Knee Tattoo Quotes

Then Rhys fell to his knees and took Nesta's hands in his, pressing his mouth to her fingers. "Thank you," he wept, head bowed. Cassian knew it wasn't in gratitude for Rhy's own life that he knelt upon the sacred tattoos inked upon his knees. Nesta dropped to the carpet. Lifted Rhy's face in her hands, studied what lay in it. Then she threw her arms around the High Lord of the Night Court and held him tightly.

Oh. Wow.' 'What?' He held my hand up between us. 'Look.' I squinted at my hands. 'I don't see anything.' Sighing, he flipped my hand over, and my jaw hit the ground. A faint blue line marked the center of my palm with a smaller line through it. It would've looked like a cross, except the horizontal line was slanted. 'Oh. My. Gods.' I jerked my hand away, scrambling back. 'I have a rune on my hand. It's an Apollyon rune, isn't it.' Seth rested his hands on his knees. 'I think so. I have one like that.' 'But why is it still there? Why is it there at all?' I flipped my palm over several times, shook it, but the faint blue tattoo was still there. 'You can see it, right? Like right now, you can see it?' 'Yes. It hasn't faded.' Seth leaned forward, catching my hand. 'Stop shaking it like it's a damn Etch-A-Sketch. That doesn't make them disappear.

The history of sex is the history of glimpses: first ankles, then cleavage, then knees. More recently, tattoos, navel rings, tongue studs, underwear…” (p. 92).

Kiss me!” I pleaded. “Please, Pigeon! I told him no!” Abby shoved me away. “Leave me alone, Travis!” She shouldered passed me, but I grabbed her wrist. She kept her arm straight, outstretched behind her, but she didn’t turn around. “I am begging you.” I fell to my knees, her hand still in mine. My breath puffed out in white steam as I spoke, reminding me of the cold. “I’m begging you, Abby. Don’t do this.” Abby glanced back, and then her eyes drifted down her arm to mine, seeing the tattoo on my wrist. The tattoo that bared her name. She looked away, toward the cafeteria. “Let me go, Travis.” The air knocked out of me, and with all hope obliterated, I relaxed my hand, and let her slip out of my fingers. Abby didn’t look back as she walked away from me, and my palms fell flat on the sidewalk. She wasn’t coming back. She didn’t want me anymore, and there was nothing I could do or say to change it.

It's hard to believe someone who walks around commanding so much attention with his acute cockiness, hard muscles, and tattoos would ever let someone like me bring him to his knees-and make no mistake, I bring him to his knees. I bring him to his knees, hard.

Then Rhys fell to his knees and took Nesta's hands in his, pressing his mouth to her fingers. 'Thank you,' he wept, head bowed. Cassian knew it wasn't in gratitude for Rhys's own life that he knelt upon the sacred tattoos inked upon his knees. Nesta dropped to the carpet. Lifted Rhys's face in her hands, studied what lay in it. Then she threw her arms around the High Lord of the Night Court and held him tightly.

I have a scar-a faint gouge in my knee from when I fell down on the sidewalk as a child. It's always seemed stupid to me that none of the pain I've experienced has left a visible mark; sometimes, without a way to prove it to myself. I began to doubt that I had lied through it at all, with the memories becoming hazy over time. I want to have some kind of reminder that while wounds heal, they don't disappear forever- I carry them everywhere, always, and that is the way of things, the way of scars. That is what this tattoo will be, for me: a scar. And it seems fitting that it should document the worst memory of pain I have.

Luc scored forty and slapped the darts in her palm. “The light sucks in here.” “No.” She smiles and took great pleasure in announcing, “You suck.” His gaze narrowed. Weeks of anger and hurt poured out of her and she said, louder than she’d intended, “And worse – you’re a whiner.” A collective intake of breath caught their attention and she and Luc turned and looked at the guys watching a few feet away. “Lucky’s gonna kill Sharky,” Sutter predicted from the sidelines. By taut agreement they both went to their respective corners. Jane shot and scored sixty-five. Luc scored thirty-four. “Now remind me. Why do they call you Lucky?” she asked as she reached for the darts. He pulled them back out of her reach as a slow, purely licentious smile curved his mouth. A smile that told her he was remembering her on her knees kissing his tattoo. “I’m sure if you think long and hard, you’ll remember the answer to that.” “No.” She shook her head. “Some things just aren’t that memorable.

