself. I’m not the best one to help anybody else find it... that’s for certain... but I know every road that leads to resentment. I’ve walked them more times than I can count. I can’t tell you how to get where you’re going, but I can give you a roadmap that highlights the places I wish I never went. The first place on the list sits pretty damn close to home. There’s a town called Grief & Regret just north of Salvation, USA. I’m putting do not enter signs on every road that goes there.

Households were supposedly run according to the joyless Domostroi, household rules written by a sixteenth-century monk, which specified that “disobedient wives should be severely whipped” while virtuous wives should be thrashed “from time to time but nicely in secret, avoiding blows from the fist that cause bruises.” Royal women were secluded in the terem, not unlike an Islamic harem. Heavily veiled, they watched church services through a grille; their carriages were hung with taffeta curtains so that they could not look out or be seen; and when they walked in church processions, they were concealed from public gaze by screens borne by servants. In the Terem Palace, they sewed all day, and would kneel before the Red Corner of icons when entering or leaving a room.

Whatever I think or feel inevitably turns into a form of inertia. Thought, which for other people is a compass to guide action, is for me its microscope, making me see whole universes to span where a footstep would have sufficed, as if Zeno's argument about the impossibility of crossing a given space - which, being infinitely divisible, is therefore infinite - were a strange drug that had intoxicated my psychological self. And feeling, which in other people enters the will like a hand in a glove, or like a fist in the guard of a sword, was always in me another form of thought - futile like a rage that makes us tremble so much we can't move, or like a panic (the panic, in my case, of feeling too intensely) that freezes the frightened man in his tracks, when his fright should make him flee.

She knew that he would stop her. Perhaps he would be cunning about it. Maybe he would go to the steward behind her back, tell him of the theft and challenge, and ask to be brought before the judge and Irex. If that plan didn’t suit Arin, he would find another. He was going to be a problem. “You’re right,” she told him. Arin blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “In fact,” she continued, “if you had let me explain, I would have told you that I had already decided to call off the duel.” “You have.” She showed him the two letters. The one addressed to her father was on top. She let the mere edge of the other letter show. “One is for my father, telling him what has happened. The other is for Irex, making my apologies and inviting him to collect his five hundred gold pieces whenever he likes.” Arin still looked skeptical. “He’ll also collect you, of course. Knowing him, he’ll have you whipped until you’re unconscious and even after that. I’m sure that when you wake up, you’ll be very glad that I decided to do exactly as you wanted.” Arin snorted. “If you doubt me, you’re welcome to walk with me to the barracks to watch as I give my father’s letter to a soldier, with orders for its swift delivery.” “I think I will.” He opened the library door. They left the house and crossed the hard ground. Kestrel shivered. She hadn’t stopped to fetch a cloak. She couldn’t risk that Arin would change his mind. When they entered the barracks, Kestrel looked among the six off-duty guards. She was relieved, since she had counted on finding only four, and not necessarily Rax, whom she trusted most. She approached him, Arin just a step behind her. “Bring this to the general as swiftly as you can.” She gave Rax the first letter. “Have a messenger deliver this other letter to Jess and Ronan.” “What?” Arin said. “Wait--” “And lock this slave up.” Kestrel turned so that she wouldn’t see what happened next. She heard the room descend into chaos. She heard the scuffle, a shout, the sound of fists thudding against flesh. She let the door shut behind her and walked away.

She was too narcoleptic to speak. Or move. How long had this been going on? Was she like this yesterday? Had I missed her illness in my quest to prove to my brain that my dick wasn’t the one behind this train wreck’s wheel? I touched her forehead again. It sizzled. “Sweetheart.” “Please get out.” The words clawed past her throat. “Someone needs to take care of you.” “That someone definitely isn’t you. You made that clear these past couple days.” I said nothing. She was right. I hadn’t bothered to check on her. Perhaps I’d wished she’d check on me. In truth, she’d already gone beyond any expectations in trying to make whatever it was between us work. Meanwhile, I’d shut her down. Repeatedly. “Shortbread, let me get you some medicine and tea.” “I don’t want you to nurse me to health. Do you hear me?” She must have hated that I’d seen her like this. Weak and ill. “Call Momma and Frankie. It’s them I want by my side.” I swallowed but didn’t argue. I understood she didn’t want to feel humiliated. To be taken care of by the man who ensured she understood her insignificance to him. How did her bullshit meter not fry? How could she think I really felt nothing toward her? “First, I’ll get you medicine, tea, and water. Then I’ll call for Hettie to stay with you. Then I’ll notify your mother.” I tugged her comforter up to her chin. “No arguments.” She tried to wave me out, groaning at the slightest movement. “Whatever. Just go. I don’t want to see your face.” I gave her what she wanted, though as always, not in the way she expected. The sequence of actions didn’t proceed as promised. First, I contacted Cara to dispatch the private jet to Georgia. Then I called my mother-in-law and Franklin—separately—demanding their presence. Only then did I enter the kitchen to grab water, tea, and ibuprofen for Shortbread’s fever. Naturally, like the chronic idler he often proved to be, Oliver still sat at the island, now enjoying an extra-large slice of red velvet cake I was pretty sure was meant to be consumed by Dallas. “What are you still doing here?” I demanded, collecting the things I needed for her. He scratched his temple with the handle of his fork, brows pulled together. “You invited me here. You wanted to watch a soccer game, remember?” I did not remember. I didn’t even remember my own address right now. “Get out.” “What about the—” I snatched the plate from his fingers, admitting to myself that I’d treaded into feral grounds. “This cake wasn’t for you to eat.” “You’ve gone insane in the ten minutes you were gone.” Oliver gawked at me, wide-eyed. “What happened to you? Did Durban not get her hands on the latest Henry Plotkin book and take her anger out on you?” Shit. The Henry Plotkin book. I shoved Oliver out with a fork still clutched in his grimy fist, dialing Hettie with my free hand. She half-yawned, half-spoke. “Yes?” “Dallas is ill. You need to come here and take care of her until my in-laws arrive in about two hours.” “Oh, yeah?” Her energy returned tenfold. “And what the hell are you gonna do during this time?” “Freeze my balls off.”(Chapter 58)

Why are you doing this? I don’t want you. Is that the problem? Is your ego so big you can’t handle a woman rejecting you?” “Oh, you want me alright, my sexy little witch. Want me so bad it scares you. Well, I’ve got news for you. It scares the fuck out of me, too. But I don’t care. When the options are settling down with you for life and popping out little demonlings or watching you walk away, I know what I choose.” For a moment, she couldn’t answer, could only gape at him as his words penetrated. Surely, she misunderstood. “What did you say?” “I want you as my mate.” No misunderstanding that time. She tamped down her elation by slapping it with the cold, hard truth. “You’ll hurt me.” “Trust me.” He asked too much. “I’m not the right woman.” “You’re all I want.” She shook her head lest his words weave a spell around her and make her believe. Yet despite all the warnings in her head, hope blossomed and love warmed her. How nice it would be to allow herself to love him. To trust him. Sadness entered his expression at her rejection. “I know it’s hard for you, little witch, but I promise you’ve nothing to fear. Unless the thought of too many orgasms in a row freaks you out.” And that quickly, he changed from pensive male to the one she’d grown to love with the mischievous smile. He lunged. She squealed like a little girl and ran. Not far though. With his ridiculously long stride, he quickly caught her and tossed her over his shoulder. He laughed as she beat at his broad back with her fists. “Save some of that energy for the bedroom because you are not leaving until you admit you care for me.” “I’ll kill you first.” “I like a girl who’s kinky.” “You’re impossible.” “No, but I am horny.” “How are we supposed to catch those souls if we’re fooling around here?” “Some things are more important.” “How can having sex with me be more important than ensuring you don’t burst into flame tomorrow?” “I would let someone beat me with a cat-o-nine too, if you’d just admit you like me.” “I hate you.” “Close. I see we’ll need to work on that.” -Ysabel & Remy

Rhysand opened his mouth, but then the silhouettes of two tall, powerful bodies appeared on the other side of the front door's fogged glass. One of them banged on it with a fist. 'Hurry up, you lazy ass,' a deep male voice drawled from the antechamber beyond. Exhaustion drugged me so heavily that I didn't particularly care that there were wings peeking over thier two shadowy forms. Rhys didn't so much as blink toward the door. 'Two things, Feyre darling.' The pounding continued, followed by the second male murmuring to his companion, 'If you're going to pick a fight with him, do it after breakfast.' That voice- like shadows given form, dark and smooth and... cold. 'I wasn't the one who hauled me out of bed just now to fly down here,' the first one said. Then added, 'Busybody.' I could have sworn a smile tugged on Rhys's lips as he went on, 'One, no one- no one- but Mor and I are able to winnow directly inside this house. it is warded, shielded, and then warded some more. Only those I wish- and you wish- may enter. You are safe here; and safe anywhere in this city, for that matter. Velaris's walls are well protected and have not been breached in five thousand years. No one with ill intent enters this city unless I allow it. So go where you wish, do what you wish, and see who you wish. Those two in the antechamber,' he added, eyes sparkling, 'might not be on that list of people you should bother knowing, if they keep banging on the door like children.' Another pound, emphasised by the first male voice saying, 'You know we can hear you, prick.' 'Secondly,' Rhys went on, 'in regard to the two bastards at my door, it's up to you whether you want to meet them now, or head upstairs like a wise person, take a nap since you're still looking a little peaky, and then change into city-appropriate clothing while I beat the hell out of one of them for talking to his High Lord like that.' There was such light in his eyes. It made him look... younger, somehow. More mortal. So at odds with the icy rage I'd seen earlier when I'd awoken... Awoken on that couch, and then decided I wasn't returning home. Decided that, perhaps, the Spring Court might not be my home.

Result: 325 ccs of water, which weighs 325 grams! Therefore Rocky’s ball also weighs 325 grams. I return to the tunnel to tell Rocky all about how smart I am. He balls a fist at me as I enter. “You left! Bad!” “I measured the mass! I made a very smart experiment.” He holds up a string with beads on it. “Twenty-six.” The beaded string is just like the ones he sent me back when we talked about our atmospheres— “Oh,” I say. It’s an atom. That’s how he talks about atoms. I count the beads. There are twenty-six in all. He’s talking about element 26—one of the most common elements on Earth. “Iron,” I say. I point at the necklace. “Iron.” He points at the necklace and says, “♫♩♪♫♫.” I record the word in my dictionary. “Iron,” he says again, pointing at the necklace. “Iron.” He points to the ball in my hand. “Iron.” It takes a second to sink in. Then I slap my forehead. “You are bad.” It was a fun experiment, but a total waste of time. Rocky was giving me all the information I needed. Or trying to, at least. I know how dense iron is, and I know how to calculate the volume of a sphere. Getting to mass from there is just a little arithmetic.

