Intentionally Hurt Me Quotes

And yet it disturbs me to learn I have hurt someone unintentionally. I want all my hurts to be intentional.

I wouldn't intentionally hurt anyone in this whole world. I wouldn't hurt them physically or emotionally, how then can people so consistently do it to me? Even my parents treat me like I'm stupid and inferior and ever short. I guess I'll never measure up to anyone's expectations. I surely don't measure up to what I'd like to be.

I’m not going to pick her up and carry her screaming to the basement,” Trent said. “It’s a workday. Besides, she has a crutch.” “Crutch or no, she’s hurt!” Ceri protested. “I mean,” Trent said intently, “she can hit me with it if I do something she doesn’t like.

I took all the blame. I admitted mistakes I hadn't made, intentions I'd never had. Whenever she turned cold and hard, I begged her to be good to me again, to forgive me and love me. Sometimes I had the feeling that she hurt herself when she turned cold and rigid. As if what she was yearning for was the warmth of my apologies, protestations, and entreaties. Sometimes I thought she just bullied me. But either way, I had no choice.

The knowledge that he had left me with no intent ever to return had come over me in tiny droplets of realization spread over the years. And each droplet of comprehension brought its own small measure of hurt...He had wished me well in finding my own fate to follow, and I never doubted his sincerity. But it had taken me years to accept that his absence in my life was a deliberate finality, an act he had chosen, a thing completed even as some part of my soul still dangled, waiting for his return.

Are you scared of me?" He asked her gently. Sally shook her head. "Do you think I would ever hurt you intentionally?" Again she shook her head. "Do you believe that I want what's best for you and will protect you with my life? Do you trust that I will hold you above all others and live to see that you have joy in your life? That I will hold you when you cry, that I will laugh with you when you laugh, that I will honor you as my mate? Do you believe these things?

When I say 'I won't hurt you', it's a promise, which can and will be kept but it does not come from me without a breakdown of what it means. It does not mean we will never disagree, nor does it mean that you will always like everything which I say or do. It does not mean that you will never hurt yourself by behaving in a way which is damaging to a relationship or by behaving in a way which would ultimately result in my withdrawal from your life. What it does mean is that I can promise all that I expect in terms of loyalty, honor and respect. It means I am faithful. It also means that I will not intentionally or carelessly behave in a way which causes upset or doubt. It means, at the lowest level, 'You will break these terms before I do.' Communication is essential. Trust is paramount. Be completely honest and don't make promises that you can't keep, that's all.

i will tell you about selfish people. even when they know they will hurt you they walk into your life to taste you because you are the type of being they don’t want to miss out on. you are too much shine to not be felt. so when they have gotten a good look at everything you have to offer. when they have taken your skin your hair and your secrets with them. when they realize how real this is. how much of a storm you are and it hits them. that is when the cowardice sets in. that is when the person you thought they were is replaced by the sad reality of what they are. that is when they lose every fighting bone in their body and leave after saying you will find better than me. you will stand there naked with half of them still hidden somewhere inside you and sob. asking them why they did it. why they forced you to love them when they had no intention of loving you back and they’ll say something along the lines of i just had to try. i had to give it a chance. it was you after all. but that isn’t romantic. it isn’t sweet. the idea that they were so engulfed by your existence they had to risk breaking it for the sake of knowing they weren’t the one missing out. your existence meant that little next to their curiosity of you.

Sometmes when you pull knives on people, they get this impression that you're going to hurt them, and then they're completely terrified. Crazy, I know!" "Okay," said Nick. He turned to Jamie & popped his left wrist sheath again. "Look." Jamie backed up. "Which part of 'completely terrified' did you translate as 'show us your knives, Nick'? Don't show me your knives, Nick. I have no interest in your knives." Nick rolled his eyes. "This is a quillon dagger. That's a knife with a sword handle. I like it because it has a good grip for stabbing." "Why do you say these things?" Jamie inquired piteously. "Is it to make me sad?" "I didn't have you cornered," Nick went on. "You could've run. And this dagger doesn't have an even weight distribution; it's absolute rubbish for throwing. If I had any intention of hurting you, I'd have used a knife I could throw." Jamie blinked. "I will remember those words always. I may try to forget them, but I sense that I won't be able to.

what love looks like what does love look like the therapist asks one week after the breakup and i’m not sure how to answer her question except for the fact that i thought love looked so much like you that’s when it hit me and i realized how naive i had been to place an idea so beautiful on the image of a person as if anybody on this entire earth could encompass all love represented as if this emotion seven billion people tremble for would look like a five foot eleven medium-sized brown-skinned guy who likes eating frozen pizza for breakfast what does love look like the therapist asks again this time interrupting my thoughts midsentence and at this point i’m about to get up and walk right out the door except i paid too much money for this hour so instead i take a piercing look at her the way you look at someone when you’re about to hand it to them lips pursed tightly preparing to launch into conversation eyes digging deeply into theirs searching for all the weak spots they have hidden somewhere hair being tucked behind the ears as if you have to physically prepare for a conversation on the philosophies or rather disappointments of what love looks like well i tell her i don’t think love is him anymore if love was him he would be here wouldn’t he if he was the one for me wouldn’t he be the one sitting across from me if love was him it would have been simple i don’t think love is him anymore i repeat i think love never was i think i just wanted something was ready to give myself to something i believed was bigger than myself and when i saw someone who probably fit the part i made it very much my intention to make him my counterpart and i lost myself to him he took and he took wrapped me in the word special until i was so convinced he had eyes only to see me hands only to feel me a body only to be with me oh how he emptied me how does that make you feel interrupts the therapist well i said it kind of makes me feel like shit maybe we’re looking at it wrong we think it’s something to search for out there something meant to crash into us on our way out of an elevator or slip into our chair at a cafe somewhere appear at the end of an aisle at the bookstore looking the right amount of sexy and intellectual but i think love starts here everything else is just desire and projection of all our wants needs and fantasies but those externalities could never work out if we didn’t turn inward and learn how to love ourselves in order to love other people love does not look like a person love is our actions love is giving all we can even if it’s just the bigger slice of cake love is understanding we have the power to hurt one another but we are going to do everything in our power to make sure we don’t love is figuring out all the kind sweetness we deserve and when someone shows up saying they will provide it as you do but their actions seem to break you rather than build you love is knowing who to choose

I’m scared of you, Cole Walker. I’m scared you’ll hurt me or I’ll hurt you…yet I have no intention of turning back. I’m throwing myself off this cliff, consequences be damned.

Throughout my life, I never sought retribution against those who hurt me because I believe in forgiveness. I have practiced forgiving, just as I want to be forgiven. Only God knows what's in a person's heart, his true intentions. He sees and hears all things.

Hi, I'm Driggs." "Damn, boy. You're even cuter up close." Cordy looked him up and down hungrily. "Got any dead brothers in here?" Lex made a face. "Cordy, ew." "Doesn't hurt to ask!" She peered at Driggs. "Now tell me, what are your intentions with my sister?" Driggs became flustered. "Um, I don't know. To love her...and, uh...honor...protect..." Lex went red. "Driggs, shut up." "Awkward." Cordy beamed. "Love it." "We have to go," Driggs said in an unnecessarily loud voice.

I wouldn't intentionally hurt anyone in this world. I wouldn't hurt them physically or emotionally, how then can people so consistently do it to me?

The dogs left with us and we walked. I sobbed the whole way home, still heartbroken. My mom had no time for my whining. “Why are you crying?!” “Because Fufi loves another boy.” “So? Why would that hurt you? It didn’t cost you anything. Fufi’s here. She still loves you. She’s still your dog. So get over it.” Fufi was my first heartbreak. No one has ever betrayed me more than Fufi. It was a valuable lesson to me. The hard thing was understanding that Fufi wasn’t cheating on me with another boy. She was merely living her life to the fullest. Until I knew that she was going out on her own during the day, her other relationship hadn’t affected me at all. Fufi had no malicious intent. I believed that Fufi was my dog, but of course that wasn’t true. Fufi was a dog. I was a boy. We got along well. She happened to live in my house. That experience shaped what I’ve felt about relationships for the rest of my life: You do not own the thing that you love. I was lucky to learn that lesson at such a young age. I have so many friends who still, as adults, wrestle with feelings of betrayal. They’ll come to me angry and crying and talking about how they’ve been cheated on and lied to, and I feel for them. I understand what they’re going through. I sit with them and buy them a drink and I say, “Friend, let me tell you the story of Fufi.

You're Nash's brother. And a grim reaper?" She blinked again, and I readied myself for hysterics, or fear, or laughter. But knowing emma, I should have known better. "So you, what? Kill people? Did you kill me that day in the gym?" She clenched the headrest, her expression an odd mix of anger, awe, and confusion. But there was no disbelief. She'd seen and heard enough of the bizarre following her own temporary death that Tod's admission obviously didn't come as that much of a surprise. Or maybe Nash's Influence was still affecting her a little. "No," Tod shook his head firmly, but the corners of his mouth turned up in amusement. "I had nothing to do with that. I do kill people, then I reap their souls and take them to be recycled. But only people who are on my list." "So, you're not...dangerous?" His pouty grin deepened into something almost predatory, like the Tod I'd first met two months earlier. "Oh, I'm dangerous...." "Tod..." I warned, as Nash punched his brother in the arm, hard enough to actually hurt. "Just not to you," the reaper finished, shrugging at Emma. "I see you all the time, but you've never seen me, because Kaylee said if I got too close to you, I'd suffer eternity without my balls." "Jeez, Tod!" I shouted, my anger threatening to boil over and scald us all. The reaper leaned closer to Emma and spoke in a stage whisper. "She's not as scary as she thinks she is, but I respect her intent.

I don't hurt other people intentionally. I'm not a bad person. I have a decent job. So I like to put on high heels and a little dress. Does that make me a monster? -Edgar Saturnino, 24 (Lamentations 5:23)

You're the beginning, You're the ending, You're the one who rides the waves of my emotions, One who makes me compassionate, One who's the light of my dark self, I'll be the one always testing your patience, I'll be the one always annoying you, I'll be the one always hurting you, Why? Because I know you'll always be there to bear the jokes I crack, To tolerate my inside chaos, To see my vulnerable self, To misinterpreting your actions & intentions, I'll always be hardcore to deal with, Taking you over the edge, Because that's what I only know.

You want to know what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid of every morning when I wake up that this will be the day when I can no longer move for myself. I know it’s coming. It’s just a matter of time until I have no choice, except to have someone else clothe me, feed me. Change my diaper. And I can’t stand it. (Adron) Then why don’t you kill yourself? Why are you still here? (Livia) Because every time I think of doing that, I can hear my family praying over me while I was in the hospital. I hear my mother weeping, my father begging me not to die on them. I could never intentionally hurt them that way. It would devastate them both, and while I’m a pathetic asshole, I’m not that selfish. (Adron)

This connection had the potential to be too special to ruin it with the hurt of misfired romantic intentions. And while half of me wanted to tear his shirt off with my teeth, I also wanted him to be in my life for the duration. I didn't want him to be the one I avoided because he'd hurt me. If I was just his friend, then I would still be blessed. If it meant swallowing my pride and being his shoulder when he got hurt, or being the one he ranted at when he was angry, I was prepared to do it with dignity.

You can’t have it both ways, Damien. You can’t look at me the way you do … You can’t keep me close and treat me as if I’m a huge part of your life and expect me not to get attached to you. It’s unnatural and unhealthy, and whether it’s your intention or not, you’re hurting me.

Her death had a powerful impact on me I suppose because it was such an obvious shock, like watching someone for hours through a telescope advance towards you, fist extended with the intention of punching you in the face. Even though I saw it coming it still hurt when it eventually hit me.

You’ve been giving me the full-court press since you got here, and we know what’ll happen if I let you through that door. But you’re leaving. And when you do, I’ll be the one who’s hurt afterward. So why start something you have no intention of finishing?” - Lexie

In reply to '@cloppingemo: everyone sees me as a failure and a horrible person and they make sure I know: 'Everyone', doesn't. Trust me on this one; You're being dramatic. You're in a hard place but it's important to go through. Hang in there, buckle down, hold your head up, and do your best. That's all you can do and when people criticize you, listen to them; Either they're right or wrong but they're not always trying to hurt you. Try and really understand where criticism is coming from. "You can do better," is well intentioned. "You're stupid," is not.

Unkindness is a serial killer. Death in the flesh sometimes seems like a less excruciating way to succumb than the slow and steady venom unleashed by mean-spirited, cruel words and actions that poison you over time. I guess that’s why I can’t stand the old children’s rhyme: sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Every time I hear it, I think to myself: that’s a lie. You can dodge a rock, but you can’t unhear a word. You can’t undo the intentional damage that some words have on your mind, body, and spirit. Especially a word like ugly.

The knowledge that he had left me with no intent ever to return had come over me in tiny droplets of realization spread over the years. And each droplet of comprehension brought its own small measure of hurt.

I should have learned many things from that experience, but when I look back on it, all I gained was one single, undeniable fact. That ultimately I am a person who can do evil. I never consciously tried to hurt anyone, yet good intentions notwithstanding, when necessity demanded, I could become completely self-centered, even cruel. I was the kind of person who could, using some plausible excuse, inflict on a person I cared for a wound that would never heal. College transported me to a new town, where I tried, one more time, to reinvent myself. Becoming someone new, I could correct the errors of my past. At first I was optimistic: I could pull it off. But in the end, no matter where I went, I could never change. Over and over I made the same mistake, hurt other people, and hurt myself in the bargain. Just after I turned twenty, this thought hit me: Maybe I've lost the chance to ever be a decent human being. The mistakes I'd committed—maybe they were part of my very makeup, an inescapable part of my being. I'd hit rock bottom, and I knew it.

Isn’t it funny how we make rational excuses for being out of alignment? We say, “Well, this ____ and that ____ happened, so it makes perfect sense for me to be feeling like this ____ and wanting to do this ____.” Yet, to this day, I have never met a happy person who adheres to those excuses. In fact, each time I – or anyone else – decide to give in to “rational excuses” that justify feeling bad – it’s interesting that only further suffering is the result. There is never a good enough reason for us to be out of alignment with peace. Sure, we can go there and make choices that dim our lights… and that is fine; there certainly is purpose for it and the contrast gives us lessons to learn… yet if we’re aware of what we are doing and we’re ready to let go of the suffering – then why go there at all? It’s like beating a dead horse. Been there, done that… so why do we keep repeating it? Pain is going to happen; it’s inevitable in this human experience, yet it is often so brief. When we make those excuses, what happens is: we pick up that pain and begin to carry it with us into the next day… and the next day… into next week… maybe next month… and some of us even carry it for years or to our graves! Forgive, let it go! It is NOT worth it! It is NEVER worth it. There is never a good enough reason for us to pick up that pain and carry it with us. There is never a good enough reason for us to be out of alignment with peace. Unforgiveness hurts you; it hurts others, so why even go there? Why even promote pain? Why say painful things to yourself or others? Why think pain? Just let it go! Whenever I look back on painful things or feel pain today, I know it is my EGO that drives me to “go there.” The EGO likes to have the last word, it likes to feel superior, it likes to make others feel less than in hopes that it will make itself (me) feel better about my insecurities. Maybe if I hurt them enough, they will feel the pain I felt over what they did to me. It’s only fair! It’s never my fault; it’s always someone else’s. There is a twisted sense of pleasure I get from feeling this way, and my EGO eats it right up. YET! With awareness that continues to grow and expand each day, I choose to not feed my pain (EGO) or even go there. I still feel it at times, of course, so I simply acknowledge it and then release it. I HAVE power and choice over my speech and actions. I do not need to ever “go there” again. It’s my choice; it’s your choice. So it’s about damn time we start realizing this. We are not victims of our impulses or emotions; we have the power to control them, and so it’s time to stop acting like we don’t. It’s time to relinquish the excuses.

I know everything I need to know about you," she countered, taken aback. "You do?" he asked, and peered at her, eyes intent. "You do, You have that look in your eyes from the forest, when you called me a monster." He came within a meter or two of Rey, and she wondered what would happen if she refused to move and they intersected. Would she find herself in his mind again, and have to endure his presence in hers? Could they actually touch, across a galaxy? "You are a monster," Rey said, remembering the terror of her paralysis on Takodana. She stared back at him -- and found his. eyes full of hurt. Hurt -- and conflict. "Yes, I am," Kylo said, and there was no menace in his voice -- only misery.

Fine!” I threw my hands up in the air. “Yes, you mean something to me. What you did for me on Thanksgiving—that made me…” My voice cracked. “That made me happy. You made me happy. And I still care about you. Okay? You mean something to me—something I can’t really even put into words because everything seems too lame in comparison. I’ve always wanted you, even when I hated you. I want you even though you drive me freaking insane. And I know I screwed everything up. Not just for you and me, but for Dee.” My breath caught on a sob. The words rushed from me, one after another. “And I never felt this way with anyone else. Like I’m falling every time I’m around you, like I can’t catch my breath, and I feel alive —not just standing around and letting my life walk past me. There’s been nothing like that with anyone else.” Tears pricked my eyes as I stepped back. My chest was swelling so fast it hurt. “But none of this matters, because I know you really hate me now . I understand that. I just wish I could go back and change everything! I—” Daemon was suddenly in front of me, clasping my cheeks in his warm hands. “I never hated you.” I blinked back the wetness gathering in my eyes. “But—” “I don’t hate you now , Kat.” He stared intently into my eyes. “I’m mad at you—at myself. I’m so angry, I can taste it. I want to find Blake and rearrange parts of his body. But do you know w hat I thought about all day yesterday? All night? The one single thought I couldn’t escape, no matter how pissed off I am at you?” “No,” I whispered. “That I’m lucky, because the person I can’t get out of my head, the person who means more to me than I can stand, is still alive. She’s still there. And that’s you.

It’s a normal fear after everything you’ve witnessed between your father and me, but you need to understand that couples fight. It’s a part of any healthy relationship. That doesn’t mean the other person should ever talk down to you or intentionally hurt you, but people make mistakes. This isn’t going to be the first or last time Declan says something he doesn’t mean in the heat of the moment. But so long as he is sorry—and i mean truly sorry—then you need to learn how to forgive him.

My argument for them is not altruistic in the least, but purely selfish. I should dislike to see them harassed by the law for two plain and sound reasons. One is that their continued existence soothes my vanity (and hence promotes my happiness) by proving to me that there are even worse fools in the world than I am. The other is that, if they were jailed to-morrow for believing in Christian Science, I should probably be jailed the next day for refusing to believe in something still sillier. Once the law begins to horn into such matters, I am against the law, no matter how virtuous its ostensible intent. No liberty is worth a hoot which doesn’t allow the citizen to be foolish once in a while, and to kick up once in a while, and to hurt himself once in a while.

One good thing is that I've been following the priest's orders to meditate on how I've hurt people. It's helped me recognize that we can't help but make mistakes, even when our intentions are good.

My friendships have stopped being so exclusive and the guidelines have simplified. Does knowing me help someone I know become a better person? Am I becoming a better person knowing someone? Here’s how I know a relationship is working. When I’m with that person, I am happy. I look forward to seeing that person. I’m not afraid that that person will hurt me intentionally. I’m not hesitant to speak up if I do feel hurt. Knowing that person, challenges me to grow. Being around that person gives me comfort when I feel sad. That person is someone I want to celebrate with when things are great. I’ve let go of expecting people to behave a certain way or to treat me a certain way. However, I feel I’m more idealistic about my relationships than I’ve ever been. I want the most difficult thing you can ask a person and that is for them to be themselves, the good and the bad. I want authenticity where many find it hard to be authentic with themselves. It’s from our authentic selves where true connections are made. It’s from those true connections where I finally feel understood.

people always let you down. It was just part of the human condition. Look at Kat and Callie. One had tried to kill me; the other had almost gotten me killed. Neither intentionally, but did it matter? My mother never meant to hurt me and she'd all but ruined my life. It didn't matter what people meant, it mattered what they did.

When you bury a parent, you lower his or her casket into the ground, but the history between you lives on. The funeral is an ending, yes, but it is also a beginning - the start of a true reckoning with those hurts between you that must be laid to rest. When we buried my mother, I mourned her then and in the years that followed. As I grieved, I thought I'd long since come to terms with my father - with how he'd both delighted and failed me, with the ways in which he'd unknowingly bruised me just as all parents do, despite their best intentions.

He looked at me intently before speaking. “Why do you do that?” I frowned at him. “Do what?” “Push everyone away.” Danny told me simply. I was a little stunned and when I didn’t say anything, Danny continued on. “Darcie, what are you so afraid of? Why do you shut people out?” He looked at me searchingly. “Because it’s easier that way!” I yelled at him suddenly and he looked taken aback. I took a deep breath to calm down and added, “And I don’t like feeling vulnerable.” Danny stared at me. “Being vulnerable is nothing to be ashamed of Darcie …it’s what makes us human.” I shook my head furiously. “No! Being vulnerable makes you weak – just like every other emotion … if you allow yourself to care, you only end up getting hurt.” Danny threw me a consoling look. “But there’s nothing wrong with caring –” “No!” I interrupted angrily. “I don’t want to care! You only end up getting hurt … and it hurts so bad that you can’t breathe. I don’t want to feel like that. I don’t want to feel at all! It’s just easier to shut everyone out … if you don’t care about them – you won’t get hurt!

Constantly falling back into an old trap, before I am even fully aware of it, I find myself wondering why someone hurt me, rejected me, or didn't pay attention to me. Without realizing it, I find myself brooding about someone else's success, my own loneliness, and the way the world abuses me. Despite my conscious intentions, I often catch myself daydreaming about becoming rich, powerful, and very famous. All of these mental games reveal to me the fragility of my faith that I am the Beloved One on whom God's favor rests. I am so afraid of being disliked, blamed, put aside, passed over, ignored, persecuted, and killed that I am constantly developing strategies to defend myself and thereby assure myself of the love I think I need and deserve. And in so doing I move far away from my father's home and choose to dwell in a "distant country," (pp. 41 & 42).

Apology Letter from the Brain Hey there. I’m sorry. OK? But can I say something? Look. I admit I wasn’t perfect. No one is perfect. That’s a fact. Speaking of facts, don’t you think we all need to take a minute and decide who is right and who is wrong? Every side is different; it’s just that my side seems more right. I’m not just saying that because it’s my side. I think a lot of other people would agree with me, given the chance. If I upset you in some way, please know that wasn’t my intention. I didn’t know how sensitive you were. It’s obvious I can set you off very easily. That’s not an insult; it’s just an observation. I think it would help if we talked about this more and argued about who was telling the truth. I would like to see you in person and tell you how the situation has affected me. I may use this opportunity to bring up other times you have hurt me in the past. If possible, I would like to hurt you back. Either way, I want to be in control. Until then, take care. And please, remember I reached out first. I remain, THE BRAIN Apology Letter from the Heart Hey there. I’m sorry. I’ve found it hard to tell you this, and I realize my apology may be too little or come too late. It is important for me to let you know that I am sorry for what I did or said or didn’t do or say. I was wrong. I make mistakes. I HATE that I made one with you. I’m reaching out because life goes by so fast and I just don’t want my one life to go by without expressing this to you. I want to do and be better. This apology is yours. Feel free to do whatever you want with it. My hope is that it gives you comfort, but my goal is that it doesn’t cause you any pain. Again, I am TRULY sorry. Thank you for taking the time to read this. Love, THE HEART P.S. I’m sorry.

When two people produce entirely different memories of the same event, observers usually assume that one of them is lying. […] But most of us, most of the time, are neither telling the whole truth nor intentionally deceiving. We aren’t lying; we are self-justifying. All of us, as we tell our stories, add details and omit inconvenient facts; we give the tale a small, self-enhancing spin; that spin goes over so well that the next time we add a slightly more dramatic embellishment; we justify that little white lie as making the story better and clearer – until what we remember may not have happened that way, or even may not have happened at all. […] History is written by the victors, and when we write our own histories, we do so just as the conquerors of nations do: to justify our actions and make us look and feel good about ourselves and what we did or what we failed to do. If mistakes were made, memory helps us remember that they were made by someone else.

Sit on my lap, Dewdrop. All the way.” Callum's gaze on me means business, his grip on my waist tightening.  “I’m heavy, I don’t want to hurt you.” My attempt to brush him off isn’t successful, and his hands take my hips firmly.  “I can take you. All of you.”  Still shaking my head, I fight to remain raised. “You’re injured, I’ll crush you.”  One of Callum's hands moves from my waist to guide my chin until my eyes meet his. The intent in his gaze leaves no room for argument when he speaks.  “So crush me.