I have only one memory of getting here, and even that is just a single image: black ink curling around the side of a neck, the corner of a tattoo, and the gentle sway that could only mean he was carrying me. He turns off the bathroom light and gets an ice pack from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. As he walks toward me, I consider closing my eyes and pretending to be asleep,but then our eyes meet and it's too late. "Your hands," I croak. "My hands are none of your concern," he replies. He rests his knee on the mattress and leans over me,slipping the ice pack under my head. Before he pulls away,I reach out to touch the cut on the side of his lip but stop when I realize what I am about to do, my hand hovering. What do you have to lose? I ask myself. I touch my fingertips lightly to his mouth. "Tris," he says, speaking against my fingers. "I'm all right." "Why were you there?" I ask, letting my hand drop. "I was coming back from the control room. I heard a scream." "What did you do to them?" I say. "I deposited Drew at the infirmary a half hour ago," he says. "Peter and Al ran. Drew claimed they were just trying to scare you.At least,I think that's what he was trying to say." "He's in bad shape?" "He'll live," he replies. He adds bitterly, "In what condition, I can't say." It isn't right to wish pain on other people just because they hurt me first. But white-hot triumph races through me at the thought of Drew at the infirmary, and I squeeze Four's arm. "Good," I say.My voice sounds tight and fierce.Anger builds inside me, replacing my blood with bitter water and filling me, consuming me.I wantt o break something,or hit something, but I am afraid to move,so I start crying instead. Four crouches by the side of the bed, and watches me. I see no sympathy in his eyes.I would have been disappointed if I had. He pulls his wrist free and, to my surprise, rests his hand on the side of my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone.His fingers are careful. "I could report this," he says. "No," I reply. "I don't want them to think I'm scared." He nods.He moves his thumb absently over my cheekbone, back and forth. "I figured you would say that." "You think it would be a bad idea if I sat up?" "I'll help you." Four grips my shoulder with one hand and holds my head steady with the other as I push myself up.Pain rushes through my body in sharp bursts,but I try to ignore it,stifling a groan. He hands me the ice pack. "You can let yourself be in pain," he says. "It's just me here.

sat up high, oak branch ’tween my knees, and watched the tattooed man stride about in the snow. Pictures all over his face, no skin left no more, just ink and blood. Looking for me, he was. Always looking for me. He left red drops in the white, fallen from his fish knife.

She tasted the day he lost his first job. She tasted the morning he had awakened, still drunk, in his car, in the middle of a cornfield, and, terrified, had sworn off the bottle for ever. She knee his real name. She remembered the name that had once been tattooed on his arm and knew why it could be there no longer. She tasted the color of his eyes from the inside, and shivered at the nightmare he had in which he was forced to carry spiny fish in his mouth, and from which he woke, choking, night after night. She savored the hungers in food and fiction, and discovered a dark sky when he was a small boy and he had stared up at the stars and wondered at their vastness and immensity, that even he had forgotten.

Salander was dressed for the day in a black T-shirt with a picture on it of E.T. with fangs, and the words I AM ALSO AN ALIEN. She had on a black skirt that was frayed at the hem, a worn-out black, mid-length leather jacket, rivet belt, heavy Doc Marten boots, and horizontally striped, green-and-red knee socks. She had put on make-up in a colour scheme that indicated she might be colourblind. In other words, she was exceptionally decked out.

You're going to get a present from me so you'll always remember our agreement." She gave him a crooked smile and climbed on to the bed and knelt between his legs. Bjurman had no idea what she intended to do, but he felt a sudden terror. Then he saw the needle in her hand. He flopped his head back and forth and tried to twist his body away until she put a knee on his crotch and pressed down in warning. "Lie rather still because this is the first time I've used this equipment.