Good morning, I’m Anne Ryan,” she said, producing the driver’s license. The receptionist stood up, nodding. She was wearing latex gloves. And before the woman formerly known as Myfanwy Thomas could say a word, the receptionist wound up and punched her in the face. She flew backward, the pain in her eyes flaring, and shrieked like a train whistle. Through the stars floating in her vision, she could see three men entering the room and shutting the doors behind them. They surrounded her, and one of the men leaned over her with a hypodermic needle in one hand. Filled with a sudden rage, she swung her leg up and kicked him hard between the legs. Squealing, he doubled over, and she lashed out with a fist, catching him hard on the chin. He staggered back onto one of the other men, and she swung herself up, teeth bared, panic rising as she realized that she had no idea how to fight. Still, certain things were obvious. She shoved the man she’d kicked hard, sending him and his friend against the wall. The remaining man and the woman stood back, seeming almost hesitant to touch her. She noticed that the men were also wearing latex gloves. The woman flicked a questioning look to the standing man.

You’re good at this,” said Ronan. “What?” He leaned to touch the baby’s head. “Being a mother.” “What is that supposed to mean?” Ronan looked awkward. Then he said glibly, “Nothing, if you don’t like it.” He glanced at Benix, Faris, and the others, but they were discussing thumbscrews and nooses. “It didn’t mean anything. I take it back.” Kestrel set the baby on the grass next to Faris. “You cannot take it back.” “Just this once,” he said, echoing her earlier words during the game. She stood and walked away. He followed. “Come, Kestrel. I spoke only the truth.” They had entered the shade of thickly grown laran trees, whose leaves were a bloody color. They would soon fall. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to have a child someday,” Kestrel told Ronan. Visibly relieved, he said, “Good. The empire needs new life.” It did. She knew this. As the Valorian empire stretched across the continent, it faced the problem of keeping what it had won. The solutions were military prowess and boosting the Valorian population, so the emperor prohibited any activities that unnecessarily endangered Valorian lives--like dueling and the bull-jumping games that used to mark coming-of-age ceremonies. Marriage became mandatory by the age of twenty for anyone who was not a soldier. “It’s just--” Kestrel tried again: “Ronan, I feel trapped. Between what my father wants and--” He held up his hands in flat-palmed defense. “I am not trying to trap you. I am your friend.” “I know. But when you are faced with only two choices--the military or marriage--don’t you wonder if there is a third, or a fourth, or more, even, than that?” “You have many choices. The law says that in three years you must marry, but not whom. Anyway, there is time.” His should grazed hers in the teasing push of children starting a mock fight. “Time enough for me to convince you of the right choice.” “Benix, of course.” She laughed. “Benix.” Ronan made a fist and shook it at the sky. “Benix!” he shouted. “I challenge you to a duel! Where are you, you great oaf?” Ronan stormed from the laran trees with all the flair of a comic actor. Kestrel smiled, watching him go. Maybe his silly flirtations disguised something real. People’s feelings were hard to know for certain. A conversation with Ronan resembled a Bite and Sting game where Kestrel couldn’t tell if the truth looked like a lie, or a lie like the truth. If it was true, what then?

Why did you come here tonight?” she asked. “Other than the fact that you’ve finally come to your senses and realize you love me.” Chuckling, Grey reached up and untied the ribbons that held her mask. The pretty silk fell away to reveal the beautiful face beneath. “I missed you,” he replied honestly. “And you were right-about everything. I’m tired of drifting through life. I want to live again-with you.” A lone tear trickled down her cheek. “I think that might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” He grinned. “I have more.” She pressed her fingers to his lips. “I’m tired of talking.” She kissed him, teasing his lips with the ripe curves of hers, sliding her tongue inside to rub against his in a sensual rhythm that had him fisting his hands in her skirts. By the time they reached Mayfair, Grey’s hair was mussed, Rose’s skirts crushed, and he was harder than an oratory competition for mutes. “I can’t believe you came,” she told him as the entered the house, arms wrapped around each other. “I’m so proud of you.” “I wouldn’t have done it without you.” She shook her head. “You did it for yourself not for me.” Perhaps that was true, and perhaps it wasn’t. He had no interest in discussing it tonight. “It’s just the beginning,” he promised. “I’m going to go wherever you want to go from now on. Within reason.” She laughed. “Of course. We can’t have you attending a musicale just to please me, can we?” She gazed up at him. “You know, I think I’m going to want to spend plenty of evenings at home as well. That time I spent out of society had some very soothing moments.” “Of course,” he agreed, thinking about all the things they could do to one another at home. Alone. “There has to be moderation.” Upstairs in their bedroom, he undressed her, unbuttoning each tiny button one by one until she sighed in exasperation. “In a hurry?” he teased. His wife got her revenge, when clad only in her chemise and stockings, she turned those nimble fingers of hers to his cravat, working the knot so slowly he thought he might go mad. She worsened the torment by slowly rubbing her hips against his thigh. His cock was so rigid he could hang clothes on it, and the need to bury himself inside her consumed him. Still, a skilled lover knows when to have patience-and a man in love knows that his woman’s pleasure comes far, far before his own. So, as ready as he was, Grey was in no hurry to let this night end, not when it might prove to be the best of his new-found life. Wearing only his trousers, he took Rose’s hand and led her to their bed. He climbed onto the mattress and pulled her down beside him, lying so that they were face-to-face. Warm fingers came up to gently touch the scar that ran down his face. Odd, but he hadn’t thought of it at all that evening. In fact, he’d almost forgot about it. “I heard you that night,” he admitted. “When you told me you loved me.” Her head tilted. “I thought you were asleep.” “No.” He held her gaze as he raised his own hand to brush the softness of her cheek. “I should have said it then, but I love you too, Rose. So much.” Her smile was smug. “I know.” She kissed him again. “Make love to me.” His entire body pulsed. “I intend to, but there’s one thing I have to do first.” Rose frowned. “What’s that?” Grey pulled the brand-new copy of Voluptuous from beneath the pillow where he’d hidden it before going to the ball. “There’s a story in here that I want to read to you.

The next time you enter a temple of Gautam Buddha, just sit silently, watch the statue. Because the statue has been made in such a way, in such proportions that if you watch it you will fall silent. It is a statue of meditation; it is not concerned with Gautam Buddha. That’s why all those statues look alike—Mahavira, Gautam Buddha, Neminatha, Adinatha … . The twenty-four tirthankaras of the Jainas … in the same temple you will find twenty-four statues all alike, exactly alike. In my childhood I used to ask my father, “Can you explain to me how it is possible that twenty-four persons are exactly alike—the same size, the same nose, the same face, the same body … ?” And he used to say, “I don’t know. I am always puzzled myself that there is not a bit of difference. And it is almost unheard of—there are not even two persons in the whole world who are alike, what to say about twenty-four?” But as my meditation blossomed I found the answer—not from anybody else, I found the answer that these statues have nothing to do with the people. These statues have something to do with what was happening inside those twenty-four people, and that happening was exactly the same. We have not bothered about the outside; we have insisted that only the inner should be paid attention to. The outer is unimportant. Somebody is young, somebody is old, somebody is black, somebody is white, somebody is man, somebody is woman—it does not matter; what matters is that inside there is an ocean of silence. In that oceanic state, the body takes a certain posture. You have observed it yourself, but you have not been alert. When you are angry, have you observed? Your body takes a certain posture. In anger you cannot keep your hands open; in anger—the fist. In anger you cannot smile—or can you? With a certain emotion, the body has to follow a certain posture.

I told you before--you mustn’t let Edward scare you. He’s a bully and a coward. What would Frank Merriwell do if he were you?” Frank Merriwell--I was thoroughly sick of hearing that name. “I don’t care what some dumb guy in a story would do. I’m not going to fight Edward.” “Fight me then.” Hannah raised her fists and danced around on her bare feet, bouncing, ducking, and swinging at the air around my head. “Pretend I’m Edward!” I ducked a punch, and she swung again. “Put up your dukes,” she ordered, “defend yourself, sir.” This time Hannah clipped my chin hard enough to knock me down. Her shirtwaist was completely untucked, her face was smudged, her hair was tumbling down her back and hanging in her eyes. “On your feet, sir,” she shouted. “Let’s see your fighting spirit!” Hannah was making so much noise she didn’t hear John Larkin push aside the branches and enter the grove. When he saw her take another swing at me, he started laughing. Hannah whirled around, her face scarlet, and stared at John. “What do you mean by sneaking up on us like a common Peeping Tom?” “With the noise you’ve been making, you wouldn’t have noticed a herd of rampaging elephants.” John was still laughing, but Hannah was furious. Putting her fists on her hips, she scowled at him. “Well, now you know the truth about me. I’m no lady and I never claimed to be one. I suppose you’ll start taking Amelia Carter for rides in your precious tin lizzie and treating her to sodas at your father’s drugstore. I’m sure she’d never brawl with her brothers.” Theo and I looked at each other. We were both hoping Hannah would make John leave. Before he came along and ruined everything, we’d been having fun. To my disappointment, John didn’t seem to realize he was unwanted. Leaning against a tree, he watched Hannah run her hands through her hair. “I don’t know what you’re so fired up about,” he said. “Why should I want to take Amelia anywhere? I’ve never met a more boring girl. As for her brothers--a little brawling wouldn’t hurt them. Or Amelia either.” Hannah turned away, her face flushed, and John winked at me. “Your sister’s first rate,” he said, “but I wager I know a sight more about boxing than she does. Why not let me show you a thing or two?” Happy again, Hannah smiled at John. “What a grand idea! But go slow, Andrew’s still weak.” When John took off his jacket, I edged closer to Hannah. “I like your lessons,” I said to her, scowling at John. He was rolling up his sleeves, probably to show off his muscles. Next to him, I was nothing but a skinny little baby. He’d knock me flat and everyone would laugh at me.