Could it be...? Did she intentionally... break off her teeth to save me...?

Which translated, Stacey thought cynically, to ‘If you’re going to break the law – what I don’t know can’t hurt me.

The last thing I want is Malcolm sitting me down and telling me that I cant be mean to my stepsister because it hurts my stepmom’s feelings. Boo-fucking-hoo.

I trust him. It’s insane to trust someone so freely after being hurt so irrevocably in the past, but I do. I trust him completely, and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d never intentionally hurt me. I can feel it in the way he kisses me. I can see it in his eyes when he bares his soul. I can taste it in the way he breathes. And I sense his honesty like a predator can sense its prey’s fear.

There's always been a love-hate thing between me and running. First off, if you don't get started at the ass crack of dawn, the Oklahoma summer sun will melt you into a puddle of good intentions. Plus, it hurts. I mean, have you ever seen a happy jogger? We scowl. We pant and grimace. In fact, if you ever see one of us smiling, you should assume we're a complete psychopath and run for your life.

But a windbreak is also a great teacher, for me, about nonviolence. How do we respond to strong forces—anger, rage, even physical attack—without becoming violent in return? How do we respond to what might be well-meant but harsh criticism (whether well intentioned or intentionally hurtful)? If we become a wall, shutting out the energies coming at us, we may actually strengthen the anger of the opposition. On the other hand, if we simply brush off or bat away criticism, the opposition may expand its criticism to include our reactions. But there’s a third alternative: if we can learn from the trees, we can take in and transform the energy coming at us. We do this by staying calm and grounded and centered, by listening rather than responding, by swaying with the wind and letting it blow itself out.

my anger directed toward someone who has knowingly, intentionally, and unnecessarily acted in a hurtful manner?     2.   Is my anger useful? Does it help me achieve a desired goal or does it simply defeat me?

I’m falling for you, Sophie.” She gasps, covering her mouth. “Tyler…” “You don’t have to say anything back to me. If you’re not sure yet, that’s okay. I’m not leaving. I’ll wait. I just had to tell you, so you knew my intentions. Sophie, a real man never cheats, never lies, never lets his woman feel unattractive. He never lets her doubt or fear or hurt.” I take her hand and put it on my heart. “I’m a real man, Sophie. I’m your man.

i wanted to be apart of the karma, that fed those whom have hurt me.. Than I realised, being apart of their karma is not a way to be free, so I let go with the belief; that, They chose the deed, & karma knows where their true intentions lead.

Sammi,” Alex said, still holding on to her arm, firmly, but not hurting her. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” Sam asked a bit peevishly. “Don’t lie and tell me what you think I want to hear rather than how you really feel.” After a beat where Sam didn’t say anything he continued. “If you want to tell me to piss off, tell me. If I do something that hurts your feelings, tell me.” His voice suddenly lowered and he took her hands in his. Sam had to lean into him to hear him over the noise of the barn. “For the love of God, you’re the only real person here. If I can’t rely on you to tell me like it is, who will?” He paused. “Now, please tell me what upset you.” “It’s just that…..” she paused, finally continuing when Alex squeezed her hand. “I don’t fit in with the other women here, and I don’t want you to see me as…less…then they are.” “I don’t see you as less.” Alex immediately said, not even pausing to think about what he wanted to say. “We don’t really know each other, but when I’m lying in my cot at night I find myself thinking about you and what you are thinking about.” He brushed his knuckle over her reddening cheek and continued, “I would never intentionally insult you like that. I just have to learn how I can tease you and not have you take offense.

That for which, you are deserving; will come before you effortlessly. Your purity is required. What is required for your purity? [The intent of] ‘May no living being in this world be hurt by me’. If anyone hurts you, it happens as per the law [nature’s law].

I don’t need you to be perfect. I don’t need you to never make mistakes. I just need you to let me give you as much of myself as I can, and to trust that I will try as hard as possible never to hurt you intentionally. Can you do that? Can you just let me love you?

Instead of confronting and exposing those who purposely hurt us, we blame ourselves for allowing them to hurt us. We ignorantly make our empathy the culprit—not their inexcusable acts or intentions —as we unintentionally enable their poor behavior to only thrive and continue.

I've been in a lot of fights. On the ice. And once off it. But all of them were against guys who could hold their own. This scar"----he pointed to a faint line under his left brow----"was from a left hook I didn't see coming. I returned the favor and broke the guy's nose. I'm telling you this because I won't lie and say I'm a stranger to violence." He didn't blink, didn't hesitate to meet my eyes. "But you? You could slap me, punch me, kick me in the nuts, call me names, disparage Mamie, whom I love more than anyone on Earth, and I still wouldn't ever raise a hand to you. Because I don't hit women or anyone weaker than me. Ever." He stopped there, his concerned gaze darting over my face. "I apologize that my behavior made you feel unsafe. It wasn't my intention. If you believe anything about me, believe I will always be the guy who stands with you, never against you.

The sudden and uncalled for coldness with which you treated me just before I left last night, both surprised and deeply hurt me - surprised because I could not have believed that such sullen and inflexible obstinacy could exist in the breast of any girl in whose heart love had found place; and hurt me, because I feel for you more than I have ever professed and feel a slight from you more than I care to tell. My object in writing to you is this: if hasty temper produces this strange behaviour, acknowledge it when I give you the opportunity - not once or twice, but again and again. If a feeling of you know not what - a capricious restlessness of you can't tell what, and a desire to tease, you don't know why, give rise to it - overcome it; it will never make you more amiable, I more fond or either of us, more happy. Depend upon it, whatever be the cause of your unkindness - whatever gives rise to these wayward fancies - that what you do not take the trouble to conceal from a Lover's eyes, will be frequently acted before those of a husband's. I know as well, as if I were by your side at this moment, that your present impulse on reading this letter is one of anger - pride perhaps, or to use a word more current with your sex - 'spirit'. My dear girl, I have not the most remote intention of awakening any such feeling, and I implore you, not to entertain it for an instant.... I have written these few lines in haste, but not anger.... If you knew but half the anxiety with which I watched your recent illness, the joy with which I hailed your recovery, and the eagerness with which I would promote your happiness, you could more readily understand the extent of the pain so easily inflicted, but so difficult to be forgotten. - Excerpts from a letter by Charles Dickens to his fiancee of three weeks, 1835

Anger, resentment, jealousy, desire for revenge, lust, greed, antagonisms, and rivalries are the obvious signs that I have left home. And that happens quite easily. When I pay careful attention to what goes on in my mind from moment to moment, I come to the disconcerting discovery that there are very few moments during the day when I am really free from these dark emotions, passions and feelings. Constantly falling back into an old trap, before I am even fully aware of it, I find myself wondering why someone hurt me, rejected me, or didn't pay attention to me. Without realizing it, I find myself brooding about someone else's success, my own loneliness, and the way the world abuses me. Despite my conscious intentions, I often catch myself daydreaming about becoming rich, powerful, and very famous. All of these mental games reveal to me the fragility of my faith that I am the Beloved One on whom God's favor rests. I am so afraid of being disliked, blamed, put aside, passed over, ignored, persecuted, and killed, that I am constantly developing strategies to defend myself and thereby assure myself of the love I think I need and deserve. And in so doing I move far away from my father's home and choose to dwell in a "distant country.

Tamper with my memory?" I asked nervously. "Something like that." He was watching me intently, carefully, but there was humor deep in his eyes. He placed his hands against the Jeep on either side of my head and leaned forward, forcing me to press back against the door. He leaned in even closer, his face inches from mine. I had no room to escape. "Now," he breathed, and just his smell disturbed my thought processes, "what exactly are you worrying about?" "Well, um, hitting a tree —" I gulped "— and dying. And then getting sick." He fought back a smile. Then he bent his head down and touched his cold lips softly to the hollow at the base of my throat. "Are you still worried now?" he murmured against my skin. "Yes." I struggled to concentrate. "About hitting trees and getting sick." His nose drew a line up the skin of my throat to the point of my chin. His cold breath tickled my skin. "And now?" His lips whispered against my jaw. "Trees," I gasped. "Motion sickness." He lifted his face to kiss my eyelids. "Bella, you don't really think I would hit a tree, do you?" "No, but I might." There was no confidence in my voice. He smelled an easy victory. He kissed slowly down my cheek, stopping just at the corner of my mouth. "Would I let a tree hurt you?" His lips barely brushed against my trembling lower lip. "No," I breathed. I knew there was a second part to my brilliant defense, but I couldn't quite call it back. "You see," he said, his lips moving against mine. "There's nothing to be afraid of, is there?" "No," I sighed, giving up. Then he took my face in his hands almost roughly, and kissed me in earnest, his unyielding lips moving against mine. There really was no excuse for my behavior. Obviously I knew better by now. And yet I couldn't seem to stop from reacting exactly as I had the first time. Instead of keeping safely motionless, my arms reached up to twine tightly around his neck, and I was suddenly welded to his stone figure. I sighed, and my lips parted. He staggered back, breaking my grip effortlessly. "Damn it, Bella!" he broke off, gasping. "You'll be the death of me, I swear you will." I leaned over, bracing my hands against my knees for support. "You're indestructible," I mumbled, trying to catch my breath. "I might have believed that before I met you.

I think it will probably get messy sometimes, and I know we’ll make mistakes. Neither of us has lived a normal life, and even when people have the best of intentions, they still hurt each other. But do you know what that damn puck said to me the other day?” She nestled against him. “What?” “He said, ‘What would we have if we didn’t have forgiveness?

He didn't like causing her discomfort. "How are your hands?" He held his out, palm up. Rounding the bed slowly, she placed hers in them. Stanislav sat up straighter and examined them closely, then swore. Raw, open blisters marred the skin at the crooks of her thumbs and the base of every finger. She had gripped that shovel for so long that the blisters had all popped and the flap of loose skin on each had torn away. It looked painful. And she had said nothing, not even complaining when she had held one hand over the steaming pot of pasta while stirring it, something that must have made her hand hurt even more. "Stop beating yourself up about it," she ordered softly. He raised his head, on a level with hers though he sat and she stood. "I wasn't intentionally listening to your thoughts," she told him. "You were sort of broadcasting them. And it wasn't your fault." "I beg to differ. Had I not compelled you to dig me up—" "You would probably be dead right now," she finished for him. Withdrawing one hand, she drew it over his hair. "It was worth it." His pulse raced at her touch. His gaze dropped to her lips. He heard her heartbeat pick up.

Please, sir.” Tisarwat seemed not to have heard either of them. “We can’t leave things the way they are, and I have an idea.” That got the translator’s full attention. She looked up from the game, frowned intently at Tisarwat. “What’s it like? Does it hurt?” Tisarwat only blinked at her. “Sometimes I think I might like to get an idea, but then it occurs to me that it’s exactly the sort of thing Dlique would do.

God I am a sinner.  I have done so many wrongs, in my life.  I have wronged many people, unaware. I have hurt so many people, it wasn’t my intention.  I have made so many mistakes , without thinking. I am no saint, and I am not perfect. I have fallen into temptation many times. Father forgive me. Take away the pain, I have caused to others. Give me the pure heart to love and forgive everyone and may your love be found in me. Please help me with the sins, that I am battling to overcome. Give me strength to fight my demons and dark pleasures. Guide me to path of righteousness. Let me not be judgmental towards others. Let me not curse or speak foul of anyone. There is no person who should shed a tear, because of me. There is no person who should be heart broken , because of me. In Jesus name Amen.  Matthew 26:41 | 1 John 5:16 | 2 Chronicles 7:14-15

Forgiveness and opening up to more abuse are not the same thing. Forgiveness has to do with the past. Reconciliation and boundaries have to do with the future. Limits guard my property until someone has repented and can be trusted to visit again. And if they sin, I will forgive again, seventy times seven. But I want to be around people who honestly fail me, not dishonestly deny that they have hurt me and have no intent to do better.

Once Fufi saw Panther she came right away. The dogs left with us and we walked. I sobbed the whole way home, still heartbroken. My mom had no time for my whining. “Why are you crying?!” “Because Fufi loves another boy.” “So? Why would that hurt you? It didn’t cost you anything. Fufi’s here. She still loves you. She’s still your dog. So get over it.” Fufi was my first heartbreak. No one has ever betrayed me more than Fufi. It was a valuable lesson to me. The hard thing was understanding that Fufi wasn’t cheating on me with another boy. She was merely living her life to the fullest. Until I knew that she was going out on her own during the day, her other relationship hadn’t affected me at all. Fufi had no malicious intent. I believed that Fufi was my dog, but of course that wasn’t true. Fufi was a dog. I was a boy. We got along well. She happened to live in my house. That experience shaped what I’ve felt about relationships for the rest of my life: You do not own the thing that you love. I was lucky to learn that lesson at such a young age. I have so many friends who still, as adults, wrestle with feelings of betrayal. They’ll come to me angry and crying and talking about how they’ve been cheated on and lied to, and I feel for them. I understand what they’re going through. I sit with them and buy them a drink and I say, “Friend, let me tell you the story of Fufi.

At once I understood that I had been looking at things with the right intention but from the wrong angle. My marriage was imperfect and my job lacked meaning, but I had been searching for complicated solutions instead of addressing the common denominator in both equations - me. Moreover, I'd been approaching my life as a zero-sum game. As Alex had just pointed out, meeting my own needs for a change didn't mean my family would collapse or sink into bankruptcy-level debt. There were certain parts of my marriage that might never be fixed - wasn't that what "for better or for worse" was all about? - but that wouldn't necessarily put Sanjay and me on a one-way dinghy to divorce island. And even if we did split, that wouldn't be the end of everything. It would hurt like hell, but it wouldn't erase the good times we'd had My children would still have two parents who loved them and who would not opt out of their lives just because things were hard.

I’m scared all the time and don’t tell me that courage is going forward when you’re scared because it’s not like that. I was scared of the carriages and the people at the inns. The only thing I did right was find the dust-wife.” “Ah, Lady Fox.” He shook his head. “I think finding her makes up for anything else you did wrong.” “Maybe, but you…you did what you could to make it right.” She didn’t know how to say what was in her head, that Fenris was a good man and maybe the weakness of being good was that evil didn’t occur to you. That never in a thousand years would she have dreamed that Vorling was intentionally hurting her sister. It had never even crossed her mind. “And then you did your best to make sure no one else suffered.” He snorted. “By jumping into a fairy fort. Not the best idea I’ve ever had.” Marra clasped her hands together. They seemed much colder now that Fenris had released them. “Well, if you hadn’t, we never would have met.” “No, we wouldn’t have.” His eyes held hers for just a moment too long, and in the end, Marra’s dropped first.

Gravity has got the best of me. She takes a hold, won’t let me go. She rips me into pieces. Coming home, I’m left alone with nothing but a box of mismatched socks and missing puzzle pieces. I’m lost but never found. I’m riding the wind and coming down until I’m swept away again. You’ve said cut ties. You’ve said count lies. Break your best intentions and leave no trace. All the hurt can be erased if you stay with me on the surface. I’m lost but never found. I’m riding the wind and coming down until I’m swept away again.

We were sitting, no longer talking or touching, and I remember thinking that I didn't want to argue with you anymore. I didn't want to sit like this in hurt silence; I wanted to talk excitedly all night as we once had. I wanted to find some way that wasn't corny sounding to tell you how much fun I'd had in your company, how much knowing you had meant to me, and how I had suddenly realized that I'd been so intent on becoming lovers that I'd overlooked how close we'd been as friends. I wanted you to know that. I wanted you to like me again.

No human being was ever meant to be the source of personal joy and contentment for someone else. And surely, no sinner is ever going to be able to pull that off day after day in the all-encompassing relationship of marriage! Your spouse, your friends, and your children cannot be the sources of your identity. When you seek to define who you are through those relationships, you are actually asking another sinner to be your personal messiah, to give you the inward rest of soul that only God can give. Only when I have sought my identity in the proper place (in my relationship with God) am I able to put you in the proper place as well. When I relate to you knowing that I am God’s child and the recipient of his grace, I am able to serve and love you. I have the hope and courage to get my hands dirty with the hard work involved when two sinners live together. And you are able to do the same with me! However, if I am seeking to get identity from you, I will watch you too closely, listen to you too intently, and need you too fundamentally. I will ride the roller coaster of your best and worst moments and everything in between. And because I am watching you too closely, I will become acutely aware of your weaknesses and failures. I will become overly critical, frustrated, disappointed, hopeless, and angry. I will be angry not because you are a sinner, but because you have failed to deliver the one thing I seek from you: identity. But none of us will ever get the well-being that comes from knowing who we are from our relationships. Instead, we will be left with damaged relationships filled with hurt, frustration, and anger. Matt

But that was nothing new. Who hasn’t dreamed up a possibility for themselves only to have friends, colleagues, or family shit all over it? Most of us are motivated as hell to do anything to pursue our dreams until those around us remind us of the danger, the downside, our own limitations, and all the people before us that didn’t make it. Sometimes the advice comes from a well-intentioned place. They really believe they are doing it for our own good but if you let them, these same people will talk you out of your dreams, and your governor will help them do it.

Dear—Prince,” she started haltingly. She’d never prayed to a Fate, and she didn’t want to get it wrong. “I’m here because my parents are dead.” Evangeline cringed. That was not how she was supposed to start. “What I meant to say was, my parents have both passed away. I lost my mother a couple of years ago. Then I lost my father last season. Now I’m about to lose the boy that I love. “Luc Navarro—” Her throat closed as she said the name and pictured his crooked smile. Maybe if he’d been plainer, or poorer, or crueler, none of this would have happened. “We’ve been seeing each other in secret. I was supposed to be in mourning for my father. Then, a little over two weeks ago, on the day that Luc and I were going to tell our families we were in love, my stepsister, Marisol, announced that she and Luc were getting married.” Evangeline paused to close her eyes. This part still made her head spin. Quick engagements weren’t uncommon. Marisol was pretty, and although she was reserved, she was also kind—so much kinder than Evangeline’s stepmother, Agnes. But Evangeline had never even seen Luc in the same room as Marisol. “I know how this sounds, but Luc loves me. I believe he’s been cursed. He hasn’t spoken to me since the engagement was announced—he won’t even see me. I don’t know how she did it, but I’m certain this is all my stepmother’s doing.” Evangeline didn’t actually have any proof that Agnes was a witch and she’d cast a curse on Luc. But Evangeline was certain her stepmother had learned of Evangeline’s relationship with Luc and she’d wanted Luc, and the title he’d someday inherit, for her daughter instead. “Agnes has resented me ever since my father died. I’ve tried talking to Marisol about Luc. Unlike my stepmother, I don’t think Marisol would ever intentionally hurt me. But every time I try to open my mouth, the words won’t come out, as if they’re also cursed or I’m cursed. So I’m here, begging for your help. The wedding is today, and I need you to stop it.” Evangeline opened her eyes. The lifeless statue hadn’t changed. She knew statues didn’t generally move. Yet she couldn’t help but think that it should have done something—shifted or spoken or moved its marble eyes. “Please, I know you understand heartbreak. Stop Luc from marrying Marisol. Save my heart from breaking again.

These aren’t me!” I screamed in a whisper, two tears slipping down my cheeks. “Whatever you see, it’s not me. I’m just a fuck-up who doesn’t know anything, not even what he’s doing from moment to moment. And I’m scared all the time, and I don’t know how to be anything else, except maybe angry and sad.” His arms tightened around me. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I don’t need you to never make mistakes. I just need you to let me give you as much of myself as I can, and to trust that I will try as hard as possible never to hurt you intentionally. Can you do that? Can you just let me love you?

You said not to fall for you. Did you change your mind?' 'Absolutely not.' His jaw tenses. 'Right.' I don't expect that to hurt as much as it does, which is part of the problem. I'm already too emotionally involved to separate out the sex, no matter how phenomenal it is. 'Here's the thing. I don't think I can separate sex from emotion when it comes to you.' Well, shit, now I've said it. 'We're already too close for that, and if we hook up again, I'm going to eventually fall for you.' My heart pounds at the rushed confession, waiting for his response. 'You won't.' Something akin to panic flares in his eyes, and he crosses his arms. I swear I can actually see the man building his defenses against his own feelings. 'You don't really know me. Not at my core.' And whose fault is that? 'I know enough,' I argue softly. 'And we'd have all the time in the world to figure it out if you'd stop acting like such an emotional chickenshit and just admit that you're going to fall for me, too, if we keep this up.' There's no way he would have designed that saddle, spent all that time training me to fight and fly, if he didn't feel something. He's going to have to fight for this, too, or it will never work. 'I have absolutely no intention of falling for you, Sorrengail.' His eyes narrow and he enunciates every word, like I could possibly take that any other way. Fuck. That. He let me in. He told me about his scars. He had an arsenal crafted for me. He cares. He's just as wrapped up in this as I am, even if he's shitty at showing it. 'Ouch,' I wince. 'Well, it's apparent that you're not ready to admit where this is going. So yeah, I think it's best we agree that this was just a onetime thing.' I force my shoulders to shrug. 'We both needed to blow off some steam, and we did, right?' 'Right,' he agrees, apprehension lining his forehead.

Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; so be shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves” (Matthew 10:16). Jesus Himself acknowledged that when we go into our world, we are being sent as sheep among wolves—even in the church at large. Everyone is at a different level of maturity. When I begin spending time with a new friend, I have learned to be aware of warning signs to avoid long-term hurt. If a woman is constantly critical of others; carries lots of drama; tells me secrets and then always says, “Don’t tell anyone”; is fearful, gossips, or is not humble but defensive when corrected, I see these as cautions.

Leaving my empty goblet, I slide from the soft pile at his order. I can already feel the desire bursting from between my thighs as I fall to all fours and begin my crawl to where he has seated himself. “We will begin as before—you will be spanked over my knee—but this time there will be little pleasure in it for you, my captive. I intend to hurt you—to mark that pretty little behind—and make you unable to sit properly for some time.” I am back by his feet as he concludes and warily, I raise my eyes as he finishes the sentence. I know I am not hiding the terror in my face and yet still I am compelled to carry on—submitting myself to him in this way for our mutual need. He catches my hair in his left hand and pulls it into a rough ponytail, again drawing my head back. “When my hand is aching from tanning your backside, I will bind you to the bedpost and continue to thrash you with my strap. Do you understand?” He eyes me wildly and for a moment I am too afraid to even respond. I have to swallow hard again to find my voice. “Please, my Lofðungr,” I say shakily. “I do not know if I can bear such a punishment?” He never takes his eyes from me as he answers. “You can and you will, my sweeting,” he says. “You will submit to me in this way as a sign of your true desire to be mine.” I close my eyes at his words, understanding for the first time his real intention. He means not just to punish me, but to mark and possess me in some meaningful way. To make me his again in the way that our coupling had done before. As I open my eyes again and see him standing over me, there are tears but also a new acceptance. I nod my head as best I can whilst he is still holding my hair in his fist. “I will bear it,” I say, my voice breaking. He leans in toward me, his face just an inch from mine, those blue pools burning into me. “You will bear it,” he replies, his hot breath against my face, “and I will love you for it.

The conclusions we draw about intentions based on the impact of others’ actions on us are rarely charitable. When a friend shows up late to the movie, we don’t think, “Gee, I’ll bet he ran into someone in need.” More likely we think, “Jerk. He doesn’t care about making me miss the beginning of the movie.” When we’ve been hurt by someone else’s behavior, we assume the worst. When a customer writes “I don’t suppose you’ve gotten to my order yet . . . ,” is he being sarcastic? Is he angry? Or is he trying to tell you that he knows you’re busy? Without tone of voice to guide us, it is easy to assume the worst. We Treat Ourselves More Charitably.

Last night Grey and I were caught together and now he insists we marry.” Eve’s eyes were huge blue saucers. “Define ‘caught.’” Rose stroked Heathcliff’s silky ears. “Naked and in bed-that sort of caught.” Her friend looked positively scandalized-and gleeful. “No! Who caught you?” “His brother Archer and a servant.” She purposefully did not mention anything about Bronte’s situation. As much as she trusted Eve, she could not be certain that none of the grooms wouldn’t overhear. And since most of the household probably knew about her and Grey by dawn, it didn’t seem so important to keep her own council in that regard. “I have no doubt that your maid is getting every sordid detail-and possibly embellishment-belowstairs as we speak.” Eve frowned. “Do you think Ryeton’s servants would be so cruel as to discuss you openly?” She rolled her eyes. “They would never in a million years do anything to intentionally hurt me or Grey, but there’s bound to be talk. It’s that affection for both of us that makes their lips loose. I swear one of the footmen grinned at me this morning as I took breakfast.” Her friend chuckled sweetly, laughing even harder as one of the pups came up on its hind legs to lick her chin. “At least you will have dedicated servants, if not indiscreet ones.” Rose had to smile-it was that or burst into sobs. “At least.

