Injured Wolf Quotes

Two students severely injured, you yourself covered in blood, a Reaper on the premises, a Fenrir wolf running around loose somewhere, and extensive property damage to the resort. Well?" Nickamedes snapped. "What do you have to say for yourself, Gwendolyn?" I thought for a second, then grinned at him. "I followed your directions exactly. I never set one foot outside the hotel.

Wolf took Scarlet’s hands into his, as tenderly as he would pick up an injured butterfly, and slid the band onto her finger. His voice was rough and wavering as he recited—“I, Ze’ev Kesley, do hereby claim you, Scarlet Benoit, as my wife and my Alpha. Forevermore, you will be my mate, my star, my beginning of everything.” He smiled down at her, his eyes swimming with emotion. Scarlet returned the look, and though Wolf’s expression teetered between proud and bashful, Scarlet’s face contained nothing but joy. “You are the one. You have always been, and you will always be, the only one. Scarlet took the second ring—a significantly larger version of the same unadorned band—and pressed it onto Wolf’s finger. “I, Scarlet Benoit, do hereby claim you, Ze’ev Kesley, as my husband and my Alpha. Forevermore, you will be my mate, my star, my beginning of everything. You are the one. You have always been, and you will always be, the only one.” Wolf folded his hands around hers. From where she sat, Cinder could see that he was shaking. Kai grinned. “By the power given to me by the people of Earth, under the laws of the Earthen Union and as witnessed by those gathered here today, I do now pronounce you husband and wife.” He spread his hands in invitation. “You may kiss your—” Wolf wrapped his arms around Scarlet’s waist, lifting her off the floor, and kissed her before Kai could finish. Or maybe she kissed him. It seemed mutual, as her hands wound through his disheveled hair. The room exploded with cheers, everyone launching to their feet to congratulate the still-kissing couple. Scarlet had lost one of her red shoes. “I’ll get the champagne,” said Thorne, heading toward the kitchen. “Those two are going to be thirsty when they finally come up for air.

My father would take you wherever you wanted to go," he told her softly. "I was pretty sure I could talk you into staying, but I underestimated how badly hurt I was." "Stupid," she said tartly. He looked up at her, and whatever he saw in her face made him smile, though his voice was serious when he answered her charge. "Yes. You throw my judgement off." -Charles and Anna when he thought she was leaving him and Changed when he was injured

They've read too many of those romances with alpha males striding their way through them. They think that beneath all that granite they're going to find a tender, injured soul crying out for their healing touch. Whereas I see someone whose mother didn't tell him to "make nice" enough when he was little. If he ever was little.

I would control your life, every step you walk, and every word you say; there is no way you can run from an injured wolf.

You know,' she begins, 'you fellas ought to be looking after each other.' Her comment makes me realise that through the lies, the greatest irony is that we are looking out for each other. It's just that in the end, we're letting her down. That's what injures us.

I sigh, feel the heat rise in my cheeks, and look at the clock. Wolf asks me to play a game with him-me! out of all the girls at our table!-and I injure him. Flick him right in the eye.

Pieces Sometimes there only seem to be clouds. Tonight, the clouds hang above me, sulking in the sky. They watch me write the words. I don’t even think they bother to read. I imagine myself in a room, where some shattered pieces are strewn on the floor, in front of me. As I walk towards them, I have no idea what they are, so I approach with trepidation. They seem to be a puzzle, all torn up and thrown apart. They look injured. I crouch down and being putting them together, finding each scrap that surrounds my feet. Gradually, I see the picture form as I put it all together. Gradually, I see. These pieces on the ground. Are made of me.

Do you happen to know when the apothecary will be arriving? We have an injured brother and are in need of herbs to reduce his fever." "You're the one who'll need the apothecary!" "I have already said that I need the apothecary. Shall I speak more slowly?