Another general would have let them go and been glad of it. But he saw that if they secured that high ground they might regroup and come at us again, this time with their archers positioned to advantage. So he called us to ranks with a curdling cry. I glimpsed his face through the crowd of men. It was bloodied, dirt-streaked, avid. Then he turned, fist to the sky, and sprinted. He set the pace for the fleetest of his runners, youths who could give him a decade. Even uphill, he seemed to fly over the loose stones that slid out from underfoot and left me skidding and swearing. I fell behind, and lost sight of him. Others—younger men, better fighters—overtook me, swarming to him, compelled by his courage. When I finally glimpsed him again, he was above me on a long, slender ridge, in the thick of fierce fighting. Trying to narrow the distance between us, I lost my footing entirely on the uncertain ground. I slipped. Metal, leather and flesh scraped against rough limestone that bit like snaggleteeth. I could not control my fall until I planted my foot into something that gave softly under my weight. The man had been attempting to crawl away, dragging himself with his remaining hand while a slime of blood pulsed from the stump of his sword arm. My boot, mashing his neck flat into stone, had put an end to that. When I lifted my foot, the man gave a wet gargle, and was still. I scraped the mess off my boot onto the nearest rock and went on. When I reached the ridge, the king was making an end of another fighter. He was up close, eye to eye. His sword had entered just above the man’s groin. He drew it upward, in a long, slow, arcing slash. As he pulled the blade back—slick, dripping—long tubes of bowel came tumbling after. I could see the dying man’s eyes, wide with horror, his hands gripping for his guts, trying to push them back into the gaping hole in his belly. The king’s own eyes were blank—all the warmth swallowed by the black stain of widening pupils. David reached out an arm and pushed the man hard in the chest. He fell backward off the narrow ledge and rolled down the slope, his entrails unfurling after him like a glossy ribband. I was engaged myself then, by a bullnecked spearman who required all my flagging strength. He was bigger than me, but clumsy, and I used his size against him, so that as I feinted one way, he lunged with his spear, overbalanced and fell right onto the dagger that I held close and short at my side. I felt the metal grating against the bone of his rib, and then I mustered enough force to thrust the tip sharply upward, the blade’s full length inside him, in the direction of his heart. I felt the warm wetness of his insides closing about my fist. It was intimate as a rape.

So are you planning on dressing me in addition to everything else?” she asked once they’d cleared a challenging rise. “I planned to pack as much as I could this morning, so you could sleep later,” he lowered his voice, “or take care of what went unfinished last night.” He’d amazed himself by behaving so unselfishly as that. Her unfulfilled desire made it more likely that he’d get her into bed with him, and yet, he couldn’t stand to think of her suffering. “I was attempting to be considerate. Though I’ve little experience with it.” “I’m not talking to you about this. I’m just not.” “I can feel your need as strong as my own.” “Maybe I do have these needs—doesn’t mean you’re the one I’ll choose to help me work them out.” Her gaze drifted to Cade, who was greedily chugging water. His voice low and seething, Bowe said, “You regard him with an appraising eye one more time, Mariketa, and you’re going to get that demon killed. All he wants is to ‘attempt’ you. Do you ken what that means?” “In fact, I do ken what it means. In the throes, you know. One of my boyfriends was a demon.” “Boyfriends?” He frowned. “You mean lovers. How bloody many have you had?” He stopped. “Are you free with yourself, then? With other males? Because that’ll be ending—” “What’d you think?” she asked over her shoulder. “That I was a virgin?” “You’re only twenty-three,” he said, sounding very stodgy, even to himself. “And I try no’ to think of any male before me. But if you were no’ an innocent, then I’d hoped it would have been once, in the dark, with a ham-handed human who was so bad you had to stifle a yawn or fight against laughing.” She shrugged. “I’m sure the number of notches in my bedpost can’t compare to yours.” “Aye, but I’m twelve hundred years old! Even if I had one female a year, you’d understand how they could accumulate.” “Well, I am young.” Just as he felt a flicker of ease, she murmured in a sexy voice, “But, baby, I’ve been busy.” His fists clenched. “Jealous?” She probably wouldn’t think he’d admit to it, but in a low tone, he said, “Aye, I envy any man that’s had his hands on you.” She gave him an enigmatic, studying expression. “Now, if I guess the number you’ve taken into your bed, then you’ll tell me if I’m right.” She hastily faced forward once more. “Not playing. Get bent.” He narrowed his eyes. “One. You’ve had one.” Her shoulders stiffened barely perceptibly, and he wanted to sag with relief. “Because any male worthy of you would kill a rival who tried to steal you from him. I’m guessing the demon was your first and last. And how did you get him to let you go, then?” “What if I told you I was still seeing him?” Bowen shook his head. “No’ considering the way you were with me that first night. Besides, if he allowed you to enter the Hie without being there to guard you, he does no’ deserve you. When we return, I’ll kill him on principle.

In just a bony fistful of years, classical Russian food culture vanished, almost without a trace. The country's nationalistic euphoria on entering World War I in 1914 collapsed under nonstop disasters presided over by the 'last of the Romanovs': clueless, autocratic czar Nicholas II and Alexandra, his reactionary, hysterical German-born wife. Imperial Russia went lurching toward breakdown and starvation. Golden pies, suckling pigs? In 1917, the insurgent Bolsheviks' banners demanded simply the most basic of staples - khleb (bread) - along with land (beleaguered peasants were 80 percent of Russia's population) and an end to the ruinous war. On the evening of October 25, hours before the coup by Lenin and his tiny cadre, ministers of Kerensky's foundering provisional government, which replaced the czar after the popular revolution of February 1917, dined finely at the Winter Palace: soup, artichokes, and fish. A doomed meal all around.

into a crouch, using the force of the momentum to thwack the blunt side of her sword against the back of Balin's knees. The warrior buckled and crashed downward, catching himself with his free hand. He scooped a mound of snow into his fist. "You've discovered my weakness. Height can be a disadvantage as well as a benefit." At least I can enter the shadowwalk to ease my loneliness, and you cannot block me. Guilt seized her at the thought of the forbidden power, and she hesitated, losing sight of her surroundings for a moment. A shower of snow hit her face, blinding her. She heard Balin grunt as he moved. Astrid reached up to rub the freezing wet powder from her eyes, but when her vision cleared Balin was nowhere to be seen. She spun, but something whacked her across the middle of her back, sending her flying. The force of the blow knocked her several paces forward, plunging her into the snow. Her face met the bite of frost as she fell flat on the ground. A chill spread through her. She spat flurries from her mouth, struggling to get upright. The frigid tip of Balin's blade pinched the side of her neck, pressing her back down. Caught, she

Seventeen times against the wall or in the barn: You move or scream or say anything I will kill them all. In front of you. First I will torture them and then I will kill them. Her eyes as dead as she can make them. Her arms as limp as she can make them. Her heart as hidden as she can make it. A soldier’s cock entering the thin white flesh of a girl, into the small red cave of her, the fist of her heart pounding out be-dead, be-dead, be-dead. Counting.

A loud clunk resounded behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see her husband. Instead she looked straight into Red Buffalo’s black eyes. For an instant her heart stopped beating. She stared at him. He stared back. His arms were laden with firewood. One piece lay at his feet. Very slowly he hunkered down and began unloading the rest. At last Loretta found her voice. “Get out of here!” “I bring you wood,” he replied softly in English. Even Loretta knew warriors didn’t demean themselves by gathering firewood; it was woman’s work. Red Buffalo was humbling himself, making her a peace offering. She didn’t care. “I don’t want your filthy wood. Take it and leave.” He continued his task as if she hadn’t spoken. Rage bubbled up Loretta’s throat. She leaped to her feet and strode toward him. “I said get out of here! Take your damned wood with you!” Just as she reached him, Red Buffalo finished emptying his arms and rose. He was a good head shorter than Hunter, but he dwarfed Loretta. She fell back, startled, wondering if he could smell her fear. Lifting her chin, she cut him dead with her eyes. He inclined his head in a polite nod and turned to walk away. “I said take your wood with you!” she called after him. “I don’t want it!” Picking up a log, she chucked it at him. It landed on end and bounced, hitting Red Buffalo’s calf. He stopped and turned, his face expressionless as he watched her throw the remainder of the firewood in his direction. Saying nothing, he began to pick up the firewood. To Loretta’s dismay, he returned to her firepit and began unloading the logs there in a neat pile. From the corner of her eye, she could see neighbors gathering to find out what all the commotion was about. Heat scalded her cheeks. She couldn’t believe Red Buffalo was humiliating himself like this. “Don’t,” she said raggedly. “Go away, Red Buffalo! Go away!” He tipped his head back. Tears glistened on his scarred cheeks. “Hunter has cut me from his heart.” “Good! You’re an animal!” Red Buffalo winced as if she had struck him. “He has forbidden me to enter his lodge until you take my hand in friendship.” “Never!” Appalled, Loretta retreated a step. “Never, do you hear me?” Red Buffalo slowly rose, brushing his palms clean on his breeches. “He is my brother--my only brother.” “You expect me to feel sorry for you? How dare you come near me? How dare--” Her voice broke, and she spun away, running inside the lodge. Heedless of Amy, who was sitting up on her pallet, Loretta threw herself onto the bed. Knotting her fists, she stifled her sobs against the fur. Hatred coursed through her, hot, ugly, and venomous, making her shake. Take his hand in friendship? Never, not as long as she lived.

Where am I?" He did not answer immediately. Since entering the room, he had kept his focus locked on her face. But Lily watched as the direction of his gaze slid down her body. His perusal was slow and comprehensive, sliding over her breasts and continuing past the curve of her hips and down her bare legs beyond the short hem of her shift. Though he revealed nothing in his stony expression, there was something in the gleam of his blue-black eyes that brought a delicate quiver to Lily's belly. She glanced at his hands where they fell at his sides. He held them tensely extended, his long fingers spreading wide, before he clenched them into tight fists as he finished his slow review of her body. By the time the path of his perusal made its way back to her face, Lily was breathless and hot with a different kind of fear and... something else. "You are in my bedroom." The intimate depth of his voice struck Lily with an acute force. Her head spun, and her legs collapsed. As she tensed for a collision with the floor, she was swept up in strong arms. The fire raging beneath her skin flared with bright intensity as Lord Harte scooped his arms beneath her legs and around her back to lift her high against his chest. It took only a few short moments for him to set her back on the bed. He released her abruptly to flip the bedcovers over her, then turned and strode away. Lily was left with the striking impressions of his body's warmth, the strength of his arms around her, the woodsy scent of his skin, the brush of his embroidered waistcoat felt through the muslin of her shift, and then the sight of his broad back as he walked away, putting the entire distance of the room between them.