But I am a paladin,” Cordelia cried. “It’s awful, I loathe it— don’t imagine that I feel anything other than hated for this thing that binds me to Lilith. But they fear me because of it. They dare not touch me—” “Oh?” snarled James. “They dare not touch you? That’s not what it bloody looked like.” “The demon at Chiswick House—it was about to tell me something about Belial, before you shot it.” “Listen to yourself, Cordelia!” James shouted. “You are without Cortana! You cannot even lift a weapon! Do you know what it means to me, that you cannot protect yourself? Do you understand that I am terrified, every moment of every day and night, for your safety?” Cordelia stood speechless. She had no idea what to say. She blinked, and felt something hot against her cheek. She put her hand up quickly—surely she was not crying?— and it came away scarlet. “You’re bleeding,” James said. He closed the distance between them in two strides. He caught her chin and lifted it, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. “Just a scratch,” he breathed. “Are you hurt anywhere else? Daisy, tell me—” “No. I’m fine. I promise you,” she said, her voice wavering as his intent golden eyes spilled over her, searching for signs of injury. “It’s nothing.” “It’s the furthest thing from nothing,” James rasped. “By the Angel, when I realized you’d gone out, at night, weaponless—” “What were you even doing at the house? I thought you were staying at the Institute.” “I came to get something for Jesse,” James said. “I took him shopping, with Anna—he needed clothes, but we forgot cuff links—” “He did need clothes,” Cordelia agreed. “Nothing he had fit.” “Oh, no,” said James. “We are not chatting. When I came in, I saw your dress in the hall, and Effie told me she’d caught a glimpse of you leaving. Not getting in a carriage, just wandering off toward Shepherd Market—” “So you Tracked me?” “I had no choice. And then I saw you—you had gone to where your father died,” he said after a moment. “I thought—I was afraid—” “That I wanted to die too?” Cordelia whispered. It had not occurred to her that he might think that. “James. I may be foolish, but I am not self-destructive.” “And I thought, had I made you as miserable as that? I have made so many mistakes, but none were calculated to hurt you. And then I saw what you were doing, and I thought, yes, she does want to die. She wants to die and this is how she’s chosen to do it.” He was breathing hard, almost gasping, and she realized how much of his fury was despair. “James,” she said. “It was a foolish thing to do, but at no moment did I want to die—” He caught at her shoulders. “You cannot hurt yourself, Daisy. You must not. Hate me, hit me, do anything you want to me. Cut up my suits and set fire to my books. Tear my heart into pieces, scatter them across England. But do not harm yourself—” He pulled her toward him, suddenly, pressing his lips to her hair, her cheek. She caught him by the arms, her fingers digging into his sleeves, holding him to her. “I swear to the Angel,” he said, in a muffled voice, “if you die, I will die, and I will haunt you. I will give you no peace—” He kissed her mouth. Perhaps it had been meant to be a quick kiss, but she could not help herself: she kissed back. And it was like breathing air after being trapped underground for weeks, like coming into sunlight after darkness.

Did you know that reclaiming something that was stolen from you can help with trauma?” he asks. “Yes,” I murmur. “And if something hurt you before, giving it a new meaning can help.” His eyes lift, focusing on me intently. “Do you want me to show you a new meaning to this knife?” I hesitate but then nod my head. A different kind of fear is seizing my body—the kind that I’ve always been attracted to. And I’ve missed it so much. “Pull up your dress,” he demands roughly, his voice deep and raspy. Quickly, I do as he says, bunching the material up just high enough to bare the apex of my thighs. His nostrils flare, and he clenches his jaw briefly before ordering, “Now wrap your hand around mine.

Once Fufi saw Panther she came right away. The dogs left with us and we walked. I sobbed the whole way home, still heartbroken. My mom had no time for my whining. “Why are you crying?!” “Because Fufi loves another boy.” “So? Why would that hurt you? It didn’t cost you anything. Fufi’s here. She still loves you. She’s still your dog. So get over it.” Fufi was my first heartbreak. No one has ever betrayed me more than Fufi. It was a valuable lesson to me. The hard thing was understanding that Fufi wasn’t cheating on me with another boy. She was merely living her life to the fullest. Until I knew that she was going out on her own during the day, her other relationship hadn’t affected me at all. Fufi had no malicious intent.

Even more, if most white people are good, innocent, lovely folks who are just angry or scared or ignorant, it naturally follows that whenever racial tension arises, I must be the problem. I am not kind enough, patient enough, warm enough. I don't have enough understanding for the white heart, white feelings, white needs. It does not matter that I don't always feel like teaching white people through my pain, through the disappointment of allies who gave up and colaborers who left. It does not matter that the "well-intentioned" questions hurt my feelings or that the decisions made in all-white meetings affect me differently than they do everyone else. If my feelings do not fit the narrative of white innocence and goodness, the burden of change gets placed on me.

A brittle laugh left his lips. “That’s exactly why I can’t be late. See you later, guys.” He strode toward the door briskly, hoping Ryan would leave it alone. But of course he didn’t. Ryan caught up with him outside before James could reach his car. “Jamie!” Suppressing a sigh, James put on a neutral face and turned to Ryan. “I’m really running late—” “Listen to me, you git,” Ryan said, his eyes dark and hard. “I’m not sure what’s going on in that head of yours lately, but don’t do anything stupid, okay? Don’t agree to Arthur ’s plans only because you think you have to.” Ryan lifted his hands to cradle James’s face. Jamie went still, his heart hammering as Ryan looked him in the eye intently. “You deserve better. You deserve marrying someone you’re crazy about. Someone who would love you for being you—not for your money or your family name, but because you’re the best person I know.” Ryan smiled at him crookedly. “Being in love is pretty fucking great, actually. You deserve to find your Hannah.” Jamie wondered if it would actually hurt more if Ryan stuck a knife in his gut and twisted it slowly. He thought he smiled. He hoped he was smiling. His face hurt, so he must be. He said, “Sure I will. Later, mate.” He was surprised by how absolutely normal his voice sounded. He smiled again and turned away. He walked to his car. He got in. He closed the door. He put his hands on the steering wheel. His throat worked as he tried to swallow the painful lump in his throat. He couldn’t. A terrible, choked sound came from his throat. His chest began to heave. He pressed his hands to his eyes and breathed in, breathed out.

Stop.” He shot in front of me, moving so fast I didn’t see him until we were face to face. “Please just . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say, Josie.” I winced, feeling what he was saying all the way to the core. “That . . . that says everything, Seth, because if you don’t—” My voice cracked, right along with what was left of my heart. “If you don’t know what to say, then that’s it.” “You don’t understand.” His voice was low.“I don’t understand anything.” Heart aching, I stepped to the side, but Seth followed. “Please, just let me go. We can forget we even had—” He clasped my cheeks in a gentle grasp. “No one has ever told me that before.” “What?” I whispered after a moment. His eyes were wide, slightly dilated. “No one has ever said they loved me or were in love with me, and actually meant it.” I couldn’t believe that. Not even his mother? Yes, that was a different kind of love, but then I remembered how his mom was and once again I found myself wishing she was alive so I could bitch-slap her into eternity. But to live the years he had, and to never experience any kind of love wasn’t just wrong, it was sad. I wished it wasn’t so. Seth’s hands slid down my neck, stopping where his thumbs pressed against my pulse. “But you . . .” I had a choice here. I recognized that. I could save face and let this go. I could pull away and walk out of this room, but I was hurting for myself and despite everything that had gone on between us, I was still hurting for him. Maybe that. “But I love you.” Seth’s hands shook—his hands. Hands that were always so steady in battle, but they trembled now, touching me. “I don’t deserve that from anyone, but especially from you.” Voice rough and heavy, he searched my face intently. “That is a precious gift that I . . . that I am not worthy of.” I sucked in air. Oh gosh, that hurt. Hearing him say that tore me up, ripped me right apart, and it struck me then. I knew why he had backed off. Him pushing me away had nothing to do with Alex or with me. It was because of him, because of how he believed he deserved nothing more than punishment. That he sincerely believed that the only thing he had was to atone for his past sins. Tears pricked my eyes as I folded my hands over his wrists. I had to prove what he believed wasn’t true. Prove that he was the total of everything he’d done and not just the dark things he was ashamed of, and I would do so, because I loved him and accepted him for who he was, for all his faults. That was what love meant.

In the Buddhist teachings on compassion there’s a practice called “one at the beginning, and one at the end.” When I wake up in the morning, I do this practice. I make an aspiration for the day. For example, I might say, “Today, may I acknowledge whenever I get hooked.” Or, “May I not speak or act out of anger.” I try not to make it too grandiose, as in, “Today, may I be completely free of all neurosis.” I begin with a clear intention, and then I go about the day with this in mind. In the evening, I review what happened. This is the part that can be so loaded for Western people. We have an unfortunate tendency to emphasize our failures. But when Dzigar Kongtrül teaches about this, he says that for him, when he sees that he has connected with his aspiration even once briefly during the whole day, he feels a sense of rejoicing. He also says that when he recognizes he lost it completely, he rejoices that he has the capacity to see that. This way of viewing ourselves has been very inspiring for me. He encourages us to ask what it is in us, after all, that sees that we lost it. Isn’t it our own wisdom, our own insight, our own natural intelligence? Can we just have the aspiration, then, to identify with the wisdom that acknowledges that we hurt someone’s feelings, or that we smoked when we said we wouldn’t? Can we have the aspiration to identify more and more with our ability to recognize what we’re doing instead of always identifying with our mistakes? This is the spirit of delighting in what we see rather than despairing in what we see. It’s the spirit of letting compassionate self-reflection build confidence rather than becoming a cause for depression. Being

I crossed the distance between us and I reared back and slapped him as hard as I could. Hands trembling with rage, I stood my ground and said what would hurt him the most. “Lochlan was right about you, piece of shit,” I said on a shaky voice and his eyes flashed with fury. He grabbed my arm painfully, whipping me around to face him as if he was going to spew more ugly words at me, but nothing came out. Instead, his brows creased as if in confusion and his eyes danced from my chest to my face and back. I yanked the lapel of my coat over my chest, which had been exposed from the low neckline of my blouse, and wrestled myself from his grip. Taking a step back, our eyes met and my skin crawled at the devious intent written in his glare. His chin lifted and a shit-eating grin spread across his face, eyes gleaming with an unspoken threat.

Too often, out of the best of intentions, we do the very thing guaranteed to make matters worse: We hector, lecture, bully, plead, or threaten. Anthony Pratkanis, a social psychologist who investigated how scammers prey on old people, collected heartbreaking stories of family members pleading with relatives who had been defrauded: “Can’t you see the guy is a thief and the offer is a scam? You’re being ripped off!” “Ironically, this natural tendency to lecture may be one of the worst things a family member or friend can do,” Pratkanis says. “A lecture just makes the victim feel more defensive and pushes him or her further into the clutches of the fraud criminal.” Anyone who understands dissonance knows why. Shouting “What were you thinking?” will backfire because it means “Boy, are you stupid.” Such accusations cause already embarrassed victims to withdraw further into themselves and clam up, refusing to tell anyone what they are doing.

She asked about my intentions toward you.” He steadied his nerve to speak words that might hurt her. “I told her there was nothing between us.” “Did you?” Her expression was impenetrable as she shifted her gaze to the road ahead. “Fortunately, I told her the same thing.” He gripped the reins. So much for hurting her. “But you know Gran,” Celia went on lightly. “She’ll think what she wants, no matter what either of us say.” “Well,” he managed, “her mind will surely be put to rest about you and me when you announce that you’re marrying the duke.” “When I announce?” she echoed, then fell silent for a long moment. “There’s something I…ought to have mentioned before.” He gritted his teeth. Damn, damn, damn. She must have already announced it, last night after he’d left the ball. It was set in stone now. She was planning to let that bloody duke into her bed and her life, even though she didn’t- “I never had any intention of marrying the duke.

you actually end up with a screwed-up reality—at least for you. Alices who misuse language end up eventually living in their own Wonderlands. Lousy language hurts the people who use it, as well as the society they live in; if you use sloppy language, then you end up with sloppy perceptions. So it’s easy to fool these people simply by using their corrupted vocabulary; tell them what they want to hear. They’ll not only believe what you say, but they’ll believe in you.” “Precisely,” Acton said, nodding his head as he stared at me intently. Now Mary eased herself down next to me. Only Garth remained in a squatting position, absently tracing invisible patterns on the stone in front of him with his index finger. “They use the language of cannibals, which eats up people’s perceptions and sensibilities, and sometimes their lives. But the language of cannibals also consumes the people who use it; they become fools, as easily manipulable as their intended victims.

You were just trying to figure out if I'm one of you?" Of course, stupid. When has anyone like Galen ever paid you any attention? When has there ever been anyone like Galen? Still, I'm surprised how much it hurts when he nods. I'm his little science project. All the time I thought he was flirting with me, he was really just trying to lure me out here to test his theory. If stupid were a disease, I'd have died from it by now. But at least I know where he really stands-about his feelings for me anyway. But what his intentions for me in general are, I have no idea. What happens if I can turn into a fish? Does he think I'll just kiss my mom good-bye, flush all my good grades-all those scholarships-down the toilet so I can go swim with the dolphins? he called himself a Royal. Of course, I don't know exactly what that means, but I can sure guess-that I'm another subject to him, someone to order around. He did say I had to obey him, after all. But if he's a Royal, why come out here himself? Why not send someone less important? I'm betting the U.S. President doesn't personally go to foreign countries looking for missing Americans who might not even be American. But can I trust him enough to answer my questions? He already deceived me once, faking interest in me to get me out here. He lied to my face about having a mother. He even lied to my mom. What else would he lie about to get what he wants? No, I can't trust him. Still, I want to know the truth, if only for myself. I'm not moving into some big seashell off the Jersey seashore or anything-but I can't deny that I'm different. What could it hurt to spend a little more time with Galen so he can help me figure this out? So what if he thinks I'm some sort of pheasant fish who has to obey him? Why shouldn't I use him the way he used me-to get what I want? It's just that what I want is holding me in his arms, acting like he's concerned that I'm not talking anymore.

He concluded the speech with an irritated motion of his hands. Unfortunately, Evie had been conditioned by too many encounters with Uncle Peregrine to discern between angry gestures and the beginnings of a physical attack. She flinched instinctively, her own arms flying up to shield her head. When the expected pain of a blow did not come, she let out a breath and tentatively lowered her arms to find Sebastian staring at her with blank astonishment. Then his face went dark. “Evie,” he said, his voice containing a bladelike ferocity that frightened her. “Did you think I was about to…Christ. Someone hit you. Someone hit you in the past—who the hell was it?” He reached for her suddenly—too suddenly—and she stumbled backward, coming up hard against the wall. Sebastian went very still. “Goddamn,” he whispered. Appearing to struggle with some powerful emotion, he stared at her intently. After a long moment, he spoke softly. “I would never strike a woman. I would never harm you. You know that, don’t you?” Transfixed by the light, glittering eyes that held hers with such intensity, Evie couldn’t move or make a sound. She started as he approached her slowly. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Let me come to you. It’s all right. Easy.” One of his arms slid around her, while he used his free hand to smooth her hair, and then she was breathing, sighing, as relief flowed through her. Sebastian brought her closer against him, his mouth brushing her temple. “Who was it?” he asked. “M-my uncle,” she managed to say. The motion of his hand on her back paused as he heard her stammer. “Maybrick?” he asked patiently. “No, th-the other one.” “Stubbins.” “Yes.” Evie closed her eyes in pleasure as his other arm slid around her. Clasped against Sebastian’s hard chest, with her cheek tucked against his shoulder, she inhaled the scent of clean male skin, and the subtle touch of sandalwood cologne. “How often?” she heard him ask. “More than once?” “I…i-it’s not important now.” “How often, Evie?” Realizing that he was going to persist until she answered, Evie muttered, “Not t-terribly often, but…sometimes when I displeased him, or Aunt Fl-Florence, he would lose his temper. The l-last time I tr-tried to run away, he blackened my eye and spl-split my lip.” “Did he?” Sebastian was silent for a long moment, and then he spoke with chilling softness. “I’m going to tear him limb from limb.” “I don’t want that,” Evie said earnestly. “I-I just want to be safe from him. From all of them.” Sebastian drew his head back to look down into her flushed face. “You are safe,” he said in a low voice. He lifted one of his hands to her face, caressing the plane of her cheekbone, letting his fingertip follow the trail of pale golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. As her lashes fluttered downward, he stroked the slender arcs of her brows, and cradled the side of her face in his palm. “Evie,” he murmured. “I swear on my life, you will never feel pain from my hands. I may prove a devil of a husband in every other regard…but I wouldn’t hurt you that way. You must believe that.

undo that cloak — and accepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on the camp-stool did the same, and the belligerents approached each other. Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is conjectured that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature intentionally was the cause of his shutting his eyes when he arrived at the fatal spot; and that the circumstance of his eyes being closed, prevented his observing the very extraordinary and unaccountable demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentleman started, stared, retreated, rubbed his eyes, stared again, and, finally, shouted, ‘Stop, stop!’ ‘What’s all this?’ said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr. Snodgrass came running up; ‘that’s not the man.’ ‘Not the man!’ said Doctor Slammer’s second. ‘Not the man!’ said Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Not the man!’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand. ‘Certainly not,’ replied the little doctor. ‘That’s not the person who insulted me last night.’ ‘Very extraordinary!’ exclaimed the officer. ‘Very,’ said the gentleman with the camp-stool.

The men in my mother’s life were like priests, ministering to her. They loved her in a way I hope I am never loved, my father, Sydney Goldsmith, and Dr. Constantine, who looked after her for so many years. It is why I seek the company of the young, the urbane, the polished, the ambitious, the prodigiously gifted, like Nick and his friends. In my mother’s world, at least in those latter days, the men were kind, shy, easily damaged, too sensitive to her hurts. I never want to meet such men again. In a way I prefer them to be impervious to me. I can no longer endure the lost look in the eye, the composure too easily shattered, the waning hope. I now require people to be viable, durable. I try to catch hold of their invulnerability and apply it to myself. I want to feel that the world is hard enough to withstand knocks, as well as to inflict them. I want evidence of good health and good luck and the people who enjoy both. These priestly ministrations, that simple childish cheerfulness, that delicacy of intention, that sigh immediately suppressed, that welcoming of routine attentions, that reliance on old patterns, that fidelity, that constancy, and the terror behind all of these things…No more.

If you’re hoping for a good meal, you’ve come to the wrong place. Miss Cameron has already attempted to sacrifice herself on the altar of domesticity this morning, and we both narrowly escaped death from her efforts. I’m cooking supper,” he finished, “and it may not be much better.” “I’ll try my hand at breakfast,” the vicar volunteered good-naturedly. When Elizabeth was out of earshot, Ian said quietly, “How badly is the woman hurt?” “It’s hard to say, considering that she was almost too angry to be coherent. Or it might have been the laudanum that did it.” “Did what?” The vicar paused a moment to watch a bird hop about in the rustling leaves overhead, then he said, “She was in a rare state. Quite confused. Angry, too. On the one hand, she was afraid you might decide to express your ‘tender regard’ for Lady Cameron, undoubtedly in much the way you were doing it when I arrived.” When his gibe evoked nothing but a quirked eyebrow from his imperturbable nephew, Duncan sighed and continued, “At the same time, she was equally convinced that her young lady might try to shoot you with your own gun, which I distinctly understood her to say the young lady had already tried to do. It is that which I feared when I heard the gunshots that sent me galloping up here.” “We were shooting at targets.” The vicar nodded, but he was studying Ian with an intent frown. “Is something else bothering you?” Ian asked, noting the look. The vicar hesitated, then shook his head slightly, as if trying to dismiss something from his mind. “Miss Throckmorton-Jones had more to say, but I can scarcely credit it.” “No doubt it was the laudanum,” Ian said, dismissing the matter with a shrug. “Perhaps,” he said, his frown returning. “Yet I have not taken laudanum, and I was under the impression you are about to betroth yourself to a young woman named Christina Taylor.” “I am.” His face turned censorious. “Then what excuse can you have for the scene I just witnessed a few minutes ago?” Ian’s voice was clipped. “Insanity.” They walked back to the house, the vicar silent and thoughtful, Ian grim. Duncan’s untimely arrival had not bothered him, but now that his passion had finally cooled he was irritated as hell with his body’s uncontrollable reaction to Elizabeth Cameron. The moment his mouth touched hers it was as if his brain went dead. Even though he knew exactly what she was, in his arms she became an alluring angel.

These other voices make me constantly falling back into an old trap, before I am even fully aware of it, I find myself wondering why someone hurt me, rejected me, or didn’t pay attention to me. Without realizing it, I find myself brooding about someone else’s success, my own loneliness, and the way the world abuses me. Despite my conscious intentions, I often catch myself daydreaming about becoming rich, powerful, and very famous. All of these mental games reveal to me the fragility of my faith that I am the Beloved One on whom God’s favor rests. I am so afraid of being disliked, blamed, put aside, passed over, ignored, persecuted, and killed, that I am constantly developing strategies to defend myself and thereby assure myself of the love I think I need and deserve. And in so doing I move far away from my father’s home and choose to dwell in a “distant country.” Many of my daily preoccupations suggest that I belong more to the world than to God. A little criticism makes me angry, and a little rejection makes me depressed. A little praise raises my spirits, and a little success excites me. It takes very little to raise me up or thrust me down. Often I am like a small boat on the ocean, completely at the mercy of its waves.

Lies always hurt. Shirley made it clear to me that she would accept nothing but 100 percent honesty in our relationship. That slap across the face was an eye-opener. It made me feel that I didn’t need to sneak around behind her back. It gave me the freedom for the first time in my life to let go of my secrets. It’s a lesson that I continue to learn--if you lie, no matter how good your intentions, you carry the lie with you. It weighs you down, it holds you back, and you start to lose respect for yourself. The biggest lies of all are those we tell ourselves. Every time you say, “I can’t do that,” “I don’t have what it takes,” “It’s too late,” or “I’m not good enough,” you’re keeping yourself from living your truth. This is always a tough one for me, and something I continually have to work on. Why do we lie to ourselves? Because a lie feels easy and comfortable. It keeps fear and pain away; it shields you from the unknown. But you deserve more. You deserve not to settle, not to be distracted, and not to deny yourself your highest potential. As the saying goes, “The truth shall set you free.” Be honest about what you want, what you need, and what you’re capable of. Tune out the negative voices in your head that hold you back. Change your mind, change yourself.