I used to read in books how our fathers persecuted mankind. But I never appreciated it. I did not really appreciate the infamies that have been committed in the name of religion, until I saw the iron arguments that Christians used. I saw the Thumbscrew—two little pieces of iron, armed on the inner surfaces with protuberances, to prevent their slipping; through each end a screw uniting the two pieces. And when some man denied the efficacy of baptism, or may be said, 'I do not believe that a fish ever swallowed a man to keep him from drowning,' then they put his thumb between these pieces of iron and in the name of love and universal forgiveness, began to screw these pieces together. When this was done most men said, 'I will recant.' Probably I should have done the same. Probably I would have said: 'Stop; I will admit anything that you wish; I will admit that there is one god or a million, one hell or a billion; suit yourselves; but stop.' But there was now and then a man who would not swerve the breadth of a hair. There was now and then some sublime heart, willing to die for an intellectual conviction. Had it not been for such men, we would be savages to-night. Had it not been for a few brave, heroic souls in every age, we would have been cannibals, with pictures of wild beasts tattooed upon our flesh, dancing around some dried snake fetich. Let us thank every good and noble man who stood so grandly, so proudly, in spite of opposition, of hatred and death, for what he believed to be the truth. Heroism did not excite the respect of our fathers. The man who would not recant was not forgiven. They screwed the thumbscrews down to the last pang, and then threw their victim into some dungeon, where, in the throbbing silence and darkness, he might suffer the agonies of the fabled damned. This was done in the name of love—in the name of mercy, in the name of Christ. I saw, too, what they called the Collar of Torture. Imagine a circle of iron, and on the inside a hundred points almost as sharp as needles. This argument was fastened about the throat of the sufferer. Then he could not walk, nor sit down, nor stir without the neck being punctured, by these points. In a little while the throat would begin to swell, and suffocation would end the agonies of that man. This man, it may be, had committed the crime of saying, with tears upon his cheeks, 'I do not believe that God, the father of us all, will damn to eternal perdition any of the children of men.' I saw another instrument, called the Scavenger's Daughter. Think of a pair of shears with handles, not only where they now are, but at the points as well, and just above the pivot that unites the blades, a circle of iron. In the upper handles the hands would be placed; in the lower, the feet; and through the iron ring, at the centre, the head of the victim would be forced. In this condition, he would be thrown prone upon the earth, and the strain upon the muscles produced such agony that insanity would in pity end his pain. I saw the Rack. This was a box like the bed of a wagon, with a windlass at each end, with levers, and ratchets to prevent slipping; over each windlass went chains; some were fastened to the ankles of the sufferer; others to his wrists. And then priests, clergymen, divines, saints, began turning these windlasses, and kept turning, until the ankles, the knees, the hips, the shoulders, the elbows, the wrists of the victim were all dislocated, and the sufferer was wet with the sweat of agony. And they had standing by a physician to feel his pulse. What for? To save his life? Yes. In mercy? No; simply that they might rack him once again. This was done, remember, in the name of civilization; in the name of law and order; in the name of mercy; in the name of religion; in the name of Christ.

We find Lorenzo in the lounge, a notebook open on his knees while he writes, his tattooed hand moving across the page.

But before that there’d been summer days in the barn while he rebuilt the Mustang. There’d been John Prine on the radio, the sweet smell of hay baking in the heat, and afternoons filled with her lazy, pointless questions—a never-ending interrogation that was, at turns, tiresome, amusing, and erotic. There’d been her body, tattooed and icy white, with the bony knees and skinny thighs of a long-distance runner. There’d been her breath on his neck.

Again,” Azriel reminded them, “her knees have healed.” Bryce glanced at the thick scarring over his fingers. What—who—had done such a brutal thing to him? And though she knew it was dumb to open up, to show any vulnerability, she said quietly, “The male who fathered me … he used to burn my brother to punish him. The scars never healed for him, either.” Ruhn had just tattooed over them. A fact she’d only learned right before she’d come here, and knowing about the pain he’d suffered—

Maybe I didn’t make myself clear when I tattooed your name across my fucking throat. This”—I tap the letters—“is so everyone knows who I belong to.” I’ve never given someone this sort of claim over me, and it feels fantastic. “And inking the last words of my vow to you above my fucking dick.” I reach down and cup my hand over the front of my pants. “That’s all for you, Angel. So when you’re ready to wrap those lips around my cock and take me into your throat, you’ll be eye level with my promise to you. Even on your knees, I’ll still be yours.