I’ll take care of it.” I snatched the offending bottle from the counter. “Are her sister and mother with her?” “Frankie, yeah. Natasha went to sleep in a guest room. Guess she felt like she could take a break because Dal’s feeling better.” I took the stairs two at a time. With each step I climbed, my spirits lifted. The lilt of Shortbread’s sweet, bell-like voice filled the corridor. Quiet, but unmistakably her. Why did it take me until today to realize I enjoyed her voice? Her sound? Her general existence? Maybe because it marked the one thing that wasn’t complete silence that my ears cherished. When I reached her door, I raised my fist, intending to knock. I couldn’t wait to show her the book. Childish pride filled me. I supposed this was what kids felt when they did something they knew would grant them their parents’ approval. I wouldn’t know. My parents rarely paid attention to my existence. “…can’t believe you didn’t tell me you two were having S-E-X.” Franklin abbreviated the last word, whisper-shouting in excitement. A chuckle lodged in my throat. I wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but staying back for a few moments to hear Dallas’s response wouldn’t enter the list of top ten-thousand worst things I’d done in my life. “How’s the sex?” Franklin demanded. “It’s okay, I guess.” Dallas coughed, still weak. “I’m not suffering.” Understatement of the generation, sweetheart. “Does that mean that you like him?” Frankie gasped, holding her breath. For an odd reason, I did the same. There was no pause, no hesitation, in Dallas’s response. (chapter 58)

My right hand was locked so tightly in a fist, it was starting to shake. My gaze was riveted to two people on the dancefloor, and it was taking every ounce of willpower I had to remain standing there in favour of destroying the man touching Darcy Vega. Seth Capella’s hands were roaming all over her as they danced like there was no one else here but them. They were staring at each other, exchanging flirtatious smiles and their mouths were getting all too close all too many times. Through the thump of the music and clamour of voices, it was difficult to focus on the words that passed between them, but I managed to catch a couple of sentences. “Fuck being enemies, I wanna be your friend tonight,” Seth purred in her ear, his fingers twisting into the blue ends of her hair and making me spit a snarl. Darcy laughed, clearly drunk as her fingers slid down his arm while his other hand dropped onto her ass, drawing her even closer and squeezing hard. No. “What kind of friends act like this?” she laughed again and he nuzzled the side of her head, a carnal look entering his eyes that made my canines sharpen. All rational thought was exiting my mind until I was nothing but an animal about to attack. I knew in that second I was going to do it. I was going to shoot over there, tear Seth Capella off of her and make him bleed for touching her like that. She was my gir- Source. “The best of friends,” he answered with a wolfish grin and I took a step forward, but suddenly Darius was there with a scowl the size of a Dragon’s tail, blocking my line of sight. “Well?” he demanded irritably like I’d just punched him in the cock. “Well what?” I sniped back and he frowned. “Oh right, yeah. We need to go hunting.” I gritted my teeth, crushing them to dust in my mouth as I forced my feet to move towards the exit, refusing to let myself look back. Darius walked stiffly at my side, seeming as pissed off as I did to be leaving and judging by how hard he’d been grinding himself against Tory Vega, I had to wonder if she was the reason. I glanced at my friend and caught him looking back. “What?” he snapped and I looked away again. “Nothing,” I grunted. “I’m just in the mood to kill something.” “Same. Let’s find the fucking Nymph and make it suffer.” His eyes turned to reptilian slits and a group of guys in our way scarpered aside as they saw us coming. I uncurled my still clenched right hand, my knuckles white as I flexed them and brought magic to my fingertips. Is she gonna go home with him? Is she gonna fuck him? She can’t. He’s a fucking Heir. The worst fucking Heir. The urge to go back was rising in me and I had to force my legs to keep moving away from that nightclub. There was a Nymph out here somewhere, that was my priority. Not whether or not Darcy Vega chose to fuck an Heir. My heart thumped a painful tune in my chest, continuing its plea with me to go back. To stop her from making the most stupid decision of her life. She was too good for that Wolf asshole. Too sweet. He didn’t deserve to get his hands on her flesh. I pictured her pinned beneath him and stopped dead in the street. (Orion POV)

Our ships keep the French from entering the Channel. We’ll not let Bonaparte and the Frogs reach England!” He shook his fist, and his cheeks flushed with vigor. “As Lord St. Vincent said to the House of

God reflected back on a scene that he witnessed at Sodom, which had become too typical. A man entered a house, sat down in a chair, and quietly waited. Two children sat on the opposite side of the room. They stared at the man with their chins on their fists. The man stood up to move a foot rest close to the kids. He leaned forward to quietly explain, “I am here… to make… sweet love… to your daddy’s ass. Now listen… children… you might hear some… raucous noise… from that room… down that hall,” the man pointed towards the last door down a hall, “But don’t… be… alarmed. That’s just the sound… of two men… enjoying… the company of each other.

He couldn’t spot them, and the minor foot traffic on the sidewalk was not enough to hide. They must have entered a building or alley. Rather than searching all of them, he let his nose do its job. Big breath in. Filter the smells. Aha. There, up the sidewalk a few more storefronts then into an arcade. The wolves that dragged her probably hoped to hide their scent and sneak out the back. Except Hayder knew this place. He knew where the door to the alley was, thus, when the steel door swung open, he stood there, arms crossed waiting for them. “Shit, he’s here. Get back inside,” the chubby one grunted. “Oh, don’t leave on my account. I insist you stay.” And to make sure they did, he kicked the door shut. The two thugs backed away from him, the one who needed to invest in a treadmill holding Arabella, who hung limp in his grasp, before him as a shield. She was alive. However, her eyes bore a resigned expression Hayder didn’t like at all. “Baby, are you all right? Did they hurt you?” The answer was moot. At this point, he was going to punish them no matter what, violently. They’d done the unforgivable when they’d taken Arabella and scared her. However, if they’d actually hurt her, or if she cried… We’ll make them wish their mother had a headache the night they were conceived. Rawr. Her reply emerged so soft he almost missed it. “I told you this would happen. They’ll never let me be free.” How utterly convinced she seemed and miserable. Totally unacceptable. “Don’t you dare take this without a fight,” he growled. The chubby one should have spent more time on expanding his mind instead of his waistline because he showed no sense at all when he said, “Bella here knows her place, and after the next full moon, it will be on her knees, serving the new alpha of the pack.” Hell no. Hayder didn’t even think twice about it. His fist shot out, and it connected to the idiot’s nose with a satisfying crunch, and that left one wolf. An even dumber wolf that seemed to think the switchblade he’d pulled out of a pocket and waved around would really make a difference. “Are you stupid enough to think you can take me with that puny knife?” Hayder couldn’t stem the incredulity in his query. “Stay back, cat, or else. It’s silver.” Silver, which meant painful if he got sliced with it. Harder to heal, too. But a three-inch blade wasn’t going to keep Hayder away from his woman. As beta, though, he did try to give the idiot a chance. Show patience before acting, or so he’d been taught as part of those anger management courses Leo made him take. Hayder employed one of the tricks to control impulsive acts. He counted. “Three.” “I’ll cut you.” Slash. Slash. The knifeman sketched lines in the air. “Two.” “I mean it.” “One. You’re dead.” Hayder took a step forward even as the last dumb wolf took a step back, one hand clamped around Arabella’s arm. Lightning fast, Hayder shot a hand out to grab the wrist of the guy wielding the knife. This fellow had slightly faster reflexes than his pack brothers and actually managed to score a line of red across his palm. The blood didn’t bother Hayder. ’Twas but a scratch. However, the coppery scent did something to Arabella. Up snapped her head. Her nostrils flared. Her brown eyes took on a wildness. Her lips pulled back in a snarl. “Don’t. Touch. Him!” With a screech, she turned on her captor and then proceeded to go rabid on his ass. How cool.

I need to find out who she is,” he told Javier as he entered the shower room with the rest of the team. “If they had to take her out on a stretcher, then chances are someone knows her name.” “Good for you, my friend, for not giving up in the face of obvious adversity. And because I am such a good friend, I shall come with you when you visit her so I might laugh when the female retaliates against you for messing up her face.” Javier flew backward with the force of the punch Ethan laid on him. Rubbing his jaw, his friend glared up at him. “That wasn’t very nice.” Ethan snarled. “Maybe if you hadn’t thrown the ball so damned hard, I wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. I’m glad you find my situation so g**damned funny.” Jumping to his feet, Javier raised his fists. “Alright, my friend. Let’s go. You obviously need to work off some tension, might as well do it now. Think of your coming beating as a courting favor because I’m going to give you some black eyes to match those of your mate.” “I’d like to see you try.” With a feral grin, Ethan lumbered at his friend, paws swinging as the other players in the shower room scattered. Old habits died hard, and when it came to working out frustration, the easiest route still involved violence. Ethan refused to view it as stalling out of fear. Kodiak bears feared nothing, especially not one fated female. But just in case, perhaps once he de-stressed, he would pick up flowers, or buy a whole damned floral shop for her.

If introspection is thought, Marvin was not introspective. He felt the contempt he lived under as raw sensation, as heat--heat in the ears, behind the eyes, in the tangled ganglia sheathed by the skull. And contempt, it seemed, was no different from fear. At Princeton he became afraid. It dawned on him that it was not enough to be bright (all Townsend Harris boys were bright): you had to be right. For the first time he was struck by the import of birthright--you slid out of the womb grasping it in your tiny fist, a certificate that guaranteed you would know how to speak and dress and scorn and brazenly intimidate everyone doomed to enter the world empty-handed. Not that Marvin was altogether empty-handed--he had his scholarship, and he had, most of all, the engine of his will and the grim burden of his hurt. He resisted humiliation by accepting it, sometimes almost appearing to invite it: it taught him what was suitable and what wasn't.