He got in beside her and impatiently reached for her seat belt, snapping it in place. “You always forget,” he murmured, meeting her eyes. Her breath came uneasily through her lips as she met that level stare and responded helplessly to it. He was handsome and sexy and she loved him more than her own life. She had for years. But it was a hopeless, unreturned adoration that left her unfulfilled. He’d never touched her, not even in the most innocent way. He only looked. “I should close my door to you,” she said huskily. “Refuse to speak to you, refuse to see you, and get on with my life. You’re a constant torment.” Unexpectedly he reached out and touched her soft cheek with just his fingertips. They smoothed down to her full, soft mouth and teased the lower lip away from the upper one. “I’m Lakota,” he said quietly. “You’re white.” “There is,” she said unsteadily, “such a thing as birth control.” His face was very solemn and his eyes were narrow and intent on hers. “And sex is all you want from me, Cecily?” he asked mockingly. “No kids, ever?” It was the most serious conversation they’d ever had. She couldn’t look away from his dark eyes. She wanted him. But she wanted children, too, eventually. Her expression told him so. “No, Cecily,” he continued gently. “Sex isn’t what you want at all. And what you really want, I can’t give you. We have no future together. If I marry one day, it’s important to me that I marry a woman with the same background as my own. And I don’t want to live with a young, and all too innocent, white woman.” “I wouldn’t be innocent if you’d cooperate for an hour,” she muttered outrageously. His dark eyes twinkled. “Under different circumstances, I would,” he said, and there was suddenly something hot and dangerous in the way he looked at her as the smile faded from his chiseled lips, something that made her heart race even faster. “I’d love to strip you and throw you onto a bed and bend you like a willow twig under y body.” “Stop!” she whispered theatrically. “I’ll swoon!” And it wasn’t all acting. His hand slid behind her nape and contracted, dragging her rapt face just under his, so close that she could smell the coffee that clung to his clean breath, so close that her breasts almost touched his jacket. “You’ll tempt me once too often,” he bit off. “This teasing is more dangerous than you realize.” She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. She was throbbing, aroused, sick with desire. In all her life, there had been only this man who made her feel alive, who made her feel passion. Despite the traumatic experience of her teens, she had a fierce physical attraction to Tate that she was incapable of feeling with any other man. She touched his lean cheek with cold fingertips, slid them back, around his neck into the thick mane of long hair that he kept tightly bound-like his own passions. “You could kiss me,” she whispered unsteadily, “just to see how it feels.” He tensed. His mouth poised just above her parted lips. The silence in the car was pregnant, tense, alive with possibilities and anticipation. He looked into her wide, pale, eager green eyes and saw the heat she couldn’t disguise. His own body felt the pressure and warmth of hers and began to swell, against his will. “Tate,” she breathed, pushing upward, toward his mouth, his chiseled, beautiful mouth that promised heaven, promised satisfaction, promised paradise. His dark fingers corded in her hair. They hurt, and she didn’t care. Her whole body ached. “Cecily, you little fool,” he ground out. Her lips parted even more. He was weak. This once, he was weak. She could tempt him. It could happen. She could feel his mouth, taste it, breathe it. She felt him waver. She felt the sharp explosion of his breath against her lips as he let his control slip. His mouth parted and his head bent. She wanted it. Oh, God, she wanted it, wanted it, wanted it…

Are you mad at me?” Her brow was wrinkled and her eyes were worried, and she wasn’t smiling anymore. “I thought you would laugh.” She shrugged. “I told Kathleen I was going to surprise you. And she said, ‘Go right ahead!’ So I did. I used your paints, but I put everything back.” “Why are you kicking me in the head?” “It’s our story. We meet. You save me. I kiss you. You kiss me back, but you keep acting like you don’t like me even though I know you do. So I’m kicking some sense into you. And man, does it feel good.” She grinned cheekily, and I looked back at her depiction. That was some kick to the head. “It’s a terrible mural.” It was terrible. And funny. And very Georgia. “Well, we can’t all be Leonardo DiCaprio. You painted on my walls, I’m painting on yours. And you don’t even have to pay me. I’m just trying to bond with you over art.” “Leonardo da Vinci, you mean?” “Him too.” She smiled again and laid back on my bed, patting the spot beside her. “You could have at least given me some biceps. That doesn’t look anything like me. And why am I saying, ‘Don’t hurt me, Georgia!’” I plopped down on the bed and purposely landed partially on top of her. She wiggled and scooted breathlessly, trying to free herself from my intentional squishing... She stroked my head and I breathed against her skin. “Are we bonding over art?” she whispered in my ear. “No.

Please, Holy Mother God,” I whispered in prayer, “help me cut the invisible cords that bind me, and set me free. Give me the inner strength to let go of all that I have created up until now, on every level, and which no longer reflects the highest path for me, and for those I love and serve. Help calm my more masculine energies so I can settle into my own divine feminine nature and cool the angry fires of hurt and fear that have burned in my heart for so long.” After making my prayerful request, I got up and lit a candle to the Divine Mother, to say “thank you” for hearing me. I was ready to surrender. I knew it was time to release control over my life and let God take over. I spoke my intention aloud: “This life of mine is now finished. My present way is no longer serving me or allowing my greater Spirit to express through me. I ask for the cocoon to break open and free my true divine light. I surrender all attachments on all levels to the past and am now ready for what the Universe has in store for me. And so it is.” At that moment time stood still. I knew my intention was heard and registered by the heavens, and that my request would be honored and met with divine support. I sensed an inner shift take place in me. I didn’t feel euphoric. I didn’t even feel happy. Rather, I felt somber and quiet in spite of the thousand sounds swirling around me, the Universe saying, Okay, get ready. The next morning, I suddenly had a powerful intuitive hit from my Higher Self that said, “Sonia, it is time to heal your life, and the only way to do that is to walk the Camino de Santiago. And go alone.

Guilt. Torment. Sorrow. Shock. Which?” she asked against his chest. “I’m trying,” he murmured on a weary chuckle. “But all I can manage is pride,” he added softly. “I satisfied you completely, didn’t I?” “More than completely,” she murmured against his damp shoulder. Her hand traced his chest, feeling the coolness of his skin, the ripple of muscle. “Hold me close.” He wrapped both arms around her and drew her on top of him, holding her hungrily to him, their legs lazily entwined. “I seduced you.” She pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone. “Mmm-hmm.” He caught his breath as the tiny, insignificant movement produced a sudden, raging arousal. She lifted her head. “Did I do something wrong?” He lifted an eyebrow and nodded toward his flat stomach. She followed his amused glance and caught her breath. He drew her mouth down over his and kissed her ferociously before he sat up and moved off the bed. “Where are you going?” she asked, startled. He drew on his briefs and his slacks, glancing down at her with amused delight. “One of us has to be sensible,” he told her. “Colby’s probably on his way back right now.” “But he just left…” “Almost an hour ago,” he finished for her, nodding toward the clock on the bedside table. She sat up, her eyes wide with surprise. “I took a long time with you,” he said gently. “Didn’t you notice?” She laughed self-consciously. “Well, yes, but I didn’t realize it was that long.” He drew her off the bed and bent to kiss her tenderly, nuzzling her face with his. “Was I worth waiting for?” he asked. She smiled. “What a silly question.” He kissed her again, but when he lifted his head he wasn’t smiling. “I loved what we did together,” he said quietly. “But I should have been more responsible.” She knew what he was thinking. He hadn’t used anything, and he surely knew that she wasn’t. She flattened her hand against his bare chest. “There’s a morning-after pill. I’ll drive into the city tomorrow and get one,” she said, lying like a sailor. She had no intention of doing that, but it would comfort him. He found that he didn’t like that idea. It hurt something deeply primitive in him. He scowled. “That could be dangerous.” “No, it’s not. He traced her fingernails while he tried to think. It seemed like a fantasy, a dream. He’d never had such an experience with a woman in his life. She closed her eyes and moved closer to him. “I could never have done that with anyone else,” she whispered. “It was more beautiful than my dreams.” His heart jumped. That was how it felt to him, too. He tilted her face so that he could search her soft eyes. She was radiant; she almost glowed. “Kiss me,” he murmured softly. She did. But he wasn’t smiling. She could almost see the thoughts in his face. “You didn’t force me, Tate,” she said gently. “I made a conscious decision. I made a choice. I needed to know if what had happened to me had destroyed me as a woman. I found out in the most wonderful way that it hadn’t. I’m not ashamed of what we did together.” “Neither am I.” He turned, his face still tormented. “But it wasn’t my right.” “To be the first?” She smiled gently. “It would have been you eight years ago or eight years from now. I don’t want anyone else-not that way. I never did.” He actually winced. “Cecily…” “I’m not asking for declarations of undying love. I won’t cling. I’m not the type.

i will tell you about selfish people even when they know they will hurt you they walk into your life to taste you because you are the type of being they don’t want to miss out on you are too much shine to not be felt so when they have gotten a good look at everything you have to offer. when they have taken your skin, your hair, your secrets with them when they realize how real this is how much of a storm you are and it hits them. that is when the cowardice sets in. that is when the person you thought they were is replaced with the sad reality of what they are. that is when they lose every fighting bone in their body and leave after saying you will find better than me. you will stand there naked with half of them still hidden somewhere inside you and sob. asking them why they did it. why they forced you to love them when they had no intention of loving you back and they’ll say something along the lines of I just had to try. I had to give it a chance. It was you after all but that isn’t romantic. It isn’t sweet. The idea that they were so engulfed by your existence that had to risk breaking it for the sake of knowing they weren’t the one missing out your existence meant that little next to their curiosity of you this is the thing about selfish people they gamble entire beings. entire souls to please their own. One second they are holding you like the world in their lap and the next they have belittled you to a mere picture a moment. something of the past. one second. as if the human heart means that little to them. isn’t it sad and funny how people have more guts these days to undress you with their fingers than they do to pick up the phone and call. apologize. for the loss.

My mother’s brother Johnny was a Vietnam vet, and he too had been wounded. He had spent a long time in a hospital and he understood more than most what I was going through. Or at least he thought he did, and I appreciated that--even if I didn’t act like it at first. Uncle Johnny started to visit every weekend. He’d come and sit with me to give my parents a little breather. After my dad won the battle over my medication, I was, as I said, a little more lucid. I was also a little more ornery. I wouldn’t let anyone turn on that little red radio. I didn’t even care if Sheryl Crow was telling me what was good. I was more aware of my pain. Just lying there and listening or doing anything at all hurt. My whole body hurt and everyone and everything was to blame. All I wanted to do was sit in silence with the door shut. Uncle Johnny obliged me for a while. He’d come in and sit down in the chair next to my bed. He sat and stared blankly right along with me. But after a while, he couldn’t handle that anymore. One day, on the verge of dying of boredom, Uncle Johnny had had enough. He turned to me and said sternly, “Noah, I’m not gonna sit in here like we’re in an oversized coffin. We’re either opening the door or we’re turning the TV on. Which one do you want?” I rolled my eyes and grumbled for a few minutes before answering, “All right. Turn on the TV.” Without hesitation Uncle Johnny shot up out of that chair and reached up to hit the power button on the TV mounted from the ceiling. No sooner had his butt hit the chair seat than he was right back up again. “Fuck that. I am opening the door, too, because I want it open.” He vigorously emphasized his intention so I didn’t protest. He marched over and swung that door open. I swear he might have even taken a deep breath as if it were fresh mountain air. Then he came back to his chair and sat down.

didn’t plan this,” Jack said. “But since it’s you and me—tell me about Brie.” “Tell you what, Jack?” “When she was leaving… It looked like there was something….” “Spit it out.” “You and Brie?” “What?” Jack took a breath, not happily. “Are you with my sister?” Mike had a swallow of his whiskey. “I’m taking a day off tomorrow—taking her down the Pacific Coast Highway through Mendocino to look for whales, see the galleries, maybe have a little lunch.” “Why?” “She said she’d like to do that while she’s here.” “All right, but you know what I’m getting at—” “I think you’d better tell me, so I don’t misunderstand.” “I’d like to know what your intentions are toward my sister.” “You really think you have the right to do that? To ask that question?” Mike asked him. “Just tell me what was going on between the two of you while I was gone.” “Jack, you’d better loosen your grip a little. Brie’s a grown woman. From where I stand, we’re good friends. If you want to know how she sees it, I think she’s the one you have to ask. But I don’t recommend it—she might be offended. Despite everything, she tends to think of herself as a grown-up.” “It’s no secret to you—she’s had a real bad year.” “It’s no secret,” Mike agreed. “You’re making this really tough, man…” “No, I think you are. You spent some time with her tonight. Did it look to you like anything is wrong? Like she’s upset or anything? Because I think everything is fine and you worry too much.” “I worry, yeah. I worry that maybe she’ll look to you for some comfort. For something to help her get through. And that you’ll take advantage of that.” “And…?” Mike prompted, lifting his glass but not drinking. “And maybe work a little of your Latin magic on her and walk away.” Jack drank his whiskey. “I don’t want you to do that to her.” Mike put down his glass on the bar without emptying it. “I would never hurt Brie. And it has nothing to do with whose sister she is. Good night, Jack.

Standing at the window overlooking the lawn, Jordan and Alexandra Townsende watched the couple heading toward them. “If you’d asked me to name the last man on earth I would have expected to fall head over heels for a slip of a girl, it would have been Ian Thornton,” he told her. His wife heard that with a sidewise look of extreme amusement. “If I’d been asked, I rather think I would have named you.” “I’m sure you would have,” he said, grinning. He saw her smile fade, and he put his arm around her waist, instantly concerned that her pregnancy was causing her discomfort. “Is it the babe, darling?” She burst out laughing and shook her head, but she sobered again almost instantly. “Do you think,” she asked pensively, “he can be trusted not to hurt her? He’s done so much damage that I-I just cannot like him, Jordan. He’s handsome, I’ll grant you that, extraordinarily handsome-“ “Not that handsome,” Jordan said, stung. And this time Alexandra dissolved in mirth. Turning, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him soundly. “Actually, he rather reminds me of you,” she said, “in his coloring and height and build.” “I hope that hasn’t anything to do with why you can’t like him,” her husband teased. “Jordan, do stop. I’m worried, really I am. He’s-well, he almost frightens me. Even though he seems very civilized on the surface, there’s a forcefulness, maybe even a ruthlessness beneath his polished manners. And he stops at nothing when he wants something. I saw that yesterday when he came to the house and persuaded Elizabeth to agree to marry him.” Turning, Jordan looked at her with a mixture of intent interest, surprise, and amusement. “Go on,” he said. “Well, at this particular moment he wants Elizabeth, and I can’t help fearing it’s a whim.” “You wouldn’t have thought that if you’d seen his face blanch the other night when he realized she was going to try to brave society without his help.” “Really? You’re certain?” “Positive.” “Are you certain you know him well enough to judge him?” “Absolutely certain,” he averred. “How well do you know him?” “Ian,” Jordan said with a grin, “is my sixth cousin.” “Your what? You’re joking! Why didn’t you tell me before?

What secrets?” Eena blurted out. Kira answered the question by defensively listing them out on her fingers. “How about the fact that Derian was coming for you in a few short days, or the fact that Gemdorin was forcing you to search for some magic gem we were all unaware existed. How about the knowledge of your unusual powers that you stupidly used to infect the Ghengats, which was also a secret you kept to yourself until it was discovered by Gemdorin, making it too late for us to do anything about preventing you from being beaten half to death! You hide things as if you think your abilities are so superior to what the rest of us can possibly contribute!” Eena shook her head adamantly. “That’s not what I think…” “It’s how you behave. It’s how you come across to everyone. Your selfish actions speak a helluva lot louder than your hollow words or your foolish intentions.” The young queen felt a rise of tears burn her eyes. “My intentions are not foolish. All I ever meant to do was protect those around me.” “By keeping us in the dark? That’s not protection, girl. That’s neglect.” Eena sniffled as fresh waterworks ran down her cheeks. Her face twisted up, confused. “People get hurt when they’re involved in my problems.” “In our problems.” “No! My problems!” she insisted. Kira threw up her arms. “There you go being all selfish again!” Eena sucked in a ragged breath, almost crying out the next question. “How do you figure that’s being selfish? I’m trying to keep everyone safe!” “And what did I just get through telling you about that idiotic notion?” Eena looked up at the ceiling. She raised her palms in frustration as she bawled. “I don’t know what else to do! What do you want from me?” Kira stepped forward and knelt in front of her tortured sister. Her hand rested gently on Eena’s knee as the Mishmorat’s gruff countenance melted. A softer, kinder voice answered the desperate question. “We want you to understand that the world doesn’t rest on your shoulders. You’re only responsible for a small portion of what happens daily on Moccobatra. Life isn’t dependent upon you alone, Sha Eena. It’s dependent upon all of us. We’re a team. We work together doing our own part. We need you to be part of our team, not a single entity existing on your own.

Leo was at her side in an instant, crouching on the floor as he sorted through the hissing tangle of limbs and skirts. “Are you hurt? I feel certain there’s a woman in here somewhere. … Ah, there you are. Easy, now. Let me—” “Don’t touch me,” she snapped, batting at him with her fists. “I’m not touching you. That is, I’m only touching you with the—ow, damn it—with the intention of helping.” Her hat, a little scrap of wool felt with cheap corded trim, had fallen over her face. Leo managed to push it back to the top of her head, narrowly missing a sharp blow to his jaw. “Christ. Would you stop flailing for a moment?” Struggling to a sitting position, she glared at him. Leo crawled to retrieve the spectacles and returned to hand them to her. She snatched them from him without a word of thanks. She was a lean, anxious-looking woman. A young woman with narrowed eyes, from which bad temper flashed out. Her light brown hair was pulled back with a gallows-rope tightness that made Leo wince just to see it. One would have hoped for some compensating feature—a soft pair of lips, perhaps, or a pretty bosom. But no, there was only a stern mouth, a flat chest, and gaunt cheeks. If Leo were compelled to spend any time with her—which, thankfully, he wasn’t—he would have started by feeding her. “If you want to help,” she said coldly, hooking the spectacles around her ears, “retrieve that blasted ferret for me. Perhaps I’ve tired him enough that you may be able to run him to ground.” Still crouching on the floor, Leo glanced at the ferret, which had paused ten yards away and was watching them both with bright, beady eyes. “What is his name?” “Dodger.” Leo gave a low whistle and a few clicks of his tongue. “Come here, Dodger. You’ve caused enough trouble for the morning. Though I can’t fault your taste in … ladies’ garters? Is that what you’re holding?” The woman watched, stupefied, as the ferret’s long, slender body wriggled toward Leo. Chattering busily, Dodger crawled onto Leo’s thigh. “Good fellow,” Leo said, stroking the sleek fur. “How did you do that?” the woman asked in annoyance. “I have a way with animals. They tend to acknowledge me as one of their own.” Leo gently pried a frilly bit of lace and ribbon from the long front teeth. It was definitely a garter, deliciously feminine and impractical. He gave the woman a mocking smile as he handed it to her. “No doubt this is yours.

Two years before, the man had ended my reign. I had been the semel of a tribe of werepanthers, leader of the tribe of Menhit, and he had fought me in the pit and won. He could have cut out my heart with his claws, but instead… instead he offered the path to redemption. He opened his home, welcomed me into his tribe and into his life. I was trusted, my counsel heeded, my strength relied upon. It was a gift, the second coming of the friendship we had when we were young. I had worried that I would be consumed by bitterness and would turn on him, catch him unawares, betray him, and then kill him. But I had forgotten about my own heart. I loved Logan. Not like a lover, not with carnal intent, but—and it was so cliché—like the brother I never had. I wanted him back in my life more than I wanted to hurt him. I was a shitty leader: the selfish kind, the vindictive kind, the one everyone wished would just die already so they could get someone better, someone who cared at all. So when he beat me in the pit, absorbed my tribe, and took me in, I simply surrendered. Logan was a force of nature, and I had been so tired of fighting him, fighting his nobility and his ethics and his strength, that I let the bitterness go. No good had come from it. Time, instead, to try something new. Being his maahes, the prince of his tribe, had worked for me. I was easily the second in power. He made the decisions; I carried them out. He navigated; I drove. I was able to be his emissary because I was talking for him, not me. It was so easy. What came as a surprise was that I changed. I shed my anger, my vanity, and all the pain, and I became everything he’d always seen in me. The man’s faith had made me better, his day-to-day belief invested me in the future of the tribe, in the people, in growth and security and the welfare of all. I was different now, and I owed it all to my old friend, my new semel, Logan Church. So when he had gazed at me with his honey-colored eyes and told me he wanted me to reclaim my birthright, I couldn’t argue, because he believed. I could be, he said, not just a semel, but the semel, the semel-aten, the leader of the entire werepanther world. I would be able to lead those who wanted to follow me because of the changes I had experienced myself. I would be able to get through to those werepanthers who had lost their faith and their way. I would be a catalyst for change and restore prodigals to the fold, Logan was certain of it.

Come on, show me what you got” Shelby said throwing a set of gear to wing before pulling on a pair of gloves herself “I'll try not to hurt you too badly” “how reassuring” Wing said pulling on his gloves he had been giving Shelby hand-to-hand combat training for some time back at H.I.V.E And what she lacked in technique she made up for in speed and cunning. “Bring it” Shelby said with a grin raising both gloves in a defensive stance and beckoning him towards her “It will be brought” Wing replied. He feinted to her left and she went to block as he simultaneously swung a low blow into her other side, carefully pulling his punch so that he just tapped her. “Two perhaps three broken ribs” Wing said matter of factly “maintain your guard” Shelby nodded and took a quick jab at his jaw which wing blocked effortlessly “Try not to look where you are striking you betray your intentions” They went on like that for a couple more minutes just as in their previous sparring sessions Wing noticed that once they began Shelby became totally focused. There were none of this smart comments or sarcasm that she'd normally used - she was suddenly deadly serious. “Broken job possible unconsciousness” Wing said calmly as he struck her passed her guard stopping his fist millimetres from her chin. “Oh my God” Shelby gasped suddenly, staring in shock at something over wings shoulder. He spun around, his guard raised. Shelby dropped low swinging her leg out, sweeping Wing's feet out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. “Wounded pride, possible humiliation” Shelby said with a grin offering her hand to Wing and pulling him up off the floor. “and so ends today's lesson” she said pulling off her head guard. “an unconventional tactic” Wing said with a nod, taking off his own helmet. “but a successful one none the less” “ I kinda like unconventional tactics” Shelby said stepping towards him. “never underestimate the power of surprise” She grabbed the back of his neck and kissed him for a few long seconds. “what was that about maintaining your guard?” she said with a smile as she pulled away from him. “sometimes one should let ones guard down” Wing said staring at her for a moment before drawing her towards him and kissed her back. “Er...guys?” a familiar voice said causing Wing and Shelby to spring apart. “Dr Nero wants you to report to the briefing room” Wing winced slightly as he saw Nigel and Franz standing in the doorway. Nigel was looking pointedly at the floor and Franz was staring at him and Shelby, his mouth hanging open in surprise. “come on big guy - no rest for the wicked” Shelby said to Wing with a grin, taking his hand and dragging him out of the room past Nigel and the stunned looking Franz.

In Separation, the second volume of his great trilogy on attachment, John Bowlby described what had been observed when ten small children in residential nurseries were reunited with their mothers after separations lasting from twelve days to twenty-one weeks. The separations were in every case due to family emergencies and the absence of other caregivers, and in no case due to any intent on the parents’ part to abandon the child. In the first few days following the mother's departure the children were anxious, looking everywhere for the missing parent. That phase was followed by apparent resignation, even depression on the part of the child, to be replaced by what seemed like the return of normalcy. The children would begin to play, react to caregivers, accept food and other nurturing. The true emotional cost of the trauma of loss became evident only when the mothers returned. On meeting the mother for the first time after the days or weeks away, every one of the ten children showed significant alienation. Two seemed not to recognize their mothers. The other eight turned away or even walked away from her. Most of them either cried or came close to tears; a number alternated between a tearful and an expressionless face. The withdrawal dynamic has been called “detachment” by John Bowlby. Such detachment has a defensive purpose. It has one meaning: so hurtful was it for me to experience your absence that to avoid such pain again, I will encase myself in a shell of hardened emotion, impervious to love — and therefore to pain. I never want to feel that hurt again. Bowlby also pointed out that the parent may be physically present but emotionally absent owing to stress, anxiety, depression, or preoccupation with other matters. From the point of view of the child, it hardly matters. His encoded reactions will be the same, because for him the real issue is not merely the parent's physical presence but her or his emotional accessibility. A child who suffers much insecurity in his relationship with his parents will adopt the invulnerability of defensive detachment as his primary way of being. When parents are the child's working attachment, their love and sense of responsibility will usually ensure that they do not force the child into adopting such desperate measures. Peers have no such awareness, no such compunctions, and no such responsibility. The threat of abandonment is ever present in peer-oriented interactions, and it is with emotional detachment that children automatically respond. No wonder, then, that cool is the governing ethic in peer culture, the ultimate virtue. Although the word cool has many meanings, it predominately connotes an air of invulnerability. Where peer orientation is intense, there is no sign of vulnerability in the talk, in the walk, in the dress, or in the attitudes.