She slipped into the shadows and waited, like a she-wolf, for her quarry. Bay caught her breath when Owen Blackthorne stepped into the cool night air. He was close enough to touch. His shaggy black hair looked rumpled, as though he’d shoved both hands through it in agitation. When he started to move off the porch, Bay reached out and grasped his sleeve. A second later she was slammed back against the wall, a powerful male hand at her throat choking her. She could feel the heat of him, the solid maleness of him. And panicked. She clawed at Owen’s flesh with her nails and drove her knee upward toward his genitals. Her thrust her upraised knee aside, and the full weight of his over-six-foot frame shoved hard against her from shoulders to thighs. Bay froze, staring up at him in mute horror. Her body trembled in shock. She tried to speak, but there was no air to be had beneath the crushing pressure of his grip on her throat. “What the hell . . .?” He released her throat and grabbed her arms to yank her into the narrow stream of light from the kitchen doorway. She gasped a breath of air, coughed, then gasped another, pressing a shaky hand to her injured throat. She wrenched to free herself, but he let her go without a struggle and took a wary step back. She rubbed her arms where he’d held her, wishing she’d approached him more directly. “What are you doing out here, Mizz Creed?” His voice was clipped but controlled. The violence she’d felt in his touch was still there in his eyes, which glittered with hostility. “It’s Dr. Creed,” she rasped, glaring back at him. He lifted a black brow. “Well, Dr. Creed.” She opened her mouth to say I need your help. But the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing wrong with her voice. She just hated the thought of asking a Blackthorne for anything. “I haven’t got all night,” he said. “There’s an emergency at the barn—” “Ruby’s foal has already been delivered safely,” she said. “I made up that story because I wanted to speak privately with you.

Long ago there was a little boy who lived in the wood with his father and his sister. One night, the three of them were out collecting firewood when they heard a low, delicate whimper. The father realised it was an injured animal and ordered the children to fetch water from the lake, whilst he followed the sound. Hours past but the father did not return. The children became fearful for their father’s safety and in their moment of fright, they disobeyed their father in order to find him. And find him they did. However, he was no longer the man he once was. Both his eyes were slit through their centre, oozing blood down the paleness of his face. His neck had been torn open. The entirety of his midsection was split but nothing, not one, single organ, seemed to be left within. Each limb still remained, however they had been dragged, with some exceptional force, in the opposite direction to which they were designed. The children screamed and ran, though the image of their father’s mangled corpse seemed to chase after them. They slept. Within the whisper of the wind came the sweet tune of a woman’s song. The little girl awoke to the feeling of happiness, security and motherly love that the song carried with it. She needed to find the woman it had come from. Leaving her brother, she took off into the wood to try and find the singer. The little boy quickly entered into a spit of panic when he found his sister missing. He didn’t know whether he should call out for her, look for her or wait. But waiting could mean the worst, he thought, and so he took off into the woods after her. He had searched everywhere, every dark corner and decrepit tree, before reaching the lake. The moon reflected off its black surface, which drew his attention to something bobbing within the ripples. It was a leg. When he caught sight of the foot, the boy fell to his knees. He recognised the shoe. It was his sister’s shoe; his sister’s leg. Soon enough, the other body parts came drifting to join the leg, forming a rough manifestation of what was once his sister’s living body. Firstly, there was a head facing down in the water, then arms seemingly blue under the moonlight, and lastly a torso coated in her favourite dress. He felt sick, lost, terrified to his very core. Just as thoughts of never being whole again began to pain his chest, the boy heard the snapping of a twig behind him. He dared to turn around but all he found was a small, black-furred wolf. The wolf approached him timidly, whining deep in its throat to say to the boy that he too was lonely and afraid. The boy put out his hand for the wolf to join him and they sat together. Perhaps he would be OK. Perhaps all that had happened had led to this; something new. He rustled the fur of his new friend, starting with its back then its ear before going under its snout. His hand touched something wet and sticky. He drew it from the wolf to get a better look, only to find a crimson substance now clinging to his small hands. Blood. The wolf turned on the boy as its eyes became a pale blue before thwack! He tore the boy’s face from his head…

I should also inform you I am incapable of being swatted,” she drawled. The space between them crackled with challenge. Those brilliant eyes skipped over her face as if he searched for depths he was certain remained unsounded. The grimness left his mouth, and he smiled. She felt that small smile way down in her belly, an unanticipated curl of heat that blossomed outward and set her heart to racing. Five times since entering the woods, he smiled, Jules absurdly thought. “I’ll ensure I am gentle with you, Wildflower, so you do not break.” Her heart stuttered hard. “What do you mean?” “You’ll discover.” “You do not like explaining yourself to others, do you?” “I know it to be an existence unsuited to a man of my temperament.” She made a gesture with her hand. “What temperament is that?” The eyes looking down into hers were suddenly bored and a little cold. Jules couldn’t help feeling as if she prodded a wounded beast who had no notion it was indeed injured. She held his regard, knowing it was very important that she did not shy away from him or act scared in the face of his grim visage. How strange this dance between us is. “The stillness that I’ve lived with seems to have gone,” he murmured. “I liked that stillness.