The morning following Shaselle’s arrest and release, I descended the Grand Staircase to the entry hall below and was drawn toward the antechamber by raised voices. I entered to find one of my worst nightmares unfolding--Steldor and Narian were in heated argument, both seeming to have discounted where they were and who might overhear. They stood opposite one another across the room from me, Steldor likely having come from Cannan’s office, while Narian had probably been passing through on his way to the Hearing Hall. I stared transfixed, not knowing what they were arguing about, but certain they would not appreciate my interference. “What business have you in the Bastion?” my betrothed demanded. “Business that is not yours, Cokyrian,” Steldor spat. Narian glowered at the former King. “Much as you might detest the thought, Steldor, I am no longer your enemy.” “These scars on my back argue differently.” “I was merciful in leaving you alive. You asked for execution and I ordered a lashing. If not for your ridiculous pride, you’d acknowledge that.” Steldor laughed mirthlessly. “I owe you nothing after all you’ve taken from me.” “Alera is not a possession,” Narian astutely shot back. “Alera hadn’t entered my mind.” The curl in Steldor’s lip revealed the lie, and the hostility he exuded would have made most men run in the other direction. But Narian wasn’t most men. “And yet I see you around this Bastion, her home, more than any soldier or son need be. You yearn for any chance glimpse of her.” “I come to the palace on business, you mongrel pup.” “Then pray tell, what business is that?” I stood miserably by, for it was apparent neither of them was aware of my presence. Still, the argument had come full circle, and I prayed it would soon be over. “I don’t have to tell you anything,” Steldor seethed. “You are not my superior.” His dark eyes glinted malevolently, a look he had once or twice directed at me during our unfortunate marriage. “True enough. But you are nonetheless one of my subjects.” Steldor’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, telling me how close he was to unleashing his hellish temper. Before I could intervene, he threw a right cross at Narian’s chin, which the commander adroitly dodged, stepping back and raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I suggest you walk away, Steldor,” he said, unnervingly calm. “I did so once,” my former husband retorted. “I don’t intend to do so again.” Narian perused his opponent, judging his strengths and weaknesses, then struck Steldor in the middle of his chest with the heel of his palm, sending him staggering backward. In a flash, a dagger appeared in Steldor’s hand, and panic seized me. Would they spill each other’s blood right here, right now? “Stop!” I cried. “Both of you!” They straightened warily at the sound of my voice, and I hurried to stand between them, so distraught my hands were shaking. “I don’t know what this is about,” I beseeched, hoping Cannan would hear and lend assistance. “But please, for my sake, leave things be.” They glared at each other over the top of my head, then Steldor moved away, his eyes on Narian until he could place a hand on the door leading into the Grand Entry. “Queen Alera,” he pointedly acknowledged me. “I humbly honor your request.” With a disdainful smirk for Narian, he tossed the knife onto the floor, then exited, pulling the door firmly closed behind him. Narian crossed to snatch up the weapon, examining it carefully before showing it to me. “Do you plan to tell me that you recognize this blade?” he asked, and I stared at him, dumbfounded. With a stiff nod, he strode through the same door Steldor had used, leaving me alone.

Prophet quickly fished the condom out of his pocket, tore his jeans down, and suited up while Tommy turned to look at him. Prophet fisted a hand in his hair, holding the man’s cheek down to the table while he entered him, hard and fast. He didn’t stop, rocked his pelvis back and forth, watching his cock slide in and out of Tommy. Tommy, who’d raised his hands over his head to clutch the underside of the table. Tommy, whose muscles and ink formed the perfect, masculine lines along his back, his skin shining with sweat.

As soon as I entered the building, I went directly to Trent and bent down so I was closer to his eye level. He finally looked up at me, and his dark eyes were hard as we stared at each other. “If you put those bruises on my future wife’s face”—I growled—“I will pay back every one tenfold.” “I would die before doing that to her.” I saw red. My hands clenched into fists as I yelled, “I’m sure you’ll understand why I don’t fucking believe you! You’ve held her here for over a goddamn month, you worthless piece of shit! If I find out that any of that torture actually happened, you won’t live to see the next day!” Trent kept his eyes on me but didn’t say anything else until after I’d stood and began walking away. “She loves you.” My chest clenched painfully. “You should have reminded yourself of that before you kissed her.” Turning to look at him, I held his gaze as I said, “She’s mine. Do you get that? You can’t have her, and if you touch her again, I won’t be held responsible for my actions. She belongs. To. Me.” When

Hey, Rita.” She watched Jake return to his hardware goodies. “Hey, Meridith. Sorry to call at dinnertime, but this is important.” “What is it?” Jake looked up at her tone. “I ran into Dee Whittier in town awhile ago.” “Who?” “She owns a sporting shop and is on the chamber of commerce with me. She’s also Max and Ben’s soccer coach.” “Okay . . .” “Well, she called and told me she saw the kids’ uncle in town this afternoon.” “What?” Meridith caught Jake’s eye, then flickered a look toward Noelle. “She recognized him because he goes to the boys’ games sometimes and, well, according to her he’s a total stud, and she’s single, so . . . you haven’t heard from him yet?” “No.” “I thought you’d want to know.” “Yes, I—thanks, Rita. Forewarned is forearmed, right?” A scream pierced the line. “Brandon, leave your sister alone!” Rita yelled. “Listen, I gotta run.” “Thanks for calling,” Meridith said absently. “What’s wrong?” Jake asked. He would be coming soon. Surely it wouldn’t take long for him to discover his sister had passed away. She felt a moment’s pity at the thought, then remembered he’d gone over three months without checking in. “You okay?” Jake asked again. Noelle entered the room and grabbed a stack of napkins from the island drawer. “Noelle, your uncle hasn’t called or e-mailed, has he?” Noelle’s hand froze, a stack of napkins clutched in her fist. Her lips parted. Her eyes darted to Jake, then back to Meridith. “Why?” “Rita said someone named Dee saw him in town today.” Noelle closed the drawer slowly. “Oh. Uh . . . no.” Meridith turned to the soup. Thick broth bubbles popped and spewed. She turned down the heat again and stirred. “Well, I guess he’s back. You’ll be seeing him soon.” She tried to inject enthusiasm in her voice, tried to be happy for the children. A piece of familiarity, a renewed bond, a living reminder of their mother. It would be good for them. And yet. What if he wanted them once he found out what had happened to Eva and T. J.? What if he fought her for them and won? Her stomach bottomed out. She loved the children now. They were her siblings. Her family. She remembered coming to the island with every intention of handing them over like unwanted baggage. What she’d once wanted most was now a potential reality. Only now she didn’t want it at all. Dinner

Andy remained seated. I chirped, “Sir, please tell me the reason for your visit. My guardian is fully aware of your proposal.” Struck by my candidness, Ozwalt stammered, “Very well, I will tell you the reason I’m here,” he raised his voice in displeasure. “Your counterproposal is deplorable!” My lover remarked aggressively, “What’s deplorable about Young wishing to be kept in the style he is accustomed to?” The Englishman exclaimed, “He’s not even of age to drive, and he wants a Lamborghini or a Ferrari? What is he thinking?!” “You offered him a city car,” my Valet countered. “He has every right to ask for what he desires.” The man repudiated defensively, “I offered him a city car upon his coming of age to drive, not before!” He was seething with anger. “Atop this, he demands a luxury penthouse in Mayfair or Park Lane, not to mention the live-in personal tutor! Is he insane? Most adults wouldn’t be able to afford a luxury flat and experienced educator, let alone an adolescent who is barely out of his teens.” “Sir, if you do not have the financial capabilities to accommodate the boy’s expectations, there are others who are perfectly capable of doing so,” my chaperone asserted. “Andy! Are you telling me that the lad has other well-endowed suitors willing to pay for such frivolousness?” My lover and I sniggered at the Englishman’s comment, but we managed to suppress our mirth. My guardian answered solemnly, “That, Sir, is none of your concern. I presume you’re here to discuss Young’s counterproposal, not the proposals of his other suitors.” He was taken aback by my mentor’s forthrightness. He raised his voice in retaliation. “I’m here to talk to Young. I would like Young to speak for himself.” I spoke unrelentingly, “I have asked Andy to negotiate on my behalf. I have heard everything he has said and challenge none of it. If my terms are not met, I’m afraid our arrangement is over. There is no further need for discussion.” By now, Ozwalt was on fire. He waved his fist at me and shouted, “You rapacious whore! You’re nothing but a self-indulgent sybaritic slut from a third-world country!” Before he could continue lambasting me with further insults, Wilhem entered. “What’s going on here?” my big-brother questioned. Mossey resumed berating my integrity, calling me a barrage of repugnant names while my chaperones carted him off the campus grounds to his waiting chauffeur and Bentley. Groups of students stood gaping at the wild man, speculating about the nature of the ruckus they were witnessing.

Although Arin was eager to see Kestrel, he would have to wait. He caught threads of music from far away. As he came across the grass, the piano’s melody strengthened. It opened within him a happiness that gathered and gleamed…glossy, but the way water is, with weight. A lovely fatigue claimed him. He lay down on the grass and listened. He thought about how Kestrel had slept on the palace lawn and dreamed of him. When she had told him this, he’d wished that it had been real. He tried to imagine the dream, then found himself dreaming. Everything made sense in his dream yet he felt the tenuousness of this perfect reason. The arch of Kestrel’s bare foot. An old tale about the god of death and the seamstress. Arin would lose, upon waking, his understanding of why touching Kestrel would arouse the memory of a story he’d not thought about in a long time. He dreamed: one stocking balled in his fist, and the stray question of how it had been made, who had sewn this? He saw his hands--though they did not look like his hands--measuring and cutting fabric, sewing invisible stitches. A dark-haired boy tumbled from a room, a god-mark upon his brow. When a guest entered and said, Weave me the cloth of yourself, Arin thought that he was the forbidding guest and the child and the sewing girl all at once. She said, I’m going to miss you when I wake up. Don’t wake up, he answered. But he did. Kestrel, beside him on the grass, said, “Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to.” It took him a velvety moment to understand that this was real. The air was quiet. An insect beat its clear wings. She brushed hair from his brow. Now he was very awake. “You were sleeping so sweetly,” she said. “Dreaming.” He touched her tender mouth. “About what?” “Come closer, and I’ll tell you.” But he forgot. He kissed her, and became lost in the exquisite sensation of his skin becoming too tight for his body. He murmured other things instead. A secret, a want, a promise. A story, in its own way. She curled her fingers into the green earth.

Baltsaros’s arm quickly came around Jon’s waist, and he was hauled up and pushed forwards onto hands and knees and entered again so that he could be fucked slowly from behind. Groaning softly, Jon fell thankfully into the shallow rhythm that the captain liked to use on him to make him cum from within. Tom sat back a moment just watching the two with an amused look on his face as his rough hand squeezed and pulled at his own cock. Then, with an impish grin, the muscular first mate pushed under Jon headfirst to continue using his mouth while Baltsaros’s thick cock thrust into the dark-haired young man. Jon let out a deep moan; it was a feverish, exquisite feeling, and he let himself ride on the wave of it, panting and moving his hips wantonly as both men worked at him. When he lowered himself to his elbows to rest against Tom’s hard stomach, he felt the first mate’s cock touch his lips. With a pulse of desire, he quickly opened his mouth and sucked softly at the head of it, working along the flared edge of the glans and dipping the tip of his tongue into the salty slit while Tom’s hand stroked the shaft, his hard fist bumping up against Jon’s wet lips. Beneath him, Tom let out a low moan and shifted his head back so that Jon’s cock slid more easily between his lips. A moment later, the first mate’s big hands came up to hold Jon’s waist as the three of them moved slowly together.