He surveyed what remained of his crew. Rotty still hovered by the wreckage of the longboat. Jesper sat with elbows on knees, head in hands, Wylan beside him wearing the face of a near-stranger; Matthias stood gazing across the water in the direction of Hellgate like a stone sentinel. If Kaz was their leader, then Inej had been their lodestone, pulling them together when they seemed most likely to drift apart. Nina had disguised Kaz’s crow-and-cup tattoo before they’d entered the Ice Court, but he hadn’t let her near the R on his bicep. Now he touched his gloved fingers to where the sleeve of his coat covered that mark. Without meaning to, he’d let Kaz Rietveld return. He didn’t know if it had begun with Inej’s injury or that hideous ride in the prison wagon, but somehow he’d let it happen and it had cost him dearly. That didn’t mean he was going to let himself be bested by some thieving merch. Kaz looked south toward Ketterdam’s harbors. The beginnings of an idea scratched at the back of his skull, an itch, the barest inkling. It wasn’t a plan, but it might be the start of one. He could see the shape it would take—impossible, absurd, and requiring a serious chunk of cash. “Scheming face,” murmured Jesper. “Definitely,” agreed Wylan. Matthias folded his arms. “Digging in your bag of tricks, demjin?” Kaz flexed his fingers in his gloves. How did you survive the Barrel? When they took everything from you, you found a way to make something from nothing. “I’m going to invent a new trick,” Kaz said. “One Van Eck will never forget.” He turned to the others. If he could have gone after Inej alone, he would have, but not even he could pull that off. “I’ll need the right crew.” Wylan got to his feet. “For the Wraith.” Jesper followed, still not meeting Kaz’s eyes. “For Inej,” he said quietly. Matthias gave a single sharp nod. Inej had wanted Kaz to become someone else, a better person, a gentler thief. But that boy had no place here. That boy ended up starving in an alley. He ended up dead. That boy couldn’t get her back. I’m going to get my money, Kaz vowed. And I’m going to get my girl. Inej could never be his, not really, but he would find a way to give her the freedom he’d promised her so long ago. Dirtyhands had come to see the rough work done.

The first prick stung—holy gods, with the salt and iron, it hurt. She clamped her teeth together, mastered it, welcomed it. That was what the salt was for with this manner of tattoo, Rowan had told her. To remind the bearer of the loss. Good—good, was all she could think as the pain spiderwebbed through her back. Good. And when Rowan made the next mark, she opened her mouth and began her prayers. They were prayers she should have said ten years ago: an even-keeled torrent of words in the Old Language, telling the gods of her parents’ death, her uncle’s death, Marion’s death—four lives wiped out in those two days. With each sting of Rowan’s needle, she beseeched the faceless immortals to take the souls of her loved ones into their paradise and keep them safe. She told them of their worth—told them of the good deeds and loving words and brave acts they’d performed. Never pausing for more than a breath, she chanted the prayers she owed them as daughter and friend and heir. For the hours Rowan worked, his movements falling into the rhythm of her words, she chanted and sang. He did not speak, his mallet and needles the drum to her chanting, weaving their work together. He did not disgrace her by offering water when her voice turned hoarse, her throat so ravaged she had to whisper. In Terrasen she would sing from sunrise to sunset, on her knees in gravel without food or drink or rest. Here she would sing until the markings were done, the agony in her back her offering to the gods. When it was done her back was raw and throbbing, and it took her a few attempts to rise from the table. Rowan followed her into the nearby night-dark field, kneeling with her in the grass as she tilted her face up to the moon and sang the final song, the sacred song of her household, the Fae lament she’d owed them for ten years. Rowan did not utter a word while she sang, her voice broken and raw. He remained in the field with her until dawn, as permanent as the markings on her back. Three lines of text scrolled over her three largest scars, the story of her love and loss now written on her: one line for her parents and uncle; one line for Lady Marion; and one line for her court and her people. On the smaller, shorter scars, were the stories of Nehemia and of Sam. Her beloved dead. No longer would they be locked away in her heart. No longer would she be ashamed.