She had no desire to see Conall dead. She loved him. That was a thought that caught her by surprise. Claray had liked Conall from the start, admired his sense of honor and determination to look after his people. She also appreciated all he had done for her, rescuing her from Kerr, carrying her before him on his mount while she slept, no matter that he was exhausted. He'd also been most patient with her rescuing animals at every turn on the way home to MacFarlane when she'd known he hadn't wanted her to. He was a good man----he worked day and night here to build a home for them all, and he'd tended to her when she was injured and ill with such gentleness and kindness. And then there was his loving. Aye, at first Claray had worried that her soul might be in peril because of the pleasure he gave her, but she'd come to terms with that. It was just too beautiful and intimate to be something God would begrudge them. Surely, if He hadn't wanted them to enjoy each other like that, He wouldn't have made it possible for people to enjoy it as they did. At least that was her reasoning. Perhaps it was just a justification to allow her to continue to enjoy her marital bed without guilt, but since she found it impossible not to, she was happy to accept that justification. Whatever the case, with all that she admired, respected and enjoyed about her husband, Claray supposed it would be surprising if she did not love him. Conall was a man worth loving, and she simply could not bear the thought of this man ending his life.

So to walk even as he walked." 1 John 2:6 Why should Christians imitate Christ? They should do it for their own sakes. If they desire to be in a healthy state of soul--if they would escape the sickness of sin, and enjoy the vigour of growing grace, let Jesus be their model. For their own happiness' sake, if they would drink wine on the lees, well refined; if they would enjoy holy and happy communion with Jesus; if they would be lifted up above the cares and troubles of this world, let them walk even as he walked. There is nothing which can so assist you to walk towards heaven with good speed, as wearing the image of Jesus on your heart to rule all its motions. It is when, by the power of the Holy Spirit, you are enabled to walk with Jesus in his very footsteps, that you are most happy, and most known to be the sons of God. Peter afar off is both unsafe and uneasy. Next, for religion's sake, strive to be like Jesus. Ah! poor religion, thou hast been sorely shot at by cruel foes, but thou hast not been wounded one-half so dangerously by thy foes as by thy friends. Who made those wounds in the fair hand of Godliness? The professor who used the dagger of hypocrisy. The man who with pretences, enters the fold, being nought but a wolf in sheep's clothing, worries the flock more than the lion outside. There is no weapon half so deadly as a Judas-kiss. Inconsistent professors injure the gospel more than the sneering critic or the infidel. But, especially for Christ's own sake, imitate his example. Christian, lovest thou thy Saviour? Is his name precious to thee? Is his cause dear to thee? Wouldst thou see the kingdoms of the world become his? Is it thy desire that he should be glorified? Art thou longing that souls should be won to him? If so,

He was injured?" the doctor asks.  I stop in the doorway. "Not yet. But he will be when I'm finished questioning him.

He guards you like...shit, I don’t even know, maybe a snarling pack wolf standing watch over his injured mate. It’s as if you’re a part of him, the most vulnerable part.

He glanced away. His jaw ticced twice. “That isn’t something I’ve done.” I gasped. “You’re kidding. Why haven’t you?” “I’m not a whore about kissing, but I suppose I am about that. I’ve never been inclined to French kiss a pussy.” “Too personal?” “Yes. The idea of getting down on my belly with my face between a girl’s thighs has never appealed to me. Maybe it’s because I was with the wrong girls.” His nod was sharp and slight. “I will on you, though. You can teach me exactly how you like it.” “Why on me?” He lifted a shoulder. “Because I know you’re not going to fall in love with me when I eat your pussy so good you don’t remember you have legs, much less how to use them.” My thighs instantly clamped together. “Big words for someone who didn’t come close to getting me off the first time.” “I wasn’t dedicated to the job then. Now, it’s about pride, Delilah.” He canted his head. “Besides, don’t you think it’s your responsibility as a woman to send me out into the world well trained?” “I would roll my eyes, but I would most likely injure myself from doing it too hard.” He took my hand in his, bringing it to his mouth. “I’m committed to this endeavor. I won’t ask to fuck you until I’ve mastered the art of making you come. You’ll be my teacher, and I’ll be your attentive student.” I shook my head. “I’m busy.” “You aren’t too busy for me to lick your pussy.” “You’re ridiculous.