When He Needs Freedom from Destructive Behavior Be strong in the Lord and in the power of His might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. EPHESIANS 6:10-11 IT’S DIFFICULT FOR A WIFE to see her husband exhibit any kind of destructive behavior. In watching him doing something repeatedly that hurts his health or jeopardizes their family, she sees her future going over a cliff. There can be such terrible consequences for his behavior that it could ruin them financially, as well as destroy him physically or mentally. Whether it is drinking alcohol, taking drugs, gambling, smoking, reckless eating habits, or whatever else she observes her husband doing that could destroy him or endanger her or their children, it can be so heartbreaking to her that she cannot live with it. Every woman has to decide what she can and cannot tolerate. Life is hard enough without your husband finding ways to make it worse. And she must decide how much she can allow her children to witness before it seriously affects them too. You may not see behavior as seriously destructive as that in your husband, but perhaps he is taking unnecessary chances with his safety, such as driving too fast, or riding a motorcycle without a helmet, or being careless with dangerous machinery or equipment, or refusing to see a doctor when he should, or not following the doctor’s orders and thereby jeopardizing his health. There is only so much you can say or do to try to motivate your husband to stop destructive behavior if he is intent on doing it. But God can do miracles when you fervently pray to Him about it. He hears your prayers, and He wants your husband to be free as much as you do. Your prayers can help your husband open his eyes to see the truth. Your prayers can help him to understand how to put on the whole armor of God so he can stand against these plans of the enemy for his destruction. My Prayer to God LORD, I pray You would set my husband free from any destructive behavior he has acquired. Wake him up to the folly of his ways and show him when he is being foolish. Break the chains that bind him and open his blind eyes. Strengthen him where his weakness controls him. Enable him to see when the enemy has erected a stronghold in his life. Help him to understand how his behavior affects me and our children, as well as other family members, coworkers, and friends. Tell me what I can do to help make this situation better. I know I cannot change him, and I am unable to make anything happen. Only You can open his eyes, deliver him, and set him free from destructive behavior. I know foolish actions are not Your will for his life, and there is a big price to pay for everything that is not Your will. I pray that neither I nor my children will have to pay any price for his careless behavior. Whatever the reason he appears to have little regard for me, our children, or himself by continuing any reckless behavior, I pray You would deliver him from it completely. You are greater and more powerful than whatever draws him away from Your best. I trust You to set him free to be all You made him to be. In Jesus’ name I pray.

We went to dinner that night and ordered steak and talked our usual dreamy talk, intentionally avoiding the larger, looming subject. When he brought me home, it was late, and the air was so perfect that I was unaware of the temperature. We stood outside my parents’ house, the same place we’d stood two weeks earlier, before the Linguine with Clam Sauce and J’s surprise visit; before the overcooked flank steak and my realization that I was hopelessly in love. The same place I’d almost wiped out on the sidewalk; the same place he’d kissed me for the first time and set my heart afire. Marlboro Man moved in for the kill. We stood there and kissed as if it was our last chance ever. Then we hugged tightly, burying our faces in each other’s necks. “What are you trying to do to me?” I asked rhetorically. He chuckled and touched his forehead to mine. “What do you mean?” Of course, I wasn’t able to answer. Marlboro Man took my hand. Then he took the reins. “So, what about Chicago?” I hugged him tighter. “Ugh,” I groaned. “I don’t know.” “Well…when are you going?” He hugged me tighter. “Are you going?” I hugged him even tighter, wondering how long we could keep this up and continue breathing. “I…I…ugh, I don’t know,” I said. Ms. Eloquence again. “I just don’t know.” He reached behind my head, cradling it in his hands. “Don’t…,” he whispered in my ear. He wasn’t beating around the bush. Don’t. What did that mean? How did this work? It was too early for plans, too early for promises. Way too early for a lasting commitment from either of us. Too early for anything but a plaintive, emotional appeal: Don’t. Don’t go. Don’t leave. Don’t let it end. Don’t move to Chicago. I didn’t know what to say. We’d been together every single day for the past two weeks. I’d fallen completely and unexpectedly in love with a cowboy. I’d ended a long-term relationship. I’d eaten beef. And I’d begun rethinking my months-long plans to move to Chicago. I was a little speechless. We kissed one more time, and when our lips finally parted, he said, softly, “Good night.” “Good night,” I answered as I opened the door and went inside. I walked into my bedroom, eyeing the mound of boxes and suitcases that sat by the door, and plopped down on my bed. Sleep eluded me that night. What if I just postponed my move to Chicago by, say, a month or so? Postponed, not canceled. A month surely wouldn’t hurt, would it? By then, I reasoned, I’d surely have him out of my system; I’d surely have gotten my fill. A month would give me all the time I needed to wrap up this whole silly business. I laughed out loud. Getting my fill of Marlboro Man? I couldn’t go five minutes after he dropped me off at night before smelling my shirt, searching for more of his scent. How much worse would my affliction be a month from now? Shaking my head in frustration, I stood up, walked to my closet, and began removing more clothes from their hangers. I folded sweaters and jackets and pajamas with one thing pulsating through my mind: no man--least of all some country bumpkin--was going to derail my move to the big city. And as I folded and placed each item in the open cardboard boxes by my door, I tried with all my might to beat back destiny with both hands. I had no idea how futile my efforts would be.

Kode’s older sister, Kira, was leaning over a display of jewelry, fisting a jade-green necklace in one hand. Her nose was two inches from the Braetic across the table, the two exchanging intimidating glares. Eena watched for a few seconds as Kira all but crawled over a pile of merchandise, her face scrunched up with resentment, yet enviably stunning as always. “Hey Kode,” the young queen whispered. “Hey, girl.” “What’s going on?” “Kira’s bartering.” Eena watched the fistful of necklace come within a whisker of smacking the merchant’s nose. “She isn’t going to hurt the guy, is she?” Kode snorted on a chuckle. “Not if the dude’s got any sense.” Validly concerned, Eena inched closer to the confrontation, straining to hear their growled dialogue. Kode and Niki crept closer too. Efren, however, stayed where he was, testing the flagpole’s ability to support his body weight. They watched the feisty Mishmorat hold up a small pouch and shake it in front of the Braetic’s eyes. Kira’s fingers curled like claws around the purse. She seemed to smirk for a second when the merchant flinched. In a blink he was back in her face again, shoving aside the purse. “What is she trying to trade?” Eena asked, her voice still hushed as though she might disturb the haggling taking place across the way. “Viidun coins,” Kode said. “Ef gave ‘em to her.” “Are they worth much?’ Kode grinned wryly, “He sure as hell don’t freakin’ think so.” Eena foresaw Niki’s disapproving smack to the back of Kode’s head before he even finished his sentence. He cursed at his girlfriend for the physical abuse, an unwise response that earned him an additional thump on the head. “Freakin’ tyrant,” Kode grumbled. “Vulgar grogfish,” Niki retorted. Still unable to hear well enough to satisfy her curiosity, Eena stole in closer to the scene of heated bartering. She stopped when Kira’s strong voice carried over the murmur of the crowd. Kode and his girlfriend were right on her heels. “This purse is worth ten of those gaudy necklaces. You oughta be payin’ me to take ‘em off your hands, Braetic!” “That alien money is worthless to me, Mishmorat. In all my life I’ve never left Moccobatran soil. And even if I were to take an interstellar trip someday, you’d never catch the likes of me on a barbarian planet like Rapador!” Kira jerked her head, causing her black, cascading hair to ripple over her shoulder. The action made the trader flinch again. His eyes tapered, appearing to fume over what he perceived as intentional bullying. “You ain’t gonna sell this crap to no one else,” the exotic Mishmorat said. “Be smart and take the money. Hell, you could make a dozen pieces of jewelry from these coins. Sell ’em all for ten times the worth of anything you got here.” The Braetic shoved his finger at Kira’s chest, breathing down her throat at the same time. “Why don’t you just take your pretty little backside away from my table and make your own Viidun jewelry. Sell it yourself and then come back with a reasonable offer for my necklace.” His palm opened flat, demanding she hand over the jade stones still in her fist. “You wanna make me?” Kira breathed. “What do you plan to do, steal it?” The merchant challenged her in a gesture, nostrils flaring. “I’m no thief, but I’m not above beating some sense into you ‘til you choose to barter like a respectable Braetic!” Caught up in the intense interaction, Kode supported his sister a little too loudly. “Teach the freakin’ crook a lesson, Sis!” Niki smacked her boyfriend upside the head without missing a beat.

ever. Amen. Thank God for self-help books. No wonder the business is booming. It reminds me of junior high school, where everybody was afraid of the really cool kids because they knew the latest, most potent putdowns, and were not afraid to use them. Dah! But there must be another reason that one of the best-selling books in the history of the world is Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus by John Gray. Could it be that our culture is oh so eager for a quick fix? What a relief it must be for some people to think “Oh, that’s why we fight like cats and dogs, it is because he’s from Mars and I am from Venus. I thought it was just because we’re messed up in the head.” Can you imagine Calvin Consumer’s excitement and relief to get the video on “The Secret to her Sexual Satisfaction” with Dr. GraySpot, a picture chart, a big pointer, and an X marking the spot. Could that “G” be for “giggle” rather than Dr. “Graffenberg?” Perhaps we are always looking for the secret, the gold mine, the G-spot because we are afraid of the real G-word: Growth—and the energy it requires of us. I am worried that just becoming more educated or well-read is chopping at the leaves of ignorance but is not cutting at the roots. Take my own example: I used to be a lowly busboy at 12 East Restaurant in Florida. One Christmas Eve the manager fired me for eating on the job. As I slunk away I muttered under my breath, “Scrooge!” Years later, after obtaining a Masters Degree in Psychology and getting a California license to practice psychotherapy, I was fired by the clinical director of a psychiatric institute for being unorthodox. This time I knew just what to say. This time I was much more assertive and articulate. As I left I told the director “You obviously have a narcissistic pseudo-neurotic paranoia of anything that does not fit your myopic Procrustean paradigm.” Thank God for higher education. No wonder colleges are packed. What if there was a language designed not to put down or control each other, but nurture and release each other to grow? What if you could develop a consciousness of expressing your feelings and needs fully and completely without having any intention of blaming, attacking, intimidating, begging, punishing, coercing or disrespecting the other person? What if there was a language that kept us focused in the present, and prevented us from speaking like moralistic mini-gods? There is: The name of one such language is Nonviolent Communication. Marshall Rosenberg’s Nonviolent Communication provides a wealth of simple principles and effective techniques to maintain a laser focus on the human heart and innocent child within the other person, even when they have lost contact with that part of themselves. You know how it is when you are hurt or scared: suddenly you become cold and critical, or aloof and analytical. Would it not be wonderful if someone could see through the mask, and warmly meet your need for understanding or reassurance? What I am presenting are some tools for staying locked onto the other person’s humanness, even when they have become an alien monster. Remember that episode of Star Trek where Captain Kirk was turned into a Klingon, and Bones was freaking out? (I felt sorry for Bones because I’ve had friends turn into Cling-ons too.) But then Spock, in his cool, Vulcan way, performed a mind meld to determine that James T. Kirk was trapped inside the alien form. And finally Scotty was able to put some dilithium crystals into his phaser and destroy the alien cloaking device, freeing the captain from his Klingon form. Oh, how I wish that, in my youth or childhood,

He concluded the speech with an irritated motion of his hands. Unfortunately, Evie had been conditioned by too many encounters with Uncle Peregrine to discern between angry gestures and the beginnings of a physical attack. She flinched instinctively, her own arms flying up to shield her head. When the expected pain of a blow did not come, she let out a breath and tentatively lowered her arms to find Sebastian staring at her with blank astonishment. Then his face went dark. "Evie," he said, his voice containing a bladelike ferocity that frightened her. "Did you think I was about to... Christ. Someone hit you. Someone hit you in the past---who the hell was it?" He reached for her suddenly---too suddenly---and she stumbled backward, coming up hard against the wall. Sebastian went very still. "Goddamn," he whispered. Appearing to struggle with some powerful emotion, he stared at her intently. After a long moment, he spoke softly. "I would never strike a woman. I would never harm you. You know that, don't you?" Transfixed by the light, glittering eyes that held hers with such intensity, Evie couldn't move or make a sound. She started as he approached her slowly. "It's all right," he murmured. "Let me come to you. It's all right. Easy." One of his arms slid around her, while he used his free hand to smooth her hair, and then she was breathing, sighing, as relief flowed through her. Sebastian brought her closer against him, his mouth brushing her temple. "Who was it?" he asked. "M-my uncle," she managed to say. The motion of his hand on her back paused as he heard her stammer. "Maybrick?" he asked patiently. "No, th-the other one." "Stubbins." "Yes." Evie closed her eyes in pleasure as his other arm slid around her. Clasped against Sebastian's hard chest, with her cheek tucked against his shoulder, she inhaled the scent of clean male skin, and the subtle touch of sandalwood cologne. "How often?" she heard him ask. "More than once?" "I... i-it's not important now." "How often, Evie?" Realizing that he was going to persist until she answered, Evie muttered, "Not t-terribly often, but... sometimes when I displeased him, or Aunt Fl-Florence, he would lose his temper. The l-last time I tr-tried to run away, he blackened my eye and spl-split my lip." "Did he?" Sebastian was silent for a long moment, and then he spoke with chilling softness. "I'm going to tear him limb from limb." "I don't want that," Evie said earnestly. "I-I just want to be safe from him. From all of them." Sebastian drew his head back to look down into her flushed face. "You are safe," he said in a low voice. He lifted one of his hands to her face, caressing the plane of her cheekbone, letting his fingertip follow the trail of pale golden freckles across the bridge of her nose. As her lashes fluttered downward, he stroked the slender arcs of her brows, and cradled the side of her face with his palm. "Evie," he murmured. "I swear on my life, you will never feel pain from my hands. I may prove a devil of a husband in every other regard... but I wouldn't hurt you that way. You must believe that." The delicate nerves of her skin drank in sensations thirstily... his touch, the erotic waft of his breath against her lips. Evie was afraid to open her eyes, or to do anything that might interrupt the moment. "Yes," she managed to whisper. "Yes... I---" There was the sweet shock of a probing kiss against her lips... another... She opened to him with a slight gasp. His mouth was hot silk and tender fire, invading her with gently questing pressure. His fingertips traced over her face, tenderly adjusting the angle between them.

Reaching out, Lisa tentatively rested a trembling hand on his shoulder. His skin was cool and bore a light coating of perspiration. She drew her hand down over his biceps. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and something she couldn’t identify flickered in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hushed while the alarm continued to blare. “Did I hurt you?” “No. It’s . . . You’re the first person who has touched me—not with intent to harm, but with kindness—in a very long time.” His words broke her heart.

She drew her hand down over his biceps. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and something she couldn’t identify flickered in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hushed while the alarm continued to blare. “Did I hurt you?” “No. It’s . . . You’re the first person who has touched me—not with intent to harm, but with kindness—in a very long time.” His words broke her heart.

When you believe niceness disproves the presence of racism, it’s easy to start believing bigotry is rare, and that the label racist should be applied only to mean-spirited, intentional acts of discrimination. The problem with this framework—besides being a gross misunderstanding of how racism operates in systems and structures enabled by nice people—is that it obligates me to be nice in return, rather than truthful. I am expected to come closer to the racists. Be nicer to them. Coddle them. Even more, if most white people are good, innocent, lovely folks who are just angry or scared or ignorant, it naturally follows that whenever racial tension arises, I must be the problem. I am not kind enough, patient enough, warm enough. I don’t have enough understanding for the white heart, white feelings, white needs. It does not matter that I don’t always feel like teaching white people through my pain, through the disappointment of allies who gave up and colaborers who left. It does not matter that the “well-intentioned” questions hurt my feelings or that the decisions made in all-white meetings affect me differently than they do everyone else. If my feelings do not fit the narrative of white innocence and goodness, the burden of change gets placed on me.

For example, one clear sign of a dignity culture is that children learn some version of "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me." That childhood saying is of course not literally true - people feel real pain as a result of words. (If people never felt hurt by words, the saying would never be needed.) But "sticks and stones" is a shield that children in a dignity culture use to dismiss an insult with contemptuous indifference, as if to say, "Go ahead and insult me. You cannot upset me. I really don't care what you think.

Can you tell me what you’re looking for? I won’t record your requests, not if you’re thinking the same thing I am.” “Which is?” “That our Archives are incomplete, either by ignorance…” She breathes deeply. “Or intention.” “Helping me could hurt you.” My stomach sinks. “Get you killed. It’s not fair to bring you into something dangerous.

I meant to hurt you; I thought it would make me feel better. I thought it would teach you, your mom, and Malcolm a lesson. Instead, in the process of destroying you, I nearly destroyed myself. You can’t possibly know how livid I was today knowing that you were pregnant and cutting me off. I was ready to burn down every building and cut down every person that got in my way to you. All I wanted was to say I was sorry for what I’d done because I couldn’t imagine going on without you and our baby.

An old Cherokee Grandfather said to his grandson, who came to him with anger at a friend who had done him an injustice: “I too, at times, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do. “But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times. “It is as if there are two wolves inside me. One is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him, and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way. “But the other wolf, ah! He is full of anger. The littlest thing sets him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger, for his anger will change nothing. “Sometimes, it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit.” The boy looked intently into his Grandfather's eyes and asked, “Which one wins, Grandfather?” The Grandfather smiled softly and said, “The one I feed.

have all had the experience of stepping on someone’s foot or bumping into someone and immediately apologizing. It was not our intention to hurt them, but it is understood that the impact is still that harm was caused. Instead of refusing to apologize because we did not mean it, we rush to apologize because we understand we have caused pain. This is a very oversimplified explanation of what happens when we cause people harm.

Honourable Breeze - a behavioural haiku from the chapter, “Poetic Justice” Honourable Heart? You were spreading smear campaigns. Is that honesty? Honourable mind? You committed forgery. Your cyber libel. Honourable soul? You intentionally hurt, Con, scam, and slander. Honourable mouth? Your habitual offenses Fraud, lies, bullying. Dishonourable. Politicians’ instrument: Machiavellian. Justify your end? with your Machiavellian ways? Note: crime does not pay! Crowned thorny cactus, you pretend to be “yellow,” Ask funding from them. Thorny toxic lies, You discredit whom you scammed. Your: libel, slander. Manipulator, Fraud, bully, provocateur, Machiavellian! Politicians served: You’re a very good person. Thorny irony. People you slandered, Scammed, libeled, deceived, abused. Forgery you did. Your former victim, From twelve or ten years ago: said, “you’re a devil.” “Move away from her,” Your past victims had warned me. I thanked their warning. Warning was too late. Thorny, toxic harridan: you used and abused! Honourable Breeze? For people who benefit from your deceptions. Honourable Breeze? For dirty politicians, Donations and votes. Honourable Breeze? for needy politicians: delivered service. Delivered service? At the expense of others, you manipulate. Manipulations, your catch-me-if-you-can games, Your confidence games! Politicians’ smears, means won’t justify your end, Machiavellian bitch! ~ Angelica Hopes, an excerpt from Life Unfolds © 2021 Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

Making changes, to yourself and the world around you, is never easy. If my intent is to put good into this world, it makes more sense to get introspective. How much does my behavior factor directly into the pain others feel? What can I do to reduce that? It helps to remember that as much as it hurts me to hear, it probably hurts them more to say and feel.

Holy Spirit, keep me from hurt, deceit, and distortion because of darkened understanding and wrong conclusions about the intent of others to wrong me.

After being introduced to Adrian’s parents shortly before receiving his undergrad degree, Beck endured the contemptuous green gaze of Adrian’s father. “You don’t look like a gay,” he said, his voice as cold as January ice. Beck had smiled back cheerfully. “That’s because I’m not,” he said. “Am I, babe?” Adrian had rolled his eyes. “He’s not gay, Dad.” “Then is this some sort of joke? I can’t say I appreciate—” Beck had leaned down and kissed his boyfriend. Thoroughly. With visible tongue. Adrian’s mother had cleared her throat. “I would like to know what your intentions are, young man. I won’t see my son humiliated or hurt when you get tired of whatever game you’re playing and leave him. What exactly is my son to you?” Adrian had gasped softly. Beck grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “He’s mine.” “Your what?” Adrian’s father had spluttered. “Just mine,” Beck had said with finality, and that was that.

Um, really I would want people to know that I think I am a very kindhearted person. Um, I don’t like to hurt people’s feelings. If I do, it’s not intentionally. I’m sincere and very honest. And I feel that nowadays a lot of people have lost that, but I think that starts in the home. My parents have taught me that. Being fair with people.

I was reeling. I was so hurt by Luc and Asher, and there you were, showing up to declare your love for me like I'd always dreamed you would. I wanted to believe that maybe after everything, we could be each other's happy ending. Except you were still the same person who spent all those years hurting me. The same person who wasn't brave enough to date me when you could have, when you wanted to, because you couldn't picture getting serious with someone who looked like me." "But I got over that!" Ray protested. "I went on television to tell the whole world I love you - doesn't that count for something?" "My body isn't something you 'get over'." Bea said coolly. "I have no intention of devoting the rest of my life to a man who's ashamed of me." "I know I've given you reason not to trust me," Ray pleaded. "But Bea, I promise, I won't hurt you again." "I know you won't," Bea's tone was sad but resolute. "Because I'm not going to let you. All these years, you put your needs above mine - which is exactly what you did when you showed up in Paris, by the way - and I couldn't see it, because I idealized you as the perfect man. But I see who you are now, Ray. And I know that I deserve better.

You thought I was just going to spread my whole history at your feet the moment I met you? I’m sure you have even more stories than I do, so stop looking so surprised. Maybe we should just go back to beating each other into a pulp.” His eyes gleamed with near-predatory intent. “Oh, not a chance, Princess. You can tell me what you want, when you want, but there’s no going back now.” She shifted her tools again. “I’m sure your other friends just adore having you around.” A feral smile, and he grabbed her by the chin—not hard enough to hurt, but for her to look at him. “First thing,” he breathed, “we’re not friends. I’m still training you, and that means you’re still under my command.” The flicker of hurt must have shown, because he leaned closer, his grip tightening on her jaw. “Second—whatever we are, whatever this is? I’m still figuring it out, too. So if I’m going to give you the space you deserve to sort yourself out, then you can damn well give it to me.” She studied him for a moment, their breath mingling. “Deal,” she said.

Most of my life I've been unable to manage myself and looked to others to take care of me. This certainly resulted in my feeling like a child: powerless and vulnerable. And the people around me behaved in ways that, if not intentionally hurtful, still left me feeling neglected, misunderstood and unprotected.

I should be dead. But I’m not human, am I?” She swiped a tear of frustration off her face. “Whatever I am makes me stronger, faster, and scary as hell when fighting. I changed, scaled the top of a moving truck, and fought a guy shooting a gun at me.” She ran her hand across her face to wipe away the tears. “I’m a mess. The mud in that ravine got in all the cracks, even my underwear. But the injuries are already almost gone, and somehow, I know all this will heal. Based on you being all pissy, I assume your meeting didn’t go well.” “It took an unanticipated turn.” His tone was odd as he continued to stare at her. “What exactly do you do that involves secrecy and the Crown?” “I can’t tell you.” Something about how he looked at her was different. Her skin tingled like it had before she’d shifted. Survival instinct flared. “Did they order you to…kill me?” It came out of her on a fatigued exhale. Her shoulders drooped. His face remained remote as if trying to wall off emotion. He neither confirmed nor denied, which might as well have been a screaming affirmative. She dropped her chin. He said nothing, so she looked up. He stared intently at her, making her almost shrink in place under the gaze of those thunderous eyes. “Is this when you tell me to leave again?” she asked. “Would you go?” “If they ordered you to kill me, wouldn’t you be forced to come after me? To hunt me down? So, what’s the point in me running unless you like the hunt?” He pushed his hand through his dark hair and stepped away from her. Frustration oozed from him. Seeing him start to lose some of his composure made him less threatening. He wasn’t the robot assassin. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick hair and down his scruff-roughened chiseled jawline to soothe him. Would her touch, if done in comfort, affect him the way she suspected his touch would destroy her? From the way he simply stared at her, she guessed yes. The silence was killing her. “What’s going on here?” “No idea.” He muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t make out. He stepped toward her and slid a finger under her chin to tilt her face upward. Their eyes met and held. “I’m sorry someone hurt you. That you had to fight for your life and went through a windshield.” In a whisper, he added, “I should’ve been there.” The grit in his voice, the despair, as if he’d let her down, packed one hell of a punch. What was she supposed to do with that? Oh dear…God. His hold on her face, how his thumb gently stroked over the skin on her jaw… How he moved in so she could feel the hard surfaces of his body, the concrete chest and abs… All of it swirled together, turning her mind to mush, which was bad when she needed to remain alert. Death… her death was on the line. But she was about to make a very bad decision to let him do whatever the hell he wanted after that declaration. “I made a promise to erase Dom’s kiss. To make you forget. I never go back on my promises.” Like his promise to help her get answers? He didn’t lower his head, but stood there, hesitant. “You’re too hurt right now.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She slid her good hand up his shoulders and neck. His muscles twitched under her touch, and his chest rose and fell more rapidly. Feeling how much just her hand on him affected him encouraged her to continue. Cradling the back of his head, she pressed her body into his. As she pulled him toward her mouth, his incredible size and power registered but didn’t intimidate. Didn’t scare her. Her mouth touched his. Warmth on warmth. Once… Twice… Three times. His lips were a lot softer than they appeared. The roughness of his facial scruff scratched her skin.