Then Rhys fell to his knees and took Nesta’s hands in his, pressing his mouth to her fingers. “Thank you,” he wept, head bowed. Cassian knew it wasn’t in gratitude for Rhys’s own life that he knelt upon the sacred tattoos inked upon his knees. Nesta dropped to the carpet. Lifted Rhys’s face in her hands, studied what lay in it. Then she threw her arms around the High Lord of the Night Court and held him tightly.

He reaches across me for a BLT and the sleeve on his suit rides up slightly. Holy sweet baby Jesus! He has tattoos around his wrist. Not a tattoo - singular, on his wrist, no. His wrist is wrapped in tattoos down to his cuff, leaving me in no doubt he is hiding a full sleeve up there. My knees actually wobble. Bloody hell, this guy is something right out of my inappropriate dreams. I need to move away now or I’ll embarrass myself...again.

To the man standing on the corner holding the sign that said “God hates gays.” I’ve never seen, exactly who it is that you paperclip your knees, meld your hands together and pray to But I think I know what he looks like: I bet your God is about 5’10”. I bet he weighs 185. Probably stands the way a high school diploma does when it’s next to a GED. I bet your god has a mullet. I bet he wears flannel shirts with no sleeves, a fanny pack and says words like “getrdun.” I bet your god—I bet your god—I bet your god watches FOX news, Dog the Bounty Hunter, voted for John McCain, and loves Bill O’Reilly. I bet your god lives in Arizona. I bet his high school served racism in the cafeteria and offered “hate speech” as a second language. I bet he has a swastika inside of his throat, and racial slurs tattooed to his tongue just to make intolerance more comfortable in his mouth. I bet he has a burning cross as a middle finger and Jim Crow underneath his nails. Your god is a confederate flags wet dream conceived on a day when the sky decided to slice her own wrists, I bet your god has a drinking problem. I bet he sees the bottom of the shot glass more often than his own children. I bet he pours whiskey on his dreams until they taste like good ideas, Probably cusses like an electric guitar with Tourette’s plugged into an ocean. I bet he yells like a schizophrenic nail gun, damaging all things that care about him enough to get close. I bet there are angels in Heaven with black eyes and broken halos who claimed they fell down the stairs. I bet your god would’ve made Eve without a mouth and taught her how to spread her legs like a magazine that she will never ever ever be pretty enough to be in. Sooner or later you will realize that you are praying to your own shadow, that you are standing in front of mirrors and are worshipping your own reflection. Your God stole my god’s identity and I bet he’s buying pieces of heaven on eBay. So next time you bend your knees, next time you bow your head I want you to tell your god— that my god is looking for him.

Harper walked over to her reception desk. “What’s with the Tyson look-alikes out there? I almost couldn’t get in here.” Pixie frowned. “Better go ask your boy-o. Famous rock star in the house.” Pixie accentuated her comment with the poke of her pen. Jeez, he was huge. And built. And shirtless. Okay, enough staring. Well, maybe just for another second. Trent was leaning over the guy, and she could tell from the wide-reaching spread of purple transfer lines that he was just beginning a sleeve on the other man’s lower arm. The guy in the chair might well be a rock star— although Harper would never admit she had no clue who he was— but he was wincing. Harper could totally feel for him. Trent was in his usual position— hat on backward, gloves on, and perched on a stool. Harper approached them nervously. The big guy’s size and presence were a little intimidating. “I don’t bite.” Oh God. He was talking to her. “Excuse me?” He sucked air in between clenched teeth. “I said I don’t bite. You can come closer.” His blue eyes were sparkling as he studied her closely. Trent looked up. “Hey, darlin’,” he said, putting the tattoo machine down and reaching for her hand. “Dred, this is my girl, Harper. Harper, this is Dred Zander from the band Preload. He’s one of the other judges I told you about.” Wow. Not that she knew much about the kind of music that Trent listened to, but even she had heard of Preload. That certainly explained the security outside. Dred reached out his hand and shook hers. “Nice to meet you, Harper. And a pity. For a minute, I thought you were coming over to see me.” “No,” Harper exclaimed quickly, looking over at Trent, who was grinning at her. “I mean, no, I was just bringing Trent some cookies.” Holy shit. Was she really that lame? It was like that moment in Dirty Dancing when Baby told Johnny she carried a watermelon. Dred turned and smiled enigmatically at Trent. “I see what you mean, man.” “Give.” Smiling, Trent held out his hand. Reaching inside her bag, she pulled out the cookies and handed the container to him. “Seriously, dude, she’s the best fucking cook on the planet.” Trent paused to take a giant bite. “You got to try one,” he mumbled, offering the container over. Harper watched, mortified, as a modern-day rock legend bit into one of her cookies. Dred chewed and groaned. “These are almost as good as sex.” Harper laughed. “Not quite,” Trent responded, giving her a look that made her burn. “You should try her pot roast. Could bring a grown man to his knees.