As the story goes, during LaGuardia’s stint as judge, a little old lady who had stolen a loaf of bread for her starving grandchildren was brought into court. The fine was either ten dollars (a considerable sum in those post-Depression days) or ten days in jail. Surmising the woman’s destitute situation, Mayor LaGuardia reached into his pocket and paid the fine himself, and then passed a hat around, stating, “I’m fining everyone in this courtroom fifty cents for living in a city where a person has to steal bread in order to eat.” The old woman went home with $47.50 in her purse and hope shining in her eyes. Mayor LaGuardia demonstrated compassion at its finest in that courtroom. Compassion is empathetic willingness to enter someone else’s distress. To not only share their suffering, but take it one step further in attempting to alleviate it.

Slowly, trying not to startle her, he pushed down the black sleep pants which were all he was wearing. Then he rose and stood in front of her in a relaxed posture, giving her time to look. Olivia’s gaze flicked over his body, marking his shoulders and chest and the flat planes of his abdomen before dipping lower to look between his legs. Baird saw her eyes widen as she took in the thick club of his sex which was already more than half hard in anticipation of seeing her naked. “My God,” she murmured, putting a hand to her mouth. “Is there something wrong?” Baird looked down at himself. He knew from the material Sylvan had given him to study that Kindred males were pretty much the same as their human counterparts—although built on a considerably larger scale. The only difference in their anatomy was the mating fist at the base of his shaft and it wouldn’t fully inflate until he was buried deep in his bride’s sweet body, bonding her to him. “Nothing’s wrong.” Olivia’s cheeks were as red as her robe. “It’s just…you’re so big. I mean, can you actually use that thing without being arrested for assault with a deadly weapon?” Baird realized she was making a joke about his size—probably because it frightened her. “It’s all right, Lilenta,” he murmured, taking a step toward her. “I would never hurt you. I promise that when the time comes for me to enter you, I’ll make sure you’re wet and ready to take me.” “You’re assuming we’ll make it that far.” Her words were defiant but her voice shook, betraying her uncertainty. “Not

Are you sure it’s going to fit? You told me to get a double.” “I did?” She glanced at the platform. “I meant a full. That’s a little narrower, isn’t it?” “I don’t know. I hope they’re the same. Measure twice, move once.” Doubt flickered across Kenzie’s expression. “That’s not how the saying goes.” “It’ll do for now.” “Let’s just try it.” She curled her fingers around a handle and dragged it onward. Linc reached for the other one and helped her flip it down. It hollowed in the middle and hung over the edge. “I’m guessing I got suckered,” he said with annoyance. He looked at the label sewn into the side. “It isn’t a national brand--the measurement sure isn’t standard. The damn thing is about three inches wider than the platform.” “The length is correct,” Kenzie said helpfully. Linc lifted it back up again and leaned it against the opposite wall. “Yeah. Great.” “Sorry,” she offered. He bent over and ran a hand along the platform’s edge, pushing gently on the long wooden bar that kept the mattress in place. It gave at one corner. “Stapled. Not exactly quality construction.” He thumped at it with a closed fist to pry it loose and di the same thing at the other end, straightening with the bar in his hand. He handed it to her. “This can go in the closet. You get to explain to Norm.” “He won’t care. You’re a genius.” Linc hoisted the mattress and flipped it down again. “If you say so.” He grinned. “At least the bed’s flat.” Kenzie rested the bar in a corner and got busy stripping off the plastic while he watched. The luxurious satin top gleamed softly--he’d spent what she’d given him. When she was done, she had an armful of plastic that she stuffed into a bag on top of the crumpled rock-star posters. With a sigh of happiness she sat down on her new bed. “Thanks so much. You really came through.” “I like protecting you from lecherous mattress salesmen. You don’t need to thank me,” he joked. “How about a kiss instead?” Linc was taken aback. He opened his mouth, too surprised for a second to say yes. No never entered his mind.

I’m sorry.” “I don’t think that’s something you have to be sorry for. I haven’t done it. I’ve had two hundred years and I haven’t.” “Why not?” asked Halim. “It was easier to be a toad,” said Toadling. “I thought perhaps I could, one day, but then I was a toad for a long time, and as long as I was a toad, I didn’t have to worry about it. And then no one could get in, so it didn’t matter anymore.” “Didn’t matter? But you couldn’t leave here, could you?” “No. But I’d made a mess of the gift. I didn’t give it to her properly. So it was only right I had to stay.” “You think you had to pay for two hundred years for a momentary slip of the tongue?” Toadling was giggling at him. She could feel the words slipping down inside her, into a place under her breastbone. The other words rearranged themselves to make space. “There’s a very high wall,” said Halim, “according to the imams, called al-A’raf. Between hell and paradise. And if you haven’t been good enough or evil enough to go to one place or the other, you live in this wall. But even those people will eventually enter paradise, because God is merciful.” He jammed his chin onto his fist and gazed at Toadling. “It seems like you’ve been stuck in that wall for quite a long time now…That’s all the theology I’ve got in me, incidentally, so I hope it’s useful.” Toadling sighed. “I would like to climb down from that wall,” she admitted.

In this blind rage, they throw their fists at Christianity and hit Common Sense, then Common Sense enters the fight.

You should know why I was 'nice' to you in the shower, Ava. Think about it. Take a fucking guess as to how a girl like me would know what a chick like you is feeling.” The insinuation is clear. The only thing that could've made me act like that was … and if she knows, if she could tell, then … it’s because she’s felt it too. Instead of making me relate to her, however, it only makes me angrier. I deserve to feel angry for being betrayed. I deserve to want to punch her in the face and break her nose. I’m contemplating doing just that when Dean bangs a fist into the door, distracting me. "Avalon! Open the fucking door,” he yells through the wood. Not yet, I think. I'm not done. I keep my hands to my sides as I step even closer, my chest brushing against Rylie's. Her eyes widen as her back presses into the door all on its own now. A sick feeling enters my gut. Whatever she says, I need to know something. I need to know because if she had anything to do with Roger Murphy and Plexton then I need to—God, I don't want to hurt her, but I can't let anyone get away with doing that. I am not weak.

What do you think, Rem’eb the Fist?” the second man calls out from the doorway. He won’t enter, won’t even look in this direction. I’m guessing that he’s not allowed to look at me, which only makes me more nervous. The one standing in front of me blinks. He must be Rem’eb. One hand reaches up to rub his jaw, and his lips part as he stares at me as if he cannot believe what he’s seeing. If he’s startled to see me, he must not have been the one that kidnapped me. The moniker “The Fist” is a little alarming, though. I’m not going to relax my guard just yet. The Fist guy finally answers, clearing his throat before speaking. “She…she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.” Oh. Well. I might be an idiot, because it’s hard not to be somewhat flattered by that awed tone of voice.

Verin gave her a snakelike smile, and Cain clapped him on the back as he entered the chalk-etched circle, drawing his sword. Nox put a hand on her shoulder, and out of the corner of her eye, she spied Chaol and Dorian watching them closely. She ignored them. It was enough. Enough of the pretending and the meekness. Enough of Cain. Verin raised his sword, shaking his blond curls out of his eyes. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” She stalked toward him, keeping her sword sheathed at her side. Verin’s grin widened as he lifted his blade. He swung, but Celaena struck, ramming her fist into his arm, sending the blade soaring through the air. In the same breath, her palm hit his left arm, knocking it aside, too. As he staggered back, her leg came up, and Verin’s eyes bulged as her foot slammed into his chest. The kick sent him flying, and his body crunched as it hit the floor and slid out of the ring, instantly eliminating him. The hall was utterly silent. “Mock me again,” she spat at Verin, “and I’ll do that with my sword the next time.” She turned from him, and found Brullo’s face slack. “Here’s a lesson for you, Weapons Master,” she said, stalking past him. “Give me real men to fight. Then maybe I’ll bother trying.” She strode away, past the grinning Nox, and stopped before Cain. She stared up at his face—a face that might have been handsome had he not been a bastard—and smiled with sweet venom. “Here I am,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Just a little lapdog.

So I slowly grew used to myself. One imposes oneself so lightly on others and yet can scarcely endure one's own company. Gradually, however, I found me quite pleasant and amusing- day and night I made the oddest discoveries about me. But in that long time I lost contact with everything, with life, with the world. The days dropped away from me rapidly and regularly. I felt how I was slowly emptied of the real world and filled with my own self. I felt how I went ever further away from this world, the world I had only just entered. The walls were so cold and dead that I fell sick with despair and hopelessness. You scream out your misery for a few days- but when there's no answer you soon get tired. You beat for a few hours on door and wall- but when they don't open, fists are soon sore, and in this desert that tiny pain is the only pleasure.

forced to join the fighting, which was why their families and communities—including Salva’s schoolmaster—had sent the boys running into the bush at the first sign of fighting. Children who arrived at the refugee camp without their families were grouped together, so Salva was separated at once from the people he had traveled with. Even though they had not been kind to him, at least he had known them. Now, among strangers once again, he felt uncertain and maybe even afraid. As he walked through the camp with several other boys, Salva glanced at every face he passed. Uncle had said that no one knew where his family was for certain . . . so wasn’t there at least a chance that they might be here in the camp? Salva looked around at the masses of people stretched out as far as he could see. He felt his heart sink a little, but he clenched his hands into fists and made himself a promise. If they are here, I will find them. After so many weeks of walking, Salva found it strange to be staying in one place. During that long, terrible trek, finding a safe place to stop and stay for a while had been desperately important. But now that he was at the camp, he felt restless—almost as if he should begin walking again. The camp was safe from the war. There were no men with guns or machetes, no planes with bombs overhead. On the evening of his very first day, Salva was given a bowl of boiled maize to eat, and another one the next morning. Already things were better here than they had been during the journey. During the afternoon of the second day, Salva picked his way slowly through the crowds. Eventually, he found himself standing near the gate that was the main entrance to the camp, watching the new arrivals enter. It did not seem as if the camp could possibly hold any more, but still they kept coming: long lines of people, some emaciated, some hurt or sick, all exhausted. As Salva scanned the faces, a flash of orange caught his eye. Orange . . . an orange headscarf . . . He began pushing and stumbling past people. Someone spoke to him angrily, but he did not stop to excuse himself. He could still see the vivid spot of orange—yes, it was a headscarf—the woman’s back was to him, but she was tall, like his mother—he had to catch up, there were too many people in the way— A half-sob broke free from Salva’s lips. He mustn’t lose track of her! Chapter Twelve Southern Sudan, 2009

There is even a Sanskrit proverb that says, most people give off sparks only when you land a fist in their eye ! : and so, painter, paint ! poet, write ! with your fist ! (For they have to be awakened somehow, the semi-people behind the boundary line : so simply let yourselves be cursed as "ruffians" by the faint-hearted; as "arsonists" by the firefighters; as "breakers-and-enterers" by the sleepers : they should thank their appropriate gods that somebody has finally awakened them !).