The problem is, you overthink someone who has nothing but good intentions when it comes to you. That beautiful brain of yours can’t seem to accept that I’ll do anything to please you. I’ll do anything to ease ya’ mind. However, I want it to be completely at ease. Any issue we settle needs to stay settled. If I tell you I’m faithful to you, we don’t need to revisit the topic again. I won’t change my mind. No one can make me even think of walking away from you or causing you the type of hurt that comes with being unfaithful.” I almost

Who touched you, little love? Tell me who I have to hurt.

Kaye, I know it will take me years to undo the damage I’ve done, but if you forgive me, I promise I’ll never hurt you again. If you let me love you, I swear to God you’ll never regret it. Forgive me, little love,” he whispers. “Forgive me, and I vow to spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you.

Enzo hates me. But he also wants me. And I have no intention of letting him stop when it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

I have a mouth full of sand, unable to formulate a coherent thought beyond his touch. Hours ago, he spat in my face about how much he hates me. He also swore that he wouldn’t fuck me even if I begged him to. What good is that promise now while he plays with the edges of my shirt, as if my body is a composition where his fingers engrave each note of intention within?

He met his brother-in-law’s gaze unflinchingly. “If I ever harm your sister in any fashion, I will end myself first. I have no intention of hurting Callie. Ever. She is my wife, and I will do everything in my power to keep her happy and well.” The duke’s eyes narrowed into icy slits of disbelief. “I do not trust you, Sinclair. Not one whit.” Sin almost chuckled. Instead, he raised a brow. “I never asked you to trust me.” “Why did you marry my sister?” Westmorland asked. “Because she owed me,” he answered honestly. “She ruined me, quite intentionally. I had no recourse. I am being utterly honest with you, Westmorland. If you think I have anything to hide, you are wrong.” “Your first wife,” the duke said slowly, “what happened to her?” “Bloody hell,” he muttered, disgusted. “If I had wanted to murder Celeste, I would have done so years before she took her life by her own hand. She was mad, Westmorland. I know you and Callie want to believe your sainted brother could not have been duped by her, but I am living proof, standing before you, to tell you that woman was a poison. To herself, to everyone she knew. But I would never have harmed her.

How to Communicate If You’re a Secure Attachment When: You Want to Enforce a Boundary That Was Violated “I am not sure if it was intentional, but I want to be very clear that the boundary I set has been violated again. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I need you to know that this is a hard boundary for me. I will do my part to remind you and see my needs through in this area, but if this remains a habit I am definitely going to have to protect myself in this area by [insert what you’ll have to do as a consequence, not as a punishment. For example, ‘I will have to take some space in our relationship,’ ‘I will have to see you less often,’ ‘I will only be able to communicate via phone until I see that an awareness of the boundary is demonstrated in person’].” Obviously, this should depend on the nature of the boundary. If the boundary violated is something that makes you feel unsafe, there should be no further conversation except to leave the relationship. You Are Being Stonewalled “I can feel that you are shutting me out. I want to respect the space and time you may need to process right now. At the same time, if you stay in a mode of stonewalling me forever, we aren’t going to get the opportunity to get to the root of the problem and work through it together. It is my intention to try to understand you and hear what you have to say (as long as you can speak respectfully) so that I can meet your needs. I would love it if you could hear me out too. Please think about this and let me know a time when you might be ready to openly communicate about this. I promise to be respectful with my words and I ask that you do the same.” Someone Is Being Critical “You may not mean for it to happen this way, but your words are really hurting me. I’m interpreting the way you are communicating to mean that I am not good enough. If you are open to sharing more vulnerably and clearly about what you need from me, that would be greatly appreciated. Unfortunately, I do not want to hold space any longer for this type of communication, as I feel it is counterproductive.” Someone Is Being Passive-Aggressive “I am not sure if it was your intention, but that comment felt very passive-aggressive. If there is something specific you’d like to speak about directly that is bothering you, please know that you can do so and I am happy to hold space for that. What I will not hold space for, however, are passive-aggressive remarks that can be hurtful and counterproductive.” You Need to Be Heard by a Loved One “This conversation matters a lot to me, and I want to have it when you’re fully present. Are you okay to finish up what you’re doing and then turn and face me so that we can go through this together? It will take about [insert number of minutes]. If that doesn’t work right now, can you please let me know when it will?” These scripts aren’t meant to be used verbatim, but they illustrate some helpful tools for communication.

The problem is, you overthink someone who has nothing but good intentions when it comes to you. That beautiful brain of yours can’t seem to accept that I’ll do anything to please you. I’ll do anything to ease ya’ mind. However, I want it to be completely at ease. Any issue we settle needs to stay settled. If I tell you I’m faithful to you, we don’t need to revisit the topic again. I won’t change my mind. No one can make me even think of walking away from you or causing you the type of hurt that comes with being unfaithful.

Touch me again, and yo’ ass gone be a distant fuckin’ memory. Don’t call my phone, and don’t bring yo’ ass to my house ever again! I would never intentionally hurt your kid, but you got that shit. Keep that miserable bitch away from me cause’ I’m done talking. The next time she comes for me, my .380 gone come for her ass, and my bitch always win! Just so you know, it’s on sight for that bitch!

See I grew pessimistic. Unsure if reading the book would make any difference. For her. For the Justice. To prevail. Law. Order. Females like psychopaths and criminals. Fairy tales and vampires. Bad guys. Not the good guys. They are attracted to the bad guys. Using good guys. „Being smarter.” Until: caught. They enjoy using and hurting good people. It is not only their way of living. Killing. They have no inner control or conscience influenced by society. They allow themselves to be happy without any restraint, associating with bad people and engaging in unlawful activities. Bad people / Psychopath females Them and their owners. The Sin. The Crime. The Knowledge. The Secret. The Wisdom. The Snake. The Apple. Adam. Paradise. Hell. This is how they often end up in jail or dead, or occasionally getting splashed with acid, riding wheelchairs, usually due to their involvement with drug-dealing boyfriends. Getting: „surprised.” No one gets „acid” in his/her face for no reason. This is an honest book. Do you want me to say a name, an example or add a list? „Say her name.” ... ? OKAY. I will not add any other examples, or names, to the list, as I choose to mention, point out the story of: Breonna Taylor as both the beginning and end of the list. I do not want to spend time searching for more instances, ladies, as my intention is not to defend or advocate for individuals who have engaged in wrongdoing, regardless of their gender. I am not trying to save the lives of criminals anymore. I have no girlfriend/abuser. To save. From herself. I don't believe it is productive to compile a list of examples or names of females who were involved in criminal activities or found themselves in dangerous situations. Beds. Doing so would be a futile use of time. „The problem is, that women, they have/got all the pussies.” – Serbian proverb Perhaps the police used excessive force. Perhaps. Alright. I don't doubt it. I don't agree either. It was a dangerous guy. Warrants. Danger. Dangerous situation. Lawful enter or not. ... These bodycam videos don't show you the level of adrenaline you have in such situations. "Kill or be killed." The officers want to get home tonight as well to see their loved ones. I wouldn't call that "trigger-happy." But I think it fits to call the criminals: cowardly. Using live body shield: their girlfriends. In general. Hiding. Behind girls. Just like: Adam Maraudin. And so many more.

Don't come to apologize to me after intentionally hurting me.

Lark, I swear to you, if you give me your heart, I will never do anything intentionally to hurt it. You mean more to me than anything, almost more than baseball.

Bennett,” she murmured, her brow damp from labor. “I’d like to call him Bennett.” She held the babe out to me, and I rocked him. But even as I did, my hands itched to hold something else. When I passed Bennett back to Petra, I slipped my fingers into my pocket for the Providence Cards I kept there. Only then did I smile. I took Bennett to the wood. Asked the Spirit to bless him with her magic. A day later, his infant veins were dark as ink. His magic was the antithesis of mine, the trees told me. My heir, my counterweight. But that was our secret, his and mine. Our fond, silent riddle. More children were born. Boys—all yellow of eye like me. Lenor. Fenly. A pair of twins, Afton and Ilyc, so alike I could hardly tell them apart even when I took the time to try. I visited their nurseries, their rooms and tutor sessions, but often I was in another chamber, one I had built around the stone in the meadow. I brought my sons to the wood—asked the Spirit to bless them with magic. But for all four, she kept her gifts to herself. Then, a little girl was born. Tilly. Full of whim and a deviousness that reminded me of Ayris. Only, unlike my sister, the Spirit christened Tilly with the fever, and she was granted strange, wonderful magic. She could heal. With a single touch of her little hand, Tilly could wipe away any wound—and often did so without intention. The cuts I’d dealt myself, bartering for Providence Cards, vanished whenever Tilly reached for me. It hurt, feeling her touch. But when the pain was gone, I was left with nary a scar. But it cost her, little Tilly, to heal. Every time she did, her own body grew more frail. And so, for my next Providence Card, I asked the trees, the Spirit, for magic that healed. Magic that made its user as beautiful and unblemished as a pink rose—Tilly’s favorite flower.

Pain is inevitable in this life. But if you never risk the pain, you will also never find the joy or the pleasure or the true connection. You’ll never hurt me with ill intentions, never with cruelty. And I may hurt you in return out of misunderstanding or by accident. But more often than not, you’ll heal me. You’ll complete me. And I hope to do the same for you. That is life, that is love.

He smoothed a little hair off her forehead. “I’m proud of you.” “It was so awesome.” “See? I knew you’d find something here to sink your teeth into.” He reached down, crossed his arms under her bottom and lifted her straight up so that her face was even with his. “Nowwww, what did we decide?” she asked, but her tone was teasing. Her smile was playful. “We decided that I would not kiss you.” “That’s right.” “I haven’t,” he said. “Maybe we should have talked about this,” she added, but she certainly didn’t struggle. In fact, this seemed oddly right. Celebratory. Like being picked up and swung around after the win of a big game. And that was how she felt—as though she’d just scored a touchdown. Arms resting on his shoulders, she clasped her hands behind his head. “We further decided that if you kissed me, I would let you,” he said. “You’re fishing.” “Does this look like fishing to you?” “Begging?” “Doing exactly as I’ve been told. Waiting.” What the hell, she thought. Absolutely nothing could feel better after the night she’d just spent than to plant a big wet one on this guy—a guy who’d keep his business open all night just in case they needed something. So she laid one on him. She slid her lips over his, opening them, moving over his with wicked and delicious intent, getting her tongue involved. And he did nothing but hold her there, allowing this. “Did you not like that?” she asked. “Oh,” he said. “Am I allowed to respond?” She whacked him softly in the head, making him laugh. She tried it again, and this time it was much more interesting. It made her heart beat faster, made her breathe hard. Yes, she thought. It is okay to feel something that doesn’t hurt sometimes. This wasn’t because she was grief-stricken or needy, this was because she was victorious. And all she could think about at the moment was his delicious mouth. When their mouths came apart, she said, “I feel like a total champ.” “You are,” he said, enjoying her mood more than she would ever guess. “God, you taste good.” “You don’t taste that bad,” she said, laughing. “Put me down now,” she instructed. “No. Do it again.” “Okay, but only one more, then you have to behave.” She planted another one on him, thoroughly enjoying his lips and tongue, the strength of the arms that held her. She refused to worry about whether this was a mistake. She was here, she was happy for once, and his mouth felt as natural to hers as if she’d been kissing him for years. She let the kiss be a little longer and deeper than she thought prudent, and even that made her smile. When it was over, he put her on her feet. “Whew,” she said. “We don’t have nearly enough births in this town.” “We have another one in about six weeks. And if you’re very, very good…” Ah, he thought. That gives me six weeks. He touched the end of her nose. “Nothing wrong with a little kissing, Mel.” “And you won’t get ideas?” He bellowed. “You can make me behave, it turns out. But you can’t keep me from getting ideas.” *

So to the generally well-intentioned men in my life, please consider this: no matter what I accomplish or how self assured I am feeling, the aforementioned dickhead bouncers of the world will still believe they have a right to demand my time and attention, even when I want to be alone. They will still insist I be polite and cheerful, even while they make me uncomfortable and afraid. They will still comment about my body and allude to sexual violence, and then berate me for being “stuck up” if I don’t receive it with a sense of humour. They will still choose to reinforce their dominance with a reminder that they could hurt me if they wanted to, and that I should somehow be grateful if they don’t. This has made me defensive. It has put me more on my guard than I would like to be. Decent male humans, this is not your fault, but it also does not have nothing to do with you. If a woman is frosty or standoffish or doesn’t laugh at your joke, consider the notion that maybe she is not an uptight, humourless bitch, but rather has had experiences that are outside your realm of understanding, and have adversely colored her perception of the world. Consider that while you’re just joking around, a woman might actually be doing some quick mental math to see if she’s going to have to hide in a fucking bathroom stall and call someone to come help her, like I did three days ago.

Christopher reached out to pet Hector, who nuzzled against his hand. His gentleness with the animal was reassuring. Perhaps, Beatrix thought hopefully, he wasn’t as angry as she had feared Taking a deep breath, she said, “The reason that I named him Hector--” “No,” Christopher moved with startling swiftness, trapping her against the post of the stall. His voice was low and rough. “Let’s start with this: did you help Prudence to write those letters?” Beatrix’s eyes widened as she looked into his shadowed face. Her blood surged, a flush rising to the surface of her skin. “No,” she managed to say, “I didn’t help her.” “Then who did?” “No one helped her.” It was the truth. It just wasn’t the entire truth. “You know something,” he insisted. “And you’re going to tell me what it is.” She could feel his fury. The air was charged with it. Her heart thrummed like a bird’s. And she struggled to contain a swell of emotion that was almost more than she could bear. “Let me go,” she said with exceptional calm. “You’re doing neither of us any good with this behavior.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t use your bloody dog-training voice on me.” “That wasn’t my dog-training voice. And if you’re so intent on getting at the truth, why aren’t you asking Prudence?” “I have asked her. She lied. As you are lying now.” “You’ve always wanted Prudence,” Beatrix burst out. “Now you can have her. Why should a handful of letters matter?” “Because I was deceived. And I want to know how and why.” “Pride,” Beatrix said bitterly. “That’s all this is to you…your pride was hurt.” One of hands sank into her hair, gripping in a gentle but inexorable hold. A gasp slipped from her throat as he pulled her head back. “Don’t try to diver the conversation. You know something you’re not telling me.” His free hand came to the exposed line of her throat. For a heart-stopping moment she thought he might choke her. Instead he caressed her gently, his thumb moving in a subtle swirl in the hollow at the base. The intensity of her own reaction astonished her. Beatrix’s eyes half closed. “Stop,” she said faintly. Taking her responsive shiver as a sign of distaste or fear, Christopher lowered his head until his breath fanned her cheek. “Not until I have the truth.” Never. If she told him, he would hate her for the way she had deceived and abandoned him. Some mistakes could not be forgiven. “Go to hell,” Beatrix said unsteadily. She had never used such a phrase in her life. “I am in hell.” His body corralled hers, his legs intruding amid the folds of her skirts. Drowning in guilt and fear and desire, she tried to push his caressing hand away from her throat. His fingers delved into her hair with a grip just short of painful. His mouth was close to hers. He was surrounding her, all the strength and force and maleness of him, and she closed her eyes as her senses went quiet and dark in helpless waiting. “I’ll make you tell me,” she heard him mutter. And then he was kissing her. Somehow, Beatrix thought hazily, Christopher seemed to be under the impression she would find his kisses so objectionable that she would confess anything to make him desist. She couldn’t think how he had come by such a notion. In fact, she couldn’t really think at all.

no more stolen moments, let alone hours, in which to discover each other . . . from now on, they were formally betrothed, and that betrothal had its own rules. Maddening, perhaps intentionally so. Luci filched another stuffed date from the tray a sleepy maidservant was carrying back to the kitchen, and followed her father into the library. Her uncle and grandfather, already relaxed in chairs by the fireplace, looked up as she came in. "Luci, you should be in bed." "Papa, I'm not sleepy." He raised his eyebrows at her, but she didn't move. "Papa, I had a message cube from Esmay today." Her uncle Casimir sighed. "Esmay . . . now there's another problem. Berthold, did you get anywhere in the Landsmen's Guild?" "Nowhere. Oh, Vicarios won't oppose us, but that's because of Luci, and his support is half-hearted. It would be different if she hadn't left so young, I think. They don't really remember her, and even though they awarded her the Starmount, and consider her a hero, they do not want a Landbride—any Landbride but especially our Landbride—connected to an outlander family. Cosca told me frankly that even if she moved here, and also her husband, he would oppose it. Nothing good ever came from the stars, he insisted." "And the votes?" "Enough for a challenge, Casi, I'm sure of it. No, the only way out of this is for Esmaya to come and talk to them herself." "Or resign." "Or resign, but—will she?" Luci spoke up. "She mentioned that in her cube." "What—resigning? Why?" "Her precious Fleet seems to think about us the way the Landsmen's Guild thinks about them. She says they have some kind of regulation forbidding officers to marry Landbrides." Her father snorted. "Do they have one forbidding officers to be Landbrides? How ridiculous!" "Are you serious?" Casimir asked. "They have something specific about Landbrides? How would they know?" "I don't know," Luci said. "That's just what she said. And she said why didn't we take in all those women brought back from Our Texas—she was sure they'd fit in." A stunned silence, satisfying by its depth and length. "She what?" Casimir said finally. "Aren't those women—" "Free-birthers and religious cultists," Luci said, with satisfaction. "Exactly." "But—but the priests will object," Berthold said. "Not as badly as the Landsmen's Guild, if they hear of it. Dear God, I thought she had more sense than that!" "She is in love," Luci pointed out, willing now to be magnanimous. "Apparently Fleet is taking Barin's salary to pay for their upkeep—at least some of it—and Esmay's trying to help him out. Nineteen of them, after all, and all those children." "At our expense." Casimir shook his head. "Well, that settles it. She'll have to resign, as soon as I can get word to her. The Trustees will certainly not approve this, if I were willing to let it be known." He gave Luci a hard look. "You didn't tell Philip, I hope." "Of course not." Luci glared at her uncle. Esmay might not have any sense, but she knew what the family honor required. "I hope she does name you Landbride, Luci," Casimir said. "You'll be a good one." Luci had a sudden spasm of doubt. Was she being fair to Esmay, who after all had had so many bad things happen to her? But underneath the doubt, the same exultation she had felt when Esmay gave her the brown mare . . . mine, it's mine, I can take care of it, nobody can hurt it . . . "I wonder if we could place an ansible call," Casimir said. "Surely it's not that urgent,

Tell me the tears on Eliza’s face have nothing to do with something foolish you’ve done.” Thomas jerked as if repulsed by the very thought. “You know I would never do anything to hurt her.” Nathaniel lifted and lowered one shoulder. “Not intentionally perhaps. But men are flawed creatures where women are concerned.” Thomas’s

We have no idea what people are dealing with or the hurts and wounds that have been inflicted upon them. Personally, after reading this, I have been challenged to not be so complacent in my prayer life, and to be more intentional about doing battle for the lost and hurting who need me. " - Christian Missionary Laurie Lester

She jumped when he captured one of her long tresses again and ran the length of it slowly between his fingers like a satin ribbon. Resenting the galling forwardness of his touch, she glanced up at him angrily only to be captivated by his smoldering, hypnotic stare. When he spoke, his voice was an intimate murmur that could have coaxed the deepest secrets of her heart. "Virginal Alice Montague. Tell me, what do you think of what you've seen here tonight?" She shook her head and looked away, blushing. "I do not know." He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze, diamond-sharp, crystal-clear. "Does it arouse you?" His eyes flared with shock. She could not find her voice even to tell him that she had no intention of answering such a question, but he cut her off before she could speak. "Don't lie," he chided in a velvet whisper, holding her chin between his fingertips so she could not look away. He gazed at her as though his keen, crystalline eyes could see into the depths of her heart, things she had never revealed to anyone- the unruliness of her passions, the hunger in the core of her. His gaze seemed to accept it all with dark, satin gentleness. "Tell me," he breathed. "Let me remember how it felt to be as innocent as you." He paused, though she did not reply. "Have you never seen people making love before?" Wide-eyed, her heart in her throat, she gathered her courage and shook her head after a long moment. His expression softened. He gazed down almost tenderly at her. She had never seen such hunger in a man's eyes before, such stark, hurting loneliness. She quivered in response to it, flooded with the strangest, tingling feelings as he picked up her hand and lifted it to his lips. He placed a gentle kiss in her palm, then pressed her hand to his chiseled midriff. A soft gasp escaped her lips, not merely that he should do such a thing, but at the feel of his bare skin beneath her palm. It electrified her. She looked up at him, helpless, trembling. Her voice was a strangled whisper, the weakest of protests. "My lord-" "Shh, Alice, I can see it in your eyes. Go on. I won't bite. All is allowed in this place. Your curiosity is... quite natural," he finished hoarsely.

It disturbs me to learn I have hurt someone unintentionally. I want all my hurts to be intentional.

Get out of the car.” “Give me one good reason why I should?” “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna drag you out. Trust me, mujer.” He puts my keys in his back pocket and steps out of my car. Seeing no other options, I follow him. “Listen, if you wanted to discuss our hand warmers we could have done it over the phone.” He meets me around the back of my car. We’re standing, toe to toe, in the middle of nowhere. There’s been something nagging at me all day. As long as I’m here with him, I might as well ask. “Did we kiss last night?” “Yes.” “Well, it wasn’t memorable because I have no recollection of it.” He laughs. “I was kiddin’. We didn’t kiss.” He leans in. “When we kiss you’ll remember it. Forever.” Oh, God. I wish his words didn’t leave my knees weak. I know I should be scared, alone with a gang member in a deserted place talking about kissing. But I’m not. Deep in my soul I know he wouldn’t intentionally hurt me or force me to do anything.

I forgive you,” she whispered. “But I’m never staying home again. That was the single most agonizing experience of my life.” “I told you I would win. And then I’d come here. And here I am,” I said, nuzzling her hair. “Will you marry us, Tag?” Henry asked intently, inserting himself back in the conversation. “What?” I wasn’t sure I had heard him right. “Will you marry Millie and be my brother?” he repeated, his expression completely serious. He wasn’t messing around. “We want to be part of Tag Team...” I guess I’d always thought I would marry someday. When I was eighty. Yet Henry was proposing, and it didn’t alarm me in the slightest. In fact, the thought of marrying Millie made my pulse quicken. It made my palms tingle. It made my heart smile so big I could feel the edges of the grin poking me in the ribs. That, or I was starting to feel the hurt from the Santos fight. “Because they both lost so many players to WWII military service, the Pittsburgh Steelers and Philadelphia Eagles combined to become the Steagles during the 1943 season,” Henry recited. “What? The Steagles?” My eyes were on Henry, but I needed to chase Millie down. Henry nodded, straight-faced. “We could do that. We could combine. We could be the Taggersons.” “That’s a very interesting idea, Henry.” I nodded, biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh. “But I need to convince Millie. I’m not sure she wants to be a Taggerson just yet.” “Andert?” Henry offered another combination, wrinkling his nose, and then shaking his head, as if it didn’t have the same ring. “Give me a minute to see what Millie thinks. Okay?” Henry gave me a solemn thumbs up and sat down on the bottom stair to wait for the verdict

You are quiet,” the earl remarked as they tooled along toward Willow Bend. “If I am quiet enough, I can fool myself into thinking I am still abed, dreaming on my nice cool sheets.” Dreaming of him, most nights. “Am I working you too hard?” the earl asked, glancing over. “You are not. The heat can disturb one’s rest.” “Are my brothers behaving? Dev is tidy, but Val can be a slob.” “Lord Val’s only crime is that he commandeers Morgan for a couple of hours each afternoon and lets her join him in the music room while he works on his repertoire.” “You can trust Val to be a gentleman with her.” “And can I trust you to be a gentleman?” “You can trust me,” the earl replied, “to stop when you tell me to, to never intentionally hurt you, to listen before I judge, and to tell you the truth as far as I know it. Will that do?” It was all he was going to give her, but Anna reflected on how much more he offered than other men in her life were willing to. “It will do.