Of all people, of all men, I learned to trust Joshua North. He’s a self proclaimed bastard, an injured animal biting anyone who comes close. Auribus teneo lupum. I have this particular wolf by the ears, which means I’m going to get bitten—and I’m choosing not to let go.

When we refuse ourselves permission to grieve, we shut off a vital piece of our hearts that needs seeing, expressing, and loving: a wounded child, a raging wolf, an injured spirit. When we give ourselves permission to grieve, we embrace the child. We release the wolf. We heal the spirit. We run towards what scares us most only to find that “it” is ourselves... and it’s not so much scary as is it is afraid. And we don’t want the fear to go away as much as we want the fear to be seen, heard, and wholeheartedly loved.

Historically, wolf trappers staked traps in the earth so that a trapped animal was stuck at a single location. This made it easier for the trapper to find his quarry, but it caused a great deal of stress for the animal. Stake-trapped animals often struggle so violently against the metal clinching their legs that they severely injure themselves. By not staking their traps, and by adding features like a drag with a coil spring and swivel - which reduces the strain from the pointed prongs when it’s being dragged - the red wolf program allows a trapped animal to continue moving and to seek refuge. In theory, this makes the trapping experience less stressful, both physically and mentally, for the animals. It can also make them harder to locate. “Please take it off,” I blurted. The sight of the metal trap biting Ryan’s hand shot adrenaline up and down my spine. Even though he claimed it didn’t hurt, I still expected geysers of blood to spout at any second. Ryan paused, clearly taken aback. Then he grinned like a jester and doubled over in laughter at me. When he freed himself and slipped off the glove, a faint purple pressure mark wrapped around his fingers. He often demonstrated this to groups sans glove.

Outside the wind rushed through the mountains, and thunder cracked. The dark clouds burst, and rain pelted down in sheets. Out of the trees loped a huge black wolf with pale, burning eyes. As he approached the small porch, the powerful body contorted, stretched, shape-shifted into a heavily muscled man with wide shoulders, long dark hair, and slashing silver eyes. He stepped onto the porch out of the pouring rain and regarded the two men facing him. The tension was tangible between Mikhail and Byron. Mikhail, as always, was inscrutable. Byron looked like a thundercloud. The newcomer’s eyebrows went up, and he leaned close to Byron. “The last time someone got Mikhail seriously angry, it was not a pretty sight. I do not wish to attempt to replace major organs in your body, so go take a walk and cool off.” The voice was beautiful, with a singsong cadence--compelling, soothing even, yet it clearly commanded. It was a voice so hypnotic, so mesmerizing, even those of their kind were drawn into its power. Gregori. The dark one. Ancient, powerful, instrument of justice. He dismissed Byron by simply turning his back and addressing Mikhail. “When you sent the call, you said it was Jacques, yet I cannot detect him. I have tried to touch him, but there is only emptiness.” “It is Jacques, yet he is not the same. Not turned, but he has been severely injured. He does not recognize us, and he is extremely dangerous. I cannot restrain him without further injuring him.” “He fought you?” The voice, as always, was mild, even gentle. “Absolutely, and he would again. He is more wild animal than man, and there is no reaching him. He will kill us if he can find the strength.” Gregori inhaled the wild night air. “Who is this woman?” “She is Carpathian, but she does not know our ways or respond in any way to our normal means of communication. She seems trained in the human practice of healing.” “A doctor?” “Perhaps. He protects her, yet he is abusive, as if he cannot separate right from wrong. I think he is trapped in a world of madness.

I risked a quick glance over my shoulder as we raced through the door and saw some men in uniforms converging on the spot we had been fighting. The three weres were lying on the floor, all obviously injured. Three Wolf Moon’s leg was bent at a wrong angle and Tribal Tattoos was holding his arm and howling. Brass Knuckles was still scrabbling at his bleeding neck, sobbing like a little girl that he had been bitten.

We had an injured wolf brought in a couple weeks ago. Clipped by a car. Matt saved it. We’ve gotten a lot of hits on the pictures there, and the column Tansy wrote for it.

Ok is there anyone here who isn't injured?” She let the silence last a bit longer theatrically, then laughed. “Why are we still here?” Nods of confusion and one derisory snort later she laughed again. “Ok are we or are we not frakking commonwealth soldiers? Have we or have we not survived repeated balls ups throughout all of our careers.” One wolf whistle and a lot of nods. “Are we going to give up.