I pounded my fist against his broad, muscular back, but he remained unfazed. “Put me down,” I cried, my voice shaking with rage. “I’m not kidding, Dacre. Put me down or…”  He kicked his door shut behind us as he entered before he tossed me down on the bed.  “Or what?” He leaned forward, his jaw clenched and a challenge in his eyes.

Verin gave her a snakelike smile, and Cain clapped him on the back as he entered the chalk-etched circle, drawing his sword. Nox put a hand on her shoulder, and out of the corner of her eye, she spied Chaol and Dorian watching them closely. She ignored them. It was enough. Enough of the pretending and the meekness. Enough of Cain. Verin raised his sword, shaking his blond curls out of his eyes. “Let’s see what you’ve got.” She stalked toward him, keeping her sword sheathed at her side. Verin’s grin widened as he lifted his blade. He swung, but Celaena struck, ramming her fist into his arm, sending the blade soaring through the air. In the same breath, her palm hit his left arm, knocking it aside, too. As he staggered back, her leg came up, and Verin’s eyes bulged as her foot slammed into his chest. The kick sent him flying, and his body crunched as it hit the floor and slid out of the ring, instantly eliminating him. The hall was utterly silent. “Mock me again,” she spat at Verin, “and I’ll do that with my sword the next time.” She turned from him, and found Brullo’s face slack. “Here’s a lesson for you, Weapons Master,” she said, stalking past him. “Give me real men to fight. Then maybe I’ll bother trying.” She strode away, past the grinning Nox, and stopped before Cain. She stared up at his face—a face that might

Sliding her fingers into his hair, she drew his head down and claimed his lips in a longer, deeper kiss. His arms tightened around her. His tongue delved inside to stroke her own. Desire swept through her, heating her blood and driving her to fist his hair. He groaned. And Lisa knew it wasn’t from pain this time, but need. He buried a hand in her hair and tilted her head so he could deepen the kiss even more. His other hand caressed her back and pressed her closer, reminding her that they were both naked. What the hell was she doing? She broke the kiss, stunned to realize she was practically panting with need, and stared up into emerald green. Taelon affected her in ways no other man had. “What are we doing?” she whispered. A twinkle of mischief entered his eyes. “Breaking a number of Lasaran laws.” Her lips twitched. “Aside from that.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m so drawn to you, Lisa.

The first rule of etiquette a boy learns when he’s about to enter society is that civility is due to all women. No provocation, no matter how unjust and rudely delivered, can validate a man who fails to treat a woman with anything less than utmost courtesy.” The boys hung on his every word. He glanced in her direction. “I have met some incredibly unpleasant women, and I have never failed in this duty. But I must admit: your sister may prove my undoing.” Rose pulled the magic to her. “Get out.” He shook his head with a critical look on his face. She clenched her fist. “You have ten seconds to exit my house, or I’ll fry you.” “If you try frying me, I’ll be seriously put out,” he said.

She closed her eyes for a minute, then put her feet back down and peeled some purple varnish off her thumbnail. “I don’t know, Louisa. Perhaps I’ll just follow your amazing example and do all the exciting things you do.” I took three deep breaths, just to prevent myself from stopping the car on the motorway. Nerves, I told myself. It was just her nerves. And then, just to annoy her, I turned on Radio 2 really loudly and kept it there the rest of the way. • • • We found Four Acres Lane with help from a local dog walker, and pulled up outside Fox’s Cottage, a modest white building with a thatched roof. Outside, scarlet roses tumbled around an iron arch at the start of the garden path, and delicately colored blooms fought for space in neatly tended beds. A small hatchback car sat in the drive. “She’s gone down in the world,” said Lily, peering out. “It’s pretty.” “It’s a shoebox.” I sat, listening to the engine tick down. “Listen, Lily. Before we go in. Just don’t expect too much,” I said. “Mrs. Traynor’s sort of formal. She takes refuge in manners. She’ll probably speak to you like she’s a teacher. I mean, I don’t think she’ll hug you, like Mr. Traynor did.” “My grandfather is a hypocrite.” Lily sniffed. “He makes out like you’re the greatest thing ever, but really he’s just pussy-whipped.” “And please don’t use the term ‘pussy-whipped.’” “There’s no point pretending to be someone I’m not,” Lily said sulkily. We sat there for a while. I realized that neither of us wanted to be the one to walk up to the door. “Shall I try to call her one more time?” I said, holding up my phone. I’d tried twice that morning but it had gone straight to voice mail. “Don’t tell her straight away,” she said suddenly. “Who I am, I mean. I just . . . I just want to see who she is. Before we tell her.” “Sure,” I said, softening. And before I could say anything else, Lily was out of the car and striding up toward the front gate, her hands bunched into fists like a boxer about to enter a ring. • • • Mrs. Traynor had gone quite, quite gray. Her hair, which had been tinted dark brown, was now white and short, making her look much older than she actually was, or like someone recently recovered from a serious illness. She was probably a stone lighter than when

Almost every child will complain about their parents sometimes. It is natural, because when people stay together for a long time, they will start to have argument. But ignore about the unhappy time, our parents love us all the time. No matter what happen to us, they will stand by our sides. We should be grateful to them and try to understand them. 카톡►ppt33◄ 〓 라인►pxp32◄ 홈피는 친추로 연락주세요 팔팔정판매,팔팔정팝니다,팔팔정구입방법,팔팔정구매방법,팔팔정판매사이트,팔팔정약효, 비아그라복용법,시알리스복용법,레비트라복용법 The fire of the liquid, which makes you, when you wake up, when you wake up, when you're stoned, when you're stoned, when you turn heaven and earth upside down, when you turn black and white, when the world turns right and wrong, when it turns human history upside down, when it turns four arts of the Chinese scholar, when it turns red and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white, when it turns black and white and white, when it turns black and white and white, when it turns Crazy poem immortal, Make Public Cao Cao, write hongmen banquet, Wet Qingming Apricot rain, thin Begonia Li Qingzhao, Jingyanggang, help Wu Song three Fists Kill Tigers, Xunyang Tower, Vertical Song Jiang Poem Rebellion, you Ah, you, how many Heroes Jin Yong's Linghu Chong put down how many village men singing and dancing with you, beauty with you, urge poetry, Zhuang Literati Bold, some people borrow you crazy, some people borrow you to seize power, sometimes you are just a prop, to set off the atmosphere at the negotiating table, sometimes you are more like a hidden weapon, knocking out the opponents who drink too much. You, you, have entered both the luxurious houses of Zhu men and the humble cottages, both overflowing the golden bottles of the Royal Family and filling the coarse bowls of the peasant family. You are needed for sorrow, and you are needed for joy, on your wedding night, when you meet a friend from another country, when your name is inscribed on the gold list, the migrating and exiled prisoners, the down-and-out Literati, the high-flying officials of the imperial court, are all your confidants, your companions, and even the condemned prisoners who are about to go on their way, they all want you to say goodbye to them because of you, how many great events have been delayed, because of you, how many unjust cases have been made, because of you, how many anecdotes have been kept alive, because of you, how many famous works have been produced, but also because of you, how many people's liver cancer has been created, and the soul has gone to heaven, it is true, there are successes and failures as well as you, life also has you, death also has you, you drown sorrow more sorrow, poor also has you, rich also has you, thousands of families also can not leave you.

So…” Lindsay started again, “… are we still on for spring break?” Jumping off her seat, Lilian stood on the table, left foot on the bench, right on the table itself. She raised a hand to her face, clenching it into a fist, eyes blazing with an inner fire. “Of course we are!” she declared, wearing a large, excited smile. “There’s no way we’re going to alter our plans now! This is my first spring break, and by Inari, we are going to travel out of this state and have fun!” A grinning Kevin followed his girlfriend-slash-mate’s example. He, too, jumped onto the table, imitating Lilian’s pose. An excited gleam had entered his eyes. “That’s right! This is something we must do! It’s going to be the adventure of a lifetime! There’s no way we can pass up on this opportunity!” Everyone stared at the two with the kind of “WTF?” expression that had become commonplace among them.

Maggie sucked in a breath. Confronted with Glory’s eyes—Rhys’s eyes—she couldn’t lie. Nor did she want to. “Yes, it’s true. I knew Ransom before I married your father…the one who raised you I mean. But Ransom didn’t find out about you until he came to Dorset a few weeks ago.” Anxiously, she searched her daughter’s face. “I know how confusing this must be. It all happened a long time ago, and—” “I understand.” She blinked at the steady reply. “You do?” Glory nodded. “Does Ransom want to be my papa now?” “He does, dear heart.” Hesitantly, Maggie asked, “Do you think…you’d like that too?” In answer, Glory called out, “Papa! Papa—stop fighting!” Rhys’s arm froze mid-swing. He twisted toward them. Maggie saw the haze of bloodlust slowly fade from his eyes. “Did Glory just call me…Papa?” he asked hoarsely. “She did.” Her heart full to bursting, Maggie smiled tremulously. “Now that we have your attention, would you mind leaving off the killing and joining your family instead?” Rhys surged to his feet, rising from the ash of pulverized glass. Dark hair waved over his sweaty brow. His cheek was cut, his jacket torn, and his fists dripped blood. He was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen. “Anything for my girls,” he said. He started over. She and Glory met him halfway, running into his arms.

At ninety-five she knew a lot about death, having outlived most of her own family. ‘But you keep them here,’ she’d said, pressing a fist into her chest as if it would enter her very heart. ‘They never go far from there. Sometimes, little Ben will come into the kitchen, hearing me speaking, and ask me who am I talking to, and it’s one of them. I’m speaking with my family. They never really leave you.’ I couldn’t help but hope that was true.