Swearing through his teeth, Ryan closed the distance between them and enveloped Jamie in a tight hug. “I don’t hate you, you prat,” he said, burying his nose into Jamie’s hair. “Don’t you ever think that.” “I’m sorry,” Jamie whispered. “I fucked up. I didn’t mean to—it just happened.” Ryan pulled back a little to look him in the eye. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for loving someone.” He forced out a teasing smile. “No one can blame you for your excellent taste.” A ghost of a smile touched Jamie’s lips, but his eye-roll was half-hearted at best. His eyes were still shiny, his face very pale. The knowledge that he was the one who had put that look on Jamie’s face made him sick to his stomach. Setting his jaw, Ryan cradled Jamie’s face in his hands. “Listen,” he said, holding Jamie’s gaze intently. “I promise you I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this. If you want to, I’ll find you the best boyfriend in the world. Someone you can fall in love and be happy with. How does that sound, mmm?” The smile Jamie gave him was a little shaky. Ryan told himself it was better than nothing. “You don’t have to do anything,” Jamie said. “I didn’t tell you that because I expected you to do something.” Jamie smiled brighter. “It’s not your fault I’m an idiot. I’ll be fine—” “Stop it,” Ryan said. “Don’t pretend it’s okay.” “It’s not okay,” Jamie said. He smiled at Ryan, a little brokenly, as if he had no clue what that smile was doing to him. “It’s not. But I’m not the first or the last person in the world to love someone I can’t have. I’m not sure what I expected when I decided to tell you. But I didn’t expect anything from you. I know you don’t love me that way. I know you love her, that you’re happy with her.” Jamie’s eyes were a little too bright. “Nothing has to change. Just…just don’t expect me to be your best man when you marry her, okay? I can’t do it, not even for you.” Ryan felt like the ground moved beneath his feet. He could only watch Jamie lie once again that he would be fine, force out another smile and leave. Ryan stood, unmoving, an acid churning deep in the pit of his stomach, and he fought the impulse to retch and break something. Later that night, he didn’t make love to Hannah. He fucked her, hard and rough, pouring out all his frustration and anger, Jamie’s shaky, forced smile before his eyes. When she came, moaning and shuddering around him, he pulled out, rolled out of the bed, and went to the bathroom. He stared at his naked body in the mirror, at his heaving chest and hard dick. He thought of all those times he had unthinkingly, unknowingly hurt Jamie, flaunting how happy he was with Hannah. Of all those times he told Jamie that he loved Hannah. Of all those times he kissed Hannah in front of him. Of all those bright smiles Jamie gave him afterward. Ryan slammed his fist in the mirror.

It was a bit like waking up in a dream. I didn't wake to familiar faces, I woke to a blurry dimness and a mirror. At first screaming seemed pointless. I stared at the stranger in front of me and I wondered what its purpose was. To hurt to heal?, as we often wonder about everyone. There are hidden intentions everywhere. And, if you aren't perceptive enough, you miss them, and cause a whole new problem that surfaced from the inability to see what others were trying to do.

I believe that. I don't think you could ever intentionally hurt anyone. You're like big, sweet teddy bear." "That makes me sound like a pussy." "No, William. You're all man from your head to your incredibly large dick" He laughed "Thank you.

You wouldn't really hurt me." "Not intentionally," he agrees. "But just because you call me a good guy doesn't mean I am one. It just means I've sufficiently Stockholm'ed you.

Being married to someone on the spectrum is challenging. Some people might go so far as to say it’s impossible. A quick internet search on ‘Asperger’s marriage’ will turn up plenty of horror stories. As my husband would tell you, being married to someone with undiagnosed ASD is even more difficult. Without the explanation of Asperger’s and an understanding of the social communication impairments that accompany it, it’s natural for the nonautistic partner to assume that the autistic partner is being intentionally rude, selfish, cold, controlling, and a host of other negative things. Before my diagnosis, there was a frequent pattern in my marriage: I would unknowingly do something hurtful, then be surprised when Sang was upset by it. This inevitably triggered a downward spiral, Sang assuming I was being intentionally hurtful—because how could a grown adult not realize that it was hurtful—and me feeling bewildered about what exactly I’d done to cause so much upset. Often these discussions stalemated in a conversational dead end. I would sink into a shutdown or meltdown, where my only verbal response was, “I don’t know,” and Sang would resort to a frustrated refrain of “I don’t understand you.” Even typing those two phrases is hard because they bring back memories of some of the most difficult times in our marriage.

There is a demon inside of me. Not a literal one, of course, because such things don't exist. Not that I've ever seen anyway. But there might as well be because I can feel something deep down that doesn't belong in this world, a darkness that permeates my being and shadows the world around me. I don't usually let it hurt anyone – not intentionally – but it is ravenous. It demands to be fed. Sated. Set loose every now and again. Most people can't handle my demon.

In referring to abuse, I am not referring to a few choice words from a cranky spouse who had a bad day, but someone whose behaviors betray a routine pattern of intentionally hurtful behaviors, neglect, or domination; someone for whom a good day might be an anomaly. This is not the gentleman who loses his temper once in a while, but someone who is a fight waiting to happen. His lifestyle is characterized by narcissism (extreme self-centeredness) evidenced by various overt or covert forms of domination, intimidation and hostility. Do you feel as though you must walk on eggshells? Are you always striving to keep the peace? Do you keep your mouth shut most of the time, while in your heart and mind there is a growing burden of stress and fear? Do you try to convince yourself – or does he – that perhaps you are being excessively critical, overly sensitive or paranoid? Is your life a combination of confusion, hurt and anger that you work to keep under wraps as you try to maintain a modicum of normalcy in your home? It may be past time to take a closer look at how it all began and, if necessary, determine whether or how to get out and go on.

My affliction decided to join us, forcing me to push my toes on the floor as though I were trying to eject myself from the chair. I prayed she didn’t notice what the affliction was making me do. I half expected to be eaten alive or murdered and buried out back in the school yard. “I’m not afraid of you, ya know,” I said, although I was terrified of her. The words hurt her, but that wasn’t my intent. She turned her face and looked out the window into North Cliff Street. She knew what her face and twisted body looked like, and she probably knew what the kids said about her. It was probably an open wound for her and I had just tossed salt into it. I was instantly ashamed of what I done and tried to correct myself. I didn’t mean to be hurtful, because I knew what it was like to be ridiculed for something that was beyond one’s control, such as my affliction, and how it made me afraid to touch the chalk because the feel of chalk to people like me is overwhelming. If I had to write on the blackboard, I held the chalk with the cuff of my shirt and the class laughed. “You look good in a nun’s suit,” I said. It was a stupid thing to say, but I meant well by it. She looked down at the black robe as if she were seeing it for the first time.

Eli. Whenever he doubted whether something was right, he consulted with Gertie, whose judgment he always accepted as decisive. He often questioned Mother's opinions or decisions as well as mine. That made Mother unsure of whatever she did, even in small, daily matters. He was very soft-spoken, kindly and well intentioned, yet he could quietly say something to the effect that you don't know what you are talking about or you don't know what you are doing. Father was too sick to listen or to care and Mother was too proud to show how much some observations hurt. I understood it well, for he did not spare me with his observations, although he would call me `honeychild'. As much as I disliked this treatment, I never argued with him, but I hoped that it would not be for long.

As Lucetta continued going on and on about what he should do, in that rather bossy manner he’d never imagined she possessed, he found himself having a bit of a difficult time concentrating on what she was saying. Her lips were moving rapidly, and while he was certain she was probably giving him sound advice, he found himself more concerned with the idea that it seemed to him as if she’d done something to her lips—something that made them seem quite spinster-looking, as if their very plumpness had been squeezed right out of them. The lips he was looking at now truly did seem to belong to a woman who’d sport a wart on her face, but . . . how had she managed to make them appear so unattractive, so . . . Taking a step closer to her, he leaned forward, trying to puzzle out the mystery behind her lips. They looked thin, which was very peculiar, although . . . perhaps it was the wart she’d so cleverly put right above the upper lip that was . . . “Why are you staring at me like that? Has the wart moved?” Dragging his attention away from the wart in question, he looked up and caught her eye through the smudged lenses that he had no idea how she could see out of. Instead of answering her, though, his hand rose, almost of its own accord it seemed, and the next thing he knew, he’d plucked the phony wart straight off her face. “What has gotten into you?” she demanded. “I need that wart, and . . . did you just throw that over your shoulder?” “It was disgusting,” he said, dusting his hands together, pleased with himself over taking control of the wart even though Lucetta looked about ready to strangle him. “It was meant to be disgusting.” “Well, now it’s gone.” Lucetta let out a grunt before she tried to scoot around him, seemingly intent on looking for the wart he’d just tossed aside. Before she could pass him, though, he reached out, took hold of her shoulders and felt her tense. “What are you doing?” Instead of answering her, he drew her closer, smiling just a touch when he heard her take a swift intake of breath. “Bram . . . really . . . what are you doing?” “Trying to figure something out,” he said as he moved one of his hands from her shoulder and used a single finger to take a poke at her lip. “It’s still full,” he said, more to himself than to her. He poked it again before he pulled at her lower lip, exposing her teeth in the process. “You no longer appear to be missing your teeth.” “Stop that.” She smacked his hand away. “I knew I shouldn’t have snuck that second cookie backstage. It must have knocked the gum off.” “You used gum?” Lucetta nodded. “I did, Black Jack gum, created by Mr. Thomas Adams, who opened the first gum factory with his sons in 1870, although I suppose now is not actually the time to recite history when faced with such a concerning situation.” She blew out a breath. “I’m normally very careful when I use gum to make it appear as if I’m missing teeth, but I must have swallowed it when I ate that cookie.” “Do you think that’ll hurt you?” Bram asked slowly. “Hard to know at this point.” She closed her eyes and shook her head a mere moment later. “No, I haven’t read anything regarding a medical condition one can expect after swallowing gum.” Bram frowned as Lucetta opened her eyes. “You know it’s really not a normal occurrence for people to be able to summon up random tidbits like that at will, don’t you?” A ghost of a smile played around Lucetta’s mouth. “I’ve never claimed to be normal, Bram.” That smile struck him straight through his heart. It was a genuine smile, with a bit of a self-deprecating edge to it, and . . . Without allowing himself a second to reconsider, he leaned toward her as his hand moved from her shoulder to her waist, and pulling her ever so slowly against him, he lowered his lips to hers.

If our past fences us in with resentment and with desires for revenge, we are old before our time because the past holds us captive. If I can’t forgive someone who has hurt me in the past, even if the hurting was mean and intentional, I am letting them control me years later. It is enough that someone hurt me when I was five or fifteen or fifty. Why let them continue to hurt me today? Why should I allow their

Explain yourself, Mr. Mulberry.” Suddenly feeling as if he were a mere boy instead of a full-grown man, Everett decided on the spot that charm might just be the way to handle this rather troubling situation. “I was . . . well, you see, I know it was a little improper, kissing Millie and all . . . but she’s completely irresistible to me, and . . . I’m rather afraid I lost my head for a moment.” “Try again.” “Ah . . . hmm . . .” was all he could come up with to say. “I thought so.” Mr. Kenton stopped slapping the bat against his hand and moved forward, a rather intimidating sight, even given that the man was positively ancient. Coming to a stop right in front of Everett, Mr. Kenton sent Millie, who was a lovely shade of pink, a fond look, before his eyes hardened as he directed his attention back to Everett. “I’m going to be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Mulberry. Miss Millie is an orphan, and as such, she has no father to look after her interests. Having said that, I’m telling you right now that you will view me as her fatherly figure at this particular moment in time. You will also explain to me exactly what your intentions are for this fine, fine young lady who deserves better than to be hurt by a scoundrel like you.” Right there, as he was being threatened by an elderly gentleman, one who still retained possession of a rather sturdy-looking bat, Everett knew, without a glimmer of a doubt, that he was truly and irrevocably in love with Miss Millie Longfellow. Whether it was her warmth or natural zest for life, she had a way about her that drew people in, and . . . he could no longer deny his feelings for the woman. Unable

Amy, I er . . . that is to say, what happened between us yesterday has been preying on my mind, and my conscience.  I hope I did not hurt you." "Oh, no, Charles.  Not at all —" "As you know, I pride myself on my conduct, my restraint, my treatment of others, and yesterday — well, yesterday I was not myself.  I don't know what or who I was, but I was certainly not the man I am accustomed to being."  He reached up, searching the empty space above him until he found her face, and let his fingers graze her cheek.  "Forgive me, Amy.  I am making excuses for behavior that cannot be excused.  Allow me to get straight to the point."  He trailed his fingers down her neck, the outside of her arm, then found and raised her hand to his lips.  "I have done you a terrible dishonor, and though I confess my intentions are based more on duty, fairness, and a care for your own future and reputation as opposed to any romantic inclinations I may feel toward you, I know, nevertheless, that I must ask." "Ask what?"  She sounded genuinely confused. "Drat it, girl, what do you think?" he asked, trying to keep the frustration and impatience from his voice.  And then, steeling himself:  "For your hand in marriage." "Marriage?!"  She nearly dropped him.  "Good heavens, Charles, you can't be serious, I'm the very last person on earth you should consider marrying.  You should go home to Katharine Farnsley, you should try to win back Juliet, you should find yourself some genteel English bride who'll do your name and rank justice."  She gave a nervous little laugh.  "Marry me?  How silly.  You cannot marry me!" "I certainly can, if you'll have me." "No, I will not have you.  Please don't be angry with me, Charles, but I know you're only offering this because you're a gentleman and feel guilty about what happened yesterday, but if I accept then I'll feel guilty as well, and then there'll be two of us feeling guilty, and that just won't do.  Don't you see?  Oh no, Charles.  You're very kind for asking, and thank you for it, but I cannot marry you, I simply cannot." "Amy, you are babbling." "You've flustered me!" "I am quite serious about this." "And so am I, Charles, truly I am!  But your heart isn't in this.  You're only trying to make amends, but really, you don't have to, I don't expect you to, I don't want you to.  Besides, you don't love me; you still love Juliet, and to marry me . . .  well, that just wouldn't feel right.

Taking a deep breath and whispering a silent prayer for steady hands, she made the incision on his forearm. Not daring to meet his gaze, she retrieved the fresh vial of Anthony’s blood along with a dropper. “That appears to be blood,” Rafe commented, though he sounded more perplexed than disturbed. “It is,” she said agreeably and began dripping the ruby liquid into the incision. Immediately the cut began to knit back together. Rafe placed his good hand on her shoulder, squeezing it with almost enough pressure to hurt. “Whose blood is it?” “Anthony’s,” she whispered, worry curling in her stomach at his intent gaze. Had she caused him harm? Her alarm deepened when he froze for what seemed to be an eternity. “Cristo,” he breathed at last. “I should have considered something so simple.” Suddenly, he went rigid, eyes widening. “Dios mío!” Cassandra placed her hand on his. “Did I hurt you? I swear, I did not intend—” “Hurt me?” A harsh burst of laughter escaped his lips. It was a rusty sound, as if long disused. “I can feel it! Hell, I can move it. Look!” Sure enough, the tip of his ring finger was bending back and forth. This time, it didn’t twitch. This time, it moved with purpose. Not only that, but the scarring had diminished slightly where she’d cut him. “Saint Jude.” Triumph swelled in her breast. “It worked!” Gleefully,

My heart sunk. I never understood why people felt sorry for me. Yes it hurt knowing I’d never meet my mom, but I hadn’t had the chance to lose her. She was already gone. But this? I would never understand Brandon’s hurt, and I didn’t know how to try, but I wanted to take it away. What I did know, was that he didn’t need my condolences right now, so I reached my hand across the table and rested it on top of his. He made slow circles on my thumb causing my entire hand to heat up. “Tell me about him.” He glanced up and my breath caught at his expression. If a masculine man could be described as beautiful, then his expression was just that. “He was amazing. Hard worker, but always home for dinner with us. Brought my mom flowers every other weekend, never missed one of our games. Taught me how to play football and surf. He made sure to let us know we could have anything we wanted if we worked hard enough for it. I always wanted to be like him when I grew up. Everyone loved him, he was a great man.” “Sounds like it. I’m sure he would be very proud of you.” He smiled at me and sat back into the chair, looking at me intently. “What?” “I’ve never had someone ask me that. Normally people just tell me they’re sorry and get uncomfortable. It’s awkward and to be honest, gets kind of old.” “Does it bother you that I asked?” “Not at all. It’s nice to talk about him sometimes. Your dad ever talk about your mom?” “Um, not exactly. Just said enough to let me know I reminded him too much of her. It never made sense to me, he always kept me close, like with the home-schooling, but he always made it clear he didn’t want me.” I snapped my mouth shut before I could say anything else. I exhaled in relief when he didn’t ask me to explain that further. “Well it’s his loss.” Yeah,

Lord Ashton, we should stop now.” Her words were the barest whisper, for she no longer trusted herself. She was entranced by his handsome face and the way he was watching her now. If she lifted her mouth even the slightest fraction, she would be kissing him again. He drew his hand over the line of her jaw and tipped her chin up. “Here, in this place, you will call me Iain. And I intend to call you Rose.” She was trembling in his arms, feeling so lost. When he slid his hands into her hair, holding her imprisoned, she tried to look away. “What are you afraid of, a chara? I would never hurt you.” No, she knew that. But when she was in Lord Ashton’s arms, she felt more alive, in a way she’d never before experienced. In hardly more than a fortnight, he’d taken apart her illusions, making her question the feelings she’d held for the viscount. “Nothing,” she lied. The truth was, the earl had made her doubt Lord Burkham’s intentions, making her wonder if he’d ever cared for her at all. She had told herself that the six letters were a sign of interest and caring. But now, she wasn’t so certain. “Don’t be looking at me like that, Lady Rose,” he warned. His eyes had grown hooded, and he moved his hands around her in a true embrace. The warmth of his arms enfolded her, making her feel safe. “Like what?” Her breathing had shifted and was unsteady, her skin sensitive beneath the fabric of her gown. Though she was trying to behave as if nothing were wrong, her good sense was disappearing before her eyes. She was standing in a beautiful garden, locked away from the world in the arms of a handsome Irishman. If she had never met Thomas, undoubtedly this man would have caused her heart to flutter. Or pound against her chest, as it was currently doing. “Take a step back, Lady Rose,” he warned. “Or I’ll not be responsible for the consequences.” Rose lifted her eyes to his and there was no denying the desire in them. He was giving her the opportunity to raise boundaries between them, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. She was lost in his gaze, feeling her own forbidden answer. In this place, there was no one to see. No one to tell her how wrong it was. And when he leaned down to kiss her, she didn’t pull away. His mouth assaulted hers with tenderness, flooding her with sensation. Her bare feet rested upon the grass while she clung to him for balance. His breath held the hint of tea, and the kiss became an awakening. It drew out the wilder side of herself, making her yearn for more. Beneath

You’ve been spending a great deal of time with my sister, Lord Ashton. I hope you realize that the servants are gossiping.” He sent Rose a conspiratorial look. “Are they? I suppose they think I am intent upon debauchery and ruining your sister.” “Indeed.” Lily planted her hands upon her hips and waited for him to offer an excuse. “I told her that I was teaching you about London,” Rose interjected. “She can’t seem to understand why I wouldn’t do so in a drawing room with chaperones present.” He turned to Lily and met her gaze evenly. “Your sister is lying.” “I am not.” “Yes, you are. You know full well that not only am I forcing you to kiss me, but we are committing fornication in broad daylight. Which would not be proper in the drawing room.” He lifted his own eyebrow and shot Lily a dark smile. At that, Rose stood up and glared at him. Her knees were shaking, but she would not stand back and listen to this. Already her face was crimson at his insinuation. “Lily, don’t you dare believe his lies!” “Why? It’s only now becoming interesting.” But the faint smile on Lily’s mouth revealed that she didn’t believe him at all. “You are a wretch, when we’ve done no such thing.” He only winked, and puckered his lips. She couldn’t believe his audacity. “If I had a rake right now, I would beat you senseless with it.” “It’s a good thing you don’t.” He smiled again at Lily and said, “The truth is, I am teaching your sister to walk.” His confession deflated her spirits. Why would he tell her sister that when she wanted it to remain a secret? How could he ruin her surprise? “She’s made very little progress and has fallen several times,” he continued. “She did not want to alarm any of you. Especially the servants, who would accuse me of trying to harm her.” Some of her anger dissipated, for he’d not mentioned her steps at all. “Rose, no.” Lily urged her to sit back on the bench. “You’re going to hurt yourself. You’ve stood, and that in itself is a tremendous accomplishment. But walking?” “We have made an agreement,” Rose said. “Lord Ashton has promised to catch me before I fall on my face. And I, in return, am teaching him about the complexity of forks.” Lord Ashton joined in, nodding in agreement. “They are quite impossible. Why anyone would need three forks at any meal is wasteful, indeed. It’s grateful I am that your sister is helping me to navigate cutlery.” Lily glanced at Rose and then back at Lord Ashton. “Well. That’s not quite what I was expecting.” “And

I make a move to walk by him to go to our dressing room, and an arm suddenly snakes around my waist. I squeal as he jerks me against him and touches his lips to mine. The photogs that are allowed backstage go crazy taking pictures. I push back from him, and he doesn’t stop, so I slap him. The noise rings out around the room. He jerks back like I just hurt his feelings. Then he sneers. “What’s the m-m-matter?” he mocks. “You l-l-looked like you could use a k-k-kiss.” I start toward him with my fist raised, because I’m going to punch him in the fucking throat. But Star gets between me and him. I reach around her, but she holds me back. “Get out of the way, Star,” I warn. She nods toward security, but before they can get there, Fin—the tiniest out of our group of five—tugs on the guy’s sleeve. He looks down at her, his eyes filled with lascivious intent. “Hey, baby,” he croons. He bends down like he wants to try his luck kissing her, but she balls up her fist and hits him square in the nose. He falls back, completely stunned, and lands on his back in the middle of the floor. Star steps in the center of his chest and presses the heel of her boot into his breastbone. “If you ever fucking touch one of my sisters again, I’ll chop your balls off and feed them to you.” Our

If the woman I loved fell sick, I would be at her side, day and night. And even if my duties took me from her, I would write every day.” The roughness in his voice took her aback, and for a moment, she found herself caught up in his stare. She couldn’t read his emotions, for his anger was blended with an intensity that stole her breath. “I cannot understand why any man wouldn’t do the same for you.” His mouth rested above hers, and she felt the heat of his breath upon her lips. Against her will, her body responded to his nearness, making her soften to his touch. Though he crossed no boundaries, she trembled at the hushed sense of the forbidden. “You’re too good for him, a chara. If he truly loved you, he would not have left you when you were ill. And I think you know that.” Her face flooded with color, for he was the first one to openly say this. “Then why would Lord Burkham bother writing to me?” He hesitated at that. “I cannot say. Except that perhaps he feels guilty for not treating you as he should.” She didn’t want to believe it. Not when Thomas represented her hopes and dreams for the future. No, she would take comfort in the fact that he had continued to write letters, and she was glad of it. She let out a sigh. “I am tired, Lord Ashton. I think we are finished for today.” He regarded her with solemnity. “It wasn’t my intent to hurt your feelings, a chara.” “I know.

Ian knew he had to kiss Elizabeth when he saw that fire in her eyes and heard the passion in her voice. He pulled her against him, and his kiss was urgent, like that of a hungry lover. Licking her lip, he forced her to open her mouth, and she did not resist. How he wanted to devour her softness, her innocence. “Och, Elizabeth.” He clutched her as if he could not get enough. His lips left her mouth, trailing down her neck to her collarbone. She moaned at each touch, her mewling sounds firing his passion even more. Trying to maintain some sense of reason, he pulled back, giving her the opportunity to deny him. But she only looked at him with glazed passion. Ian molded her to him, his arms wrapping around her like a vise. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and he shuddered with desire. She gently pulled away from him, breathless. “Laird Munro…” She placed her hands on his arms, and a chuckle escaped him. “I would think after that kiss, ye’d call me Ian.” Rather than releasing her as he should, he pulled her close. “We will cease, but let me simply hold ye.” Rubbing his hands over her back, he felt her hands on his chest. What the hell was he thinking? He’d almost lost control with Elizabeth. God’s teeth! If the lass would have permitted him, he would’ve taken her standing here. That wasn’t necessarily true. He still had some sense of chivalry left within him. He would have at least thrown her on the bed. Reluctantly, he pulled away from her. “Come. I will escort ye back to your room.” She couldn’t look him in the eye. “That’s not necessary. It’s late. No one will be in the hall.” He placed his hand at the small of her back. “I insist.” Neither spoke as he escorted her to her chamber. He did not know what to say. Besides, he was trying too hard not to fall over his own two feet. Opening her door, he waited as she entered her room. She turned around and gave him a tender smile. “Ian…” She spoke softly, and her eyes never left his. “I don’t understand what just happened between us, but I don’t want to be hurt anymore.” His eyebrows shot up. “What do ye mean? I doona understand all of this either, but I assure ye, my intentions are nae to cause ye pain.” At least he spoke the truth because he wasn’t sure what his purpose was in kissing her. “I don't want you to push me away. My heart couldn't bear it because I’ve loved you from the first time I saw you.” Elizabeth slowly closed the door in his face, and Ian paled.

Forgive me, Sophia. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just coming over to apologize for hurting you during the, er, ceremony.” “It’s all right.” She looked down at the ground, feeling awkward all over again when she remembered the strange sensations that had flooded her body during the Luck Kiss. “No, it’s not. I drew your blood and for that I must beg your forgiveness.” He sounded formal again, just as he had when he was talking to the priestess. “The gift of blood must be freely given—never taken or forced.” “The…the gift of blood?” She looked up at him uncertainly. “Is that some kind of Kindred ceremony?” He looked uncomfortable. “It is part of the mating ritual of the Blood Kindred. And since you have made it abundantly clear you have no wish to be called as a bride, I shouldn’t have taken your blood.” “So if you did call a bride that would be part of it—of your relationship, I mean? You’d always be…biting her?” She couldn’t help looking at his fangs again and feeling glad they were still small. “Only when we made love,” Sylvan assured her as though that made it all right. Sophie felt her stomach do a slow forward flip but she tried not to show her dismay. “That’s…uh interesting.” “And off the point.” Sylvan frowned, as though irritated with himself. “What I’m trying to say is, please accept my apologies and my best wishes for your health and happiness. I truly did not mean to bite you.” “It’s…I know it was an accident but…” She wanted to ask him more. Wanted to know why his fangs had grown when he kissed her. It wasn’t just his fangs that grew, whispered a little voice in her head and a wave of embarrassment swept over her. “Yes?” Sylvan looked at her earnestly but she shook her head. “It’s okay,” she mumbled, not meeting his eyes. “Seriously, I’m fine. Let’s just…leave it at that.” “I appreciate your willingness to put the incident behind us but I need to examine the wound.” “Why?” Sophie asked. “I know you’re a doctor…er medic but—” “I need to know how serious the injury I inflicted was.” He looked so stern that she tilted her chin up to allow the examination. “It’s not bad at all. See?” she pointed at her bottom lip which, to tell the truth, was still pretty sore. Sylvan cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned forward, studying her hurt lip. For some reason Sophie’s face got hot at the gentle touch and she had to close her eyes. What is he looking for? What’s taking so long? She wished he would hurry up and finish the examination. His hand was so warm and the feel of his skin on hers made her nervous. “Is…is everything all right?” she asked at last. “It appears to be.” He sounded cautiously relieved. “I nicked you pretty badly but I don’t think you got any of my essence.” “Your what?” She opened her eyes to see him looking at her intently. Blushing, she looked quickly away. “My essence. It’s…never mind. You should recover normally.” His voice dropped. “I would offer to heal it for you but I don’t think you’d care for my method of healing.” “What do you mean?

I have never asked anyone including my loved ones to hold back or not Hurting me intentionally or unintentionally. It's ok because Time says it all. (GMT-7) - /•|•\ T∆Nv€€π \•|•/

If your intent is to throw a barrage of dozens of strikes, thinking that an accumulation of tens of strikes will drop the opponent, you have the wrong mindset. GM Maranga is one of the few short stick fighters with the right mindset. He counters with a single strike, but most importantly, his intent is to drop you with that strike. And trust me, he hits very hard. I have a saying: “My goal is not to hit the opponent, but to drop him. Hitting him is a means of achieving that goal.” It's not enough to hit him. It's not enough to hurt him. Getting him to yell “Ouch!” is not going to stop a meth addict with a blade. My aim is to shut him down. So if I'm hitting him but not incapacitating him, my strikes are ineffective. In my mind I am crushing his kneecap. I am fracturing his skull. If he raises an arm or stick to block, I am committed to blasting through it like a runaway dump truck. In my mind I am breaking any upraised arm.

We have all had the experience of stepping on someone’s foot or bumping into someone and immediately apologizing. It was not our intention to hurt them, but it is understood that the impact is still that harm was caused. Instead of refusing to apologize because we did not mean it, we rush to apologize because we understand we have caused pain.

Without You Everything Is Hideous How are you? , sweetheart, here I am writing these letters and your thought does not leave me and here you are still the closest to me since that day, which did not end until now. I scatter my letters in front of your beautiful eyes to tell you that I am wrong and guilty ; Although I have not forgotten you for a moment, even while I am trying to convince myself that everything is finished from your point of view, but I make up for it and say well, this is enough for me to try to snatch her icy heart again, this heart that loved me with all sincerity that innocent childish heart that never hated One even over the one who is because of him has left me for a long time due to false suspicion I remember all your letters, so I read them from time to time How nice it was to call me a childish nickname - capturing like your cheeks a happy nickname. You didn’t know all my reasons, sweetie I indirectly told you about the biggest reason when I told you to read “So Forgive Me ”You are the most beautiful thing that has happened to me since I knew you. My beauty, today I want to tell you that you forgot something one day. You asked me: Have you loved before? So I told you : Yes I did it was a long time ago when I was a teenager; I never thought that I would love again after I was wounded by that deep wound, when I was left alone, the wolves of loneliness and separation scattered me, and no one comes to me to pull me from the bottom of the debris that happened in my heart, And to be honest, I was not afraid for myself as much as I feared for your tender heart; I don’t ever want to be the lover who leaves his lover, especially if it is you. My beautiful woman, I wanted to make sure that my heart never beats for anyone but you It’s not easy, believe me I admire you since we became close, since we started speaking in the innocent language of children, since you used to say to me you are late to respond, even if I was late for a few seconds since night became for us a second day we talk about it until dawn and more Since you were quarreling with others trying to make them understand my point of view. How delicious days were when you looked at me from a distance and smiled, and when I heard your laughter as much as I was jealous, my heart beat with joy All your conditions were beautiful even when you quarreled with me I am not here trying to tell you that I am innocent, I am not I hurt you many times but I swear it was not with intent They were rather fleeting and spontaneous things. I admit that I have hurt your pride and here I am now bearing the consequences of this matter, and I swear it is not an easy thing. But, my flower, when you told me that excuse to stay away from me for three months, it smashed me, how can someone take my moon from me? The one that shone my eyes and melted the ice around my heart after my heart became so attached to her that I became so addicted to her that when I talk to any girl I call her by your name. My little girl I lost my love previously, and I do not want to lose you, because I know that you are a twin of my soul, even if you deny this now, but in the depths of your heart you know the validity of this matter. I apologize for every moment that made you think with pain I just wanted to protect you from fleeting feelings or just those feelings that were attracted to you And I know you crave someone to love you just because you are beautiful I wanted to protect you from the feelings of a teenager And if it was a year or less late to reveal it You know that valuable things no matter how late they are, their value will be better, finer, sincere and thinner, and you deserve strong, sincere feelings that stem from the depths of the heart and from the depths of the soul feelings befitting you I see in you all the beauties in life And without you, everything is Hideous You have all my feelings, beautiful cheeks.

The more one-sided a society's observance of strict moral principles such as orderliness, cleanliness, and hostility toward instinctual drives, and the more deep-seated its fear of the other side of human nature vitality, spontaneity, sensuality, critical judgment, and inner independence the more strenuous will be its efforts to isolate this hidden territory, to surround it with silence or institutionalize it. Prostitution, the pornography trade, and the almost obligatory obscenity typical of traditionally all-male groups such as the military are part of the legalized, even requisite reverse side of this cleanliness and order. Splitting of the human being into two parts, one that is good, meek, conforming, and obedient and the other that is the diametrical opposite is perhaps as old as the human race, and one could simply say that it is part of "human nature." Yet it has been my experience that when people have had the opportunity to seek and live out their true self in analysis, this split disappears of itself. They perceive both sides, the conforming as well as the so-called obscene, as two extremes of the false self, which they now no longer need. (...) This case and similar ones make me wonder if it will not one day be possible to let children grow up in such a way that they can later have more respect for all sides of their nature and not be forced to suppress the forbidden sides to the point where they must be lived out in violent and obscene ways. Obscenity and cruelty are not a true liberation from compulsive behavior but are its by-products. Free sexuality is never obscene, nor does violence ever result if a person is able to deal openly with his or her aggressive impulses, to acknowledge feelings such as anger and rage as responses to real frustration, hurt, and humiliation. How can it have come about that the split I have just described is attributed to human nature as a matter of course even though there is evidence that it can be overcome without any great effort of will and without legislating morality? The only explanation I can find is that these two sides are perpetuated in the way children are raised and treated at a very early age, and the accompanying split between them is therefore regarded as "human nature." The "good" false self is the result of what is called socialization, of adapting to society's norms, consciously and intentionally passed on by the parents; the "bad", equally false self is rooted in the child's earliest observations of parental behavior, visible only to the child's devoted, unsuspecting eyes and stored up in his or her unconscious, this behavior is what comes to be regarded, generation after generation, as "human nature".

Kate looked out into the garden, gripping the edges of the leather so tightly that her fingers were white, and said she was owed an apology. Meg asked: For what? You hurt my feelings, Meghan. When? Please tell me. I told you I couldn’t remember something and you said it was my hormones. What are you talking about? Kate mentioned a phone call in which they’d discussed the timing of wedding rehearsals. Meg said: Oh, yes! I remember: You couldn’t remember something, and I said it’s not a big deal, it’s baby brain. Because you’d just had a baby. It’s hormones. Kate’s eyes widened: Yes. You talked about my hormones. We’re not close enough for you to talk about my hormones! Meg’s eyes got wide too. She looked genuinely confused. I’m sorry I talked about your hormones. That’s just how I talk with my girlfriends. Willy pointed at Meg. It’s rude, Meghan. It’s not what’s done here in Britain. Kindly take your finger out of my face. Was this really happening? Had it actually come to this? Shouting at each other about place cards and hormones? Meg said she’d never intentionally do anything to hurt Kate, and if she ever did, she asked Kate to please just let her know so it wouldn’t happen again. We all hugged. Kind of. And then I said we’d better be going.

Thank you, Max. I feel warmer already.” After a pause, I ask him quietly: “Did you call him?” “No. Not yet.” I remember pleading with him not to call Rafe. He listened, and I’m grateful. I can trust him, which means something. “I’m not going to call him until you want me to. But you know as well as I do that he’ll be insane with worry right now. He might hurt himself. Not intentionally but he goes into a rage when … well, when someone he loves is threatened or lost. He reacts badly to things like that.

I flip him the bird but instantly chicken out when he turns toward me with a growl and steps in my direction. I’m running away again, a laugh filling the salty air. This time, I have no intention of getting away.

Back then, I didn’t realize his willingness to remain harmful, that the desire to cause harm was a choice. Each time life presented him with an alternative to protect or hurt, he chose the latter without fail. He showed up intentionally to cause emotional harm, and that was who he was. He was a man who recklessly treated me, and I had no right to doubt his abilities.

I lost sympathy with many of my patients. After twenty-five years of listening to their complaints I finally snapped. I woke up one morning bent out of shape about this client who was forty-three but acting sixteen. Every week he’d come with the same complaints, “Someone hurt me. Life is unfair. It’s not my fault.” For three years I’d been making suggestions, and for three years he’d done nothing. Then, listening to him this one day, I suddenly understood. He wasn’t changing because he didn’t want to. He had no intention of changing. For the next twenty years we would go through this charade. And I realised in that same instant that most of my clients were exactly like him.’ ‘Surely, though, some were trying.’ ‘Oh, yes. But they were the ones who got better quite quickly. Because they worked hard at it and genuinely wanted it. The others said they wanted to get better, but I think, and this isn’t popular in psychology circles’ – here she leaned forward and whispered, conspiratorially – ‘I think many people love their problems. Gives them all sorts of excuses for not growing up and getting on with life.’ Myrna leaned back again in her chair and took a long breath. ‘Life is change. If you aren’t growing and evolving you’re standing still, and the rest of the world is surging ahead. Most of these people are very immature. They lead “still” lives, waiting.’ ‘Waiting for what?’ ‘Waiting for someone to save them. Expecting someone to save them or at least protect them from the big, bad world. The thing is no one else can save them because the problem is theirs and so is the solution. Only they can get out of it.

some rough waters. She said, “Ryan has at times said he was sorry. But then he expects me to say it back, even if I don’t feel like I should have to because he was the cause of the fight in the first place. That just doesn’t work for me. I want him to say he’s sorry and not expect anything in return. That would mean that he is truly sorry.” Sometimes we hurt people and don’t realize it. It was certainly not intentional. Good relationships are fostered by expressing regret even when we did not intend to hurt them. If I bump into someone getting out of an elevator, I murmur, “I’m sorry,” not because I intentionally bumped him but because I identify with his inconvenience or irritation with my unintentional bump. The same principle is true in close relationships. You may not realize that your behavior has upset your spouse, but when it becomes apparent, then you can say, “I’m sorry that my behavior caused you so much pain. I didn’t intend to hurt you.” Regret focuses on dealing with one’s own behavior and expressing empathy for the hurt it has caused the other person. Insincerity is also communicated when we say “I’m sorry” simply to get the other person to stop confronting us with the issue. Rhonda sensed this when she said, “Early in our marriage, my husband did something

Why do you have to dig so deep into every part of me, until I cannot ignore the hurt and the ache and the empty sense of loss?

appears to have left him stunned. Garza cleared his throat, making his presence known. When the prince finally spoke, he did so without turning from the window. “When I called Ambra,” he said, “she refused to speak to me.” Julián’s tone sounded more perplexed than hurt. Garza was unsure how to reply. Given the night’s events, it seemed incomprehensible that Julián’s thoughts were on his relationship with Ambra—an engagement that had been strained right from its poorly conceived beginnings. “I imagine Ms. Vidal is still in shock,” Garza offered quietly. “Agent Fonseca will deliver her to you later this evening. You can speak then. And let me just add how relieved I am, knowing that she is safe.” Prince Julián nodded absently. “The shooter is being tracked,” Garza said, attempting to change the subject. “Fonseca assures me they will have the terrorist in custody soon.” He used the word “terrorist” intentionally in hopes of snapping the prince out of his daze. But the prince only gave another blank nod. “The president has denounced the assassination,” Garza continued, “but the government does hope that you will further

When two people produce entirely different memories of the same event, observers usually assume that one of them is lying. Of course, some people do invent or embellish stories to manipulate or deceive their audiences (or sell books). But most of us, most of the time, are neither telling the whole truth nor intentionally deceiving. We aren’t lying; we are self-justifying. All of us, as we tell our stories, add details and omit inconvenient facts; we give the tale a small, self-enhancing spin. That spin goes over so well that the next time we add a slightly more dramatic embellishment; we justify that little white lie as making the story better and clearer. Eventually the way we remember the event may bring us a far distance from what actually happened.

I’m a big girl. I can handle it.” I 100 percent cannot handle it, not if he hurts me. But I’m learning to trust him, trust that his intentions are pure.

In the deepest optic I love how the sun highlights your eyes Those iridescent, mesmerizing, brown eyes Flecked with gold and impossibly long lashes Getting lost in them will be my relish So intimate yet so elusive Scantly clad a while ago Now completely bare and trembling Once more, I gazed into those deep eyes Your long, fixed look consumed me Full of intent, oh so intense Held my breath Plunged into the abysmal depth Your waves, void of warmth Sent panic throughout my body Struggles now futile in overcoming With your current dragging me further Battered, I sank even more Throttled by the weight of your emotions My body descended at the deepest Murky and filled with floating specks I think I ran out of luck Everything started to hurt Writhing around, I breathed more My chest felt like it was on fire It’s as if I’m being burned alive I struggled no more and closed my eyes Although your thoughts surround me I didn’t find myself in them Even a makeshift place in your mind I occupy nothing

I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told Olivia. You are not a man who would intentionally betray someone’s trust, someone who loves him, who he loves without a shadow of a doubt.” He twists in my direction. “You wouldn’t hurt that girl if your life depended on it. She’s your whole world. Not hockey. Not that cup sitting pretty in your house right now, the one you’ve been working toward your whole life. Olivia. That girl. She’s your world and she has been right from the beginning. If you took your last breath right now, your final words would be—” “A declaration of how much I love her.

While I wait to heal, I often find solace in solitude. I don't fully understand why, but I know I must be alone. I withdraw from the world, and in that quiet space, I focus solely on my recovery. This solitude forces me to confront my raw emotions, with no distractions to dull their intensity. It is within these moments of despair that my most brilliant ideas emerge. I allow myself to feel deeply, to the point where I can no longer feel. To overcome heartache, it's essential to exhaust every emotion—cry until the tears run dry, feel until you're tired of feeling, talk about the person until even your own voice bores you. When you are drained, empty, and devoid of emotion, you are almost across the bridge to healing. It is only then that true detachment begins. Each time my heart has been broken, I've learned how to heal myself. Heartbreak no longer holds power over me. I've realized that the only way to get over it is to go through it. The longer I deny my feelings to protect myself, the more pain I endure. But if I accept the situation and fully experience my emotions, the pain fades more quickly. At most, they may occupy my thoughts for a few days; if I loved them deeply, maybe two or three weeks. I simply withdraw from society and return when I am better, when I am healed. During my healing process, I commit to self-improvement. I channel my energy into refining the parts of myself that led to unnecessary pain. I acknowledge my mistakes, see where I went wrong, and take responsibility for my role in my suffering. And as long as he makes no effort, I am gone. The quickest way for any man to lose me is to stop trying and to make his intentions clear. While he may think I am suffering, I am actually healing. I am recalibrating, renewing, and rehabilitating. I am resurrecting, realigning, adjusting, refocusing, and resetting. I am fine-tuning. In the midst of this, I give him nothing—no attention, no thoughts, no feelings. Exes thrive on your negative emotions, so silence must be so profound that it echoes. No attention, no access. They may resort to stalking through fake profiles, but let them exert the effort. Block all other avenues of communication. I am reshaping, reorienting, tweaking, reassessing, reconfiguring, restructuring. In my absence, I am transforming. Ducked. I am for all ill purposes and intentions, my most productive and fruitful self when I am hurt or alone. This leads my naysayers, detractors and enemies to learn that for the most part, excluding death, I am by most standards, indestructible. I will build empires with the stones one throws at me. I will create fertilizers with the trash and feaces hurled at me. I will rise like pheonix from the ashes. I am antifragile, I can withstand trials, tribulations, chaos and uncertainty and grow in the face of adversity. I am the epitome of the resilience paradox, trial bloom, adversity alchemy, refiners fire and the pheonix effect. I am fortitude - me. Ducked. What’s even more magical, is what comes out on the other side of this process. It’s a peace, you do not want anyone to destroy. A clarity, you won’t risk blurring. A renewed you, a different version of you, stronger, fierce, centered and certain. A rebirth, refinement. You never saw it coming. Neither will they. Copyright ©️ 2024 Crystal Evans

Eric lost his temper. “You never gave our marriage honor! You always thought I would leave you! I should have turned you without asking, as I did Karin and Pam! Or better yet, gotten Pam to turn you! We need not have parted, ever again.” And then we were staring at each other—him furious, me horrified. We’d talked about my becoming a vampire one night in bed, after fireworks sex, and the idea had surfaced at other times. I’d always said clearly that I didn’t want that. “You considered doing that. Without my consent.” “Of course,” he said, emphatically, impatiently, as if my not understanding his intent was ridiculous. “Naturally, I did. I knew if you were turned . . . you would be so glad. There is nothing better than being a vampire. But you seemed repulsed by the idea. At first I thought, ‘She loves the sun—but she loves me, too.’ But I began to wonder if in your heart you really despised what I am.” His brows drew together; he was not only angry, he was hurt.

Was it my idea to have him hurt me, or did he just let me think it was? And that gets sewn into them young, doesn’t it? Violence. I’ve had to go to some fairly extreme measures to defend myself. I used to think about older men, even before Lesley. I had an imaginary sugar daddy; I had affairs in my head with actors and musicians thrice my age; I had intentional and prolonged eye-contact with my dad’s friends. Whether I’m in control or losing it, I’ve always had a power thing, I think. I never do things like this with women. I never did anything like this with Frank. There’s a soft part of your brain. A place where you’re still just a child. Once someone’s poked the soft spot, the dent doesn’t go away. Like sticking your fingers in wet concrete.

I’m not avoiding anything. I just don’t think it’s working.” I know Zoe. I know that when she feels like she’s losing control, she chooses to run. She wants to put space between herself and the storm inside her mind. She believes distance and time can come between us and what we have, but it won’t work. Not in this lifetime or the next.  “You pull away to prevent yourself from feeling anything. You think it’ll protect you from getting hurt, but it won’t. You’re going to feel everything anyway, no matter what you tell yourself. Besides, the next time I hurt you, it’ll be intentional and because you want it.” I take another step closer, but she raises her hand, motioning for me to stop. 

Kate’s mind was obviously not lodged as firmly in the gutter as his, since she chose to sit in the chair opposite him, even though there was plenty of room in his chair, provided they didn’t mind squeezing next to each other. Even the chair kitty-corner to his would have been better; at least then he could have yanked her up and hauled her onto his lap. If he tried that maneuver where she was seated across the table, he’d have to drag her through the middle of the tea service. Anthony narrowed his eyes as he assessed the situation, trying to guess exactly how much tea would spill on the rug, and then how much it would cost to replace the rug, and then whether he really cared about such a piddling amount of money, anyway . . . “Anthony? Are you listening to me?” He looked up. Kate was resting her arms on her knees as she leaned forward to talk with him. She looked very intent and just a little bit irritated. “Were you?” she persisted. He blinked. “Listening to me?” she ground out. “Oh.” He grinned. “No.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t bother to scold him any further than that. “I was saying that we should have Edwina and her young man over for dinner one night. To see if we think they suit. I have never before seen her so interested in a gentleman, and I do so want her to be happy.” Anthony reached for a biscuit. He was hungry, and he’d pretty much given up on the prospect of getting his wife into his lap. On the other hand, if he managed to clear off the cups and saucers, yanking her across the table might not have such messy consequences . . . He surreptitiously pushed the tray bearing the tea service to the side. “Hmmm?” he grunted, chewing on the biscuit. “Oh, yes, of course. Edwina should be happy.” Kate eyed him suspiciously. “Are you certain you don’t want some tea with that biscuit? I’m not a great aficionado of brandy, but I would imagine that tea would taste better with shortbread.” Actually, Anthony thought, the brandy did quite well with shortbread, but it certainly couldn’t hurt to empty out the teapot a bit, just in case he toppled it over. “Capital idea,” he said, grabbing a teacup and thrusting it toward her. “Tea’s just the thing. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it earlier.” “I can’t imagine, either,” she murmured acerbically— if one could murmur in an acerbic manner, and after hearing Kate’s low sarcasm, Anthony rather thought one could. But he just gave her a jovial smile as he reached out and took his teacup from her outstretched hand.

One AS husband wrote me the following very powerful e-mail (I have excerpted parts.):       I guess your heart probably sinks just a little when you get a message from an AS man. However, I’ve just read your book and I’d like to thank you for its honesty and indeed bravery.       I’ve been with my NT partner . . . for 25 years and have inflicted many distressing incidents on her similar to those you describe. But I can honestly say that none of them were ever designed to hurt. This feeling has probably made things much worse [for her]! I doubt I would have become so angry and defensive if I didn’t believe myself to be ‘innocent’ of the crime of intention. Hopefully I am coming to realise that I need to do more than just not intend to do harm. . .       . . . Reading your book I think I see parallels here between my fear of being overwhelmed in social or conflict situations. But I also see similarities to those feelings when my partner expresses her frustrations and needs - to admit to her point of view seems sometimes like I would be ‘destroyed.’ I mention this because I get the strong feeling that you equate spirituality and loving relationships. I feel that between myself and . . . there is something very important to us both, beyond companionship. For me there seems to have been a chance given that I would never believed I would have had. . .

When we make mistakes, we tell a Victim Story by claiming our intentions were innocent and pure. “Sure I was late getting home and didn’t call you, but I couldn’t let the team down!” On the other hand, when others do things that hurt or inconvenience us, we tell Villain Stories in which we invent terrible motives or exaggerate flaws for others based on how their actions affected us. “You are so thoughtless! You could have called me and told me you were going to be late.