Curtis Rouanzoin waves a thin metal rod back and forth in front of my eyes as I recall memories of my mother. He then places headphones over my ears and plays tones that jump from the right earpiece to the left one as I keep remembering and feeling pain, remembering and feeling pain—until I’m just remembering. Lindsay Joy Greene ducks as I send my fist flying into the air with all my strength, releasing anger that feels like it’s been trapped in my wrist for decades. I do it over and over again with each hand, until I just don’t need to anymore. Olga Stevko spends eight hours hypnotizing me. I walk around her office, entering the minds of my parents in search of the things they didn’t get from their parents. Then I imagine flowing these qualities to each person in my family back seven generations and then forward to me in the moment I was conceived, until I feel like I actually grew up with them. Greg Cason gives me homework. Lots of it. Thought records, goal sheets, written exposures, gratitude diaries, behavioral experiments—each one chipping away at my fears and pathological accommodation until I can see them as the delusions they are. Barbara McNally tells me to close my eyes; picture myself and my mother in a room with a white light coming from me and an X over her; and then imagine yelling, “Give me the fucking keys!” as I punch her in the face repeatedly. I am at war. It is a strange fucking war. But I am winning.

could always come home? He wasn’t himself, I don’t think — the uh, the…’  He couldn’t say the word. Heroin. ‘It changed him. We hadn’t heard from him for a long time. We didn’t know if he was alive, or… And now…’ He pulled the phone from his ear and started sobbing in the background, the audio muffled as he put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Mr Hammond?’ she asked, forcing the words over the lump in her throat. ‘Mr Hammond?’ He brought the phone back. ‘I’m here, sorry. Sorry, it’s… Sorry.’ ‘That’s alright. Can you tell me when Oliver first started using? Who with, maybe? Did he have any friends, or?’ ‘No, I don’t know. He was always independent, you know? Going to meet friends in the city, and… He had a girlfriend, but we didn’t know who. He wouldn’t tell us. Thought we wouldn’t approve, or… or… I don’t know.’ Grace came to mind. ‘How long ago was this?’ ‘August last year, maybe? Before it all started to, uh…’ ‘That’s great,’ Jamie said, her free hand clenched tightly into a fist. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you. Would it be alright if I gave you a call tomorrow? Or if you’d prefer, I could come to—’ ‘No, no, that’s fine. You can call… I’ll be in work, but… I’ll call you back when I can.’ Jesus. He was going back to work the next day? He didn’t even think about it. Like missing a few days hadn’t even entered the realm of the possible. ‘Okay. Thank you,’ she said. Apologising for it all was bad practice. Even though she wanted to.  ‘Goodbye,’ he said. She left it at that and hung up, letting him process. She had enough to start piecing together a timeline. And an idea of what had happened. At least at the start.

a softer job—and maybe his body would hold out a few years longer. This physician didn’t realize the mound of debt that already had buried Billy. In the words of sportswriter Rick Reilly, Billy’s car distributorship didn’t “distribute near enough cars,” and he trusted people too much—friends took advantage of Billy and often didn’t pay him for cars they drove off the lot.12 He also had a family. They needed to eat, and since his business had failed, Billy knew only one way of putting bread on the table: Win it with his fists. So the sick man kept fighting. In fact, he entered the ring thirty more times after his fateful diagnosis. Most top heavyweights today fight maybe twice a year; Billy kept mixing it up in the ring every other month or so. And he didn’t

Yes, the girl sneezing pink froth and the woman fisting her eyes each time another oldie crackles from the ceiling look worse than I do. See them. And find, please, a dentist for the man clutching two molars in a bloody paper towel. And a CPA or lawyer - summon one for the man squeezing the folder of gray paper to his chest and squeaking grievously. But I have an appointment. I arrived two hours ago, on time, a little early in fact, and someone must help me find the Ferris wheel I hear looping in my attic and the Tilt-A-Whirl lopsidedly unfolding and refolding in the basement. Through the walls, I hear the oompah-pahing of a carousel, and in dark windows and the gleaming facades of black appliances I glimpse ascending and descending carved horses, real tigers, elephants, and waltzing poodles. Whitewashed clowns ghost across a TV humbling itself before beer, soap, laundry, and my armpits, muffling the human cannonball's applause and the dumbfounded wow when orange torches enter a human face and emerge unquenched. The circus is not my fault or responsibility. Someone must write that down. Someone must sell me a ticket.

FREDERICK (taking Lee's head in his hands and looking at her) Oh...Lee, you are my whole world. (pausing) Good God! Have you been kissed tonight?! LEE (reacting, pushing Frederick's hands from her face) No. FREDERICK (reacting) Oh, yes, you have! LEE (quickly standing up, defensively) No. FREDERICK (raising his voice) You've been with someone! LEE (overlapping, running away from the bed) Stop accusing me! Lee runs into the kitchen, her hands tight around her chest. FREDERICK (offscreen) I'm too smart, Lee! You can't fool me! You're turning all red! Lee, fraught with emotion, briefly puts her outstretched hands on the refrigerator door, then turns around and leans against it, hugging herself, her blouse still unbuttoned, her hair still wet and bedraggled. LEE Leave me alone! Frederick enters the kitchen area and leans against the counter. FREDERICK (angrily) Oh, Christ! What's wrong with you?! LEE (leaning against the refrigerator, sighing) I'm sorry. FREDERICK Oh, couldn't you say something? You have to slither around behind my back! LEE (overlapping, her voice emotionally raised) I'm saying it now! FREDERICK So you met somebody else? LEE (sighing, nodding) Yeah. Frederick cringes, reacting. He puts his hand to his forehead; he sighs. LEE (walking into the bathroom) But you, God, you knew that was going to happen sooner or later. I can't live like this! FREDERICK (turning to face Lee in the bathroom, his arms crossed) Who is it? LEE (frantically putting things in her purse, glaring at Frederick) What's the difference?! It's just somebody I met! FREDERICK But who? Where did you meet him? LEE It doesn't make a difference! I have to move out! FREDERICK You are, you are my only connection to the world! Lee turns and faces Frederick in the bathroom doorway. LEE (gesturing emotionally) Oh, God, that's too much responsibility for me. It's not fair! I want a less complicated life, Frederick. I want a husband, maybe even a child before it's too late. FREDERICK (reacting, his face in his hand) Jesus...Jesus! LEE (gesturing, moving closer to Frederick) Oh, God, I don't even know what I want. FREDERICK (sighing heavily, reacting) Oh... LEE (rubbing Frederick's shoulder tenderly) Tch, oh, what do you get out of me, anyway? I mean... (laying her head against his shoulder, sighing deeply) it's not sexual anymore. It's certainly not intellectual. I mean, you're so superior to me in every way that-- Frederick furiously shakes Lee away. He pounds his fist against a cupboard. Lee, gasping, moves away. FREDERICK Please, don't patronize me! He puts his hand on his forehead, then turns to the offscreen Lee.

Ah, so ye will escort me to my cousin’s then, will ye?” she said in a voice so sweet she was surprised it did not make her teeth ache. “Nay, they willnae,” drawled an all too familiar voice from behind her. Inwardly cursing, Bridget turned to face Cathal. “I have decided ’tis time for me to continue on my journey.” “And ye decided ye had to do it now? Right now? Without most of your belongings?” “Aye. I got to thinking—” “A dangerous thing for a lass to do. Ow!” Jankyn rubbed his stomach where Bridget had just hit him with her sack of belongings, and grinned at her. “Why are ye nay out with the others, howling at the moon?” “At least I am nay dancing beneath it.” He laughed when she blushed. “Ye were watching me?” “I heard ye singing.” “That was so rude.” If he had been drawn by her singing then he could not have seen her naked, Bridget mused, and relaxed. “I had left the camp to seek a few moments of privacy.” Cathal grasped Bridget by the arm, turning her attention back to him. “Why were ye leaving?” Bridget could feel the blunt truth on the tip of her tongue, but could not bring herself to speak it. It was as if she feared that, in speaking the words, the truth could no longer be ignored. That was absurd. She knew the truth. By the way the three men looked at her, they knew she had guessed all their secrets. It made no difference. She simply could not utter the dark, terrifying name aloud. In some odd, twisted way, she was actually concerned about offending them. “I decided I wasnae going to play your game any longer,” she replied. “I was going to my cousin’s.” “Alone? At night?” “Tis the best time for an escape.” But not here, she realized, and inwardly cursed her own stupidity. At Cambrun high noon on a sunny day would have been a better choice. “I have prepared for a visit with Barbara for months. I want to go to court, to see all the fine clothes, and to watch all the courtiers and their ladies. I want to sit down to a feast and listen to all the whispers about who is sinning with whom. I want to hear the minstrels sing and I want to dance with some fine, courtly gentlemon who will tell me all manner of sweet lies about how bonnie I am. I want—” A squeak of surpise and outrage escaped her when Cathal suddenly picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. The soft laughter of Jankyn and Raibeart only added to her anger over being so roughly handled. Bridget dropped her belongings and proceeded to pound her fists against his broad back. Cathal did not even flinch as he continued to take her back to her bedchamber and that, too, increased her fury. Under her breath she cursed him and his stubborness. “Tis nay just me who is blindly stubborn,” muttered Cathal as he entered the bedchamber and kicked the door shut behind him. “Tis ye who refuses to give up this plan to go to court. And for what? To hear empty flatteries and malicious tales?” He paused by the bed. “Undo your cloak.” Even as she blindly obeyed that terse command, Bridget wondered why she did so. Such quick obedience was not in her nature. She growled softly when her cloak was pulled from her and tossed to the floor. Before she could say anything, she was tossed down onto the bed. Her body was still bouncing slightly when Cathal sprawled on top of her, gently but firmly pinning her down. Bridget scowled at him, more angry than afraid, and tried not to let the beauty of his face distract her. She had a right to be angry and she would hold fast to that feeling no matter how warm and itchy he made her feel. “Ye are staying here,” Cathal said. “I am going to woo ye and then we will be married.” “Oh! What arrogance! Ye may woo me, but that doesnae necessarily mean ye will win me.” Bridget

As they walked together down the halls and the back staircase, Nicholas studied the ceiling, which was all white with twirly bits like a wedding cake. He had a troubling thought. “You hate fist bumps?” he asked. “But you’ve fist-bumped me and Eugene.” “I don’t mind if it’s you,” said Seiji. “And I don’t mind much if it’s Eugene. But not Chad!” “Okay, not Chad,” Nicholas soothed, and grinned at the back of Seiji’s head as they entered the dining hall.