Just last week I was telling a dear friend how I'd rather not exist in a world where toxic thrives. There are so much enmity plaguing this creed, how we hurt others because we think our idea of faith is supreme, how our interpretation of knowledge is above theirs, how every little whisper we turn into a howl. We forget that only He knows. Our existence are but mysteries; who are we to scar, to burn, to leave marks, to solve this enigma for others, to play God. The Friday prayer sermon just this afternoon, spoke to me in such illuminating affirmations. Knowledge, especially in faith, is akin to Light. Light binds, not divides. We seek light not out of fear of the darkness but at a promise to gain clarity. This is our intimate journey, how we move towards that Light is ours to make. Like a blind man, like moths at night, a child yearning, just do not stand in their paths, my friend. Your forehead kisses the same Earth like they do, your knees bend the same curve, and each night, your spine collapses just the same. Do not be the lips that question an arm sleeved with tattoos or hair uncovered by cloth or sins not yours, instead be lips that observes silence, kindness and always, prayers for all. I hope your heart does not make space for words like "Kafir", "infidel", "shirk" and instead be a room with gardens and an ocean of calmness. Even our Beloved won't be a judge for another being; Let God You seek knowledge not to draw boundaries between yourself and others, you seek for this overwhelming gravity of unknowing needs you to always be finding ways to be closer to Him. You seek knowledge to know Him not to make known to others. You have every right to continue seeking, to have your palms heavenwards every night begging to be illuminated. This is your deeper conversation, go on, just you and God.

I opened the door with a smile on my face that soon melted when I saw his messy appearance. The doorframe held him up as he leaned all of his weight against it. Expressionless, bloodshot eyes stared back at me as he lifted his hand and ran it roughly down his unshaved face. His hair was disheveled and there was blood on the front of his shirt. Panic rose up as I took him in. I rushed to him and ran my fingers down his body, as I checked for injuries. “You’re bleeding! Oh my God, Devin! What happened? Are you OK?” “It’s not my blood,” he slurred. I took a better look at his gorgeous face. His unfocused eyes attempted to meet mine and it was then that the smell of liquor reached me. “You’re drunk?” “Abso-fucking-lutely.” He attempted to move toward me and almost fell over. I wrapped my arms around him and helped him into my apartment. Once we made it to the couch I let him collapse onto the cushion before I went straight to work on his clothes. I removed his blood-stained shirt first and threw it to the side. Quickly checked him over again just to be sure that he wasn’t injured somewhere. His skin felt cold and clammy against my fingertips. His knuckles were busted open, so I went to the bathroom and got a wet towel and the first aid kit. I cleaned his fingers then wrapped them up. I felt fingers in my hair and looked up to see a very drunk Devin staring back at me. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered as his heavy head fell against the back of my couch again. Shaking my head, I dropped onto my knees on the floor and removed his boots. Once I was done getting Devin out of his shoes, I went to the hallway closet and pulled out a blanket for him. When I got back to the couch, he was standing there looking back at me in all his tattooed, muscled glory. He was still leaning a bit to the side when his eyes locked on mine. “Come here,” he rasped. He looked as if he was about to crumble and I couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or if something was really breaking him down. “Are you OK, baby?” I asked. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I love it when you call me baby.” I went to him and he groaned as I softly ran my hands up his chest and put my arms around his neck. On my tiptoes, I softly kissed the line of his neck and his chin. “Tell me what happened, Devin.” When he finally opened his eyes, he looked at me differently. The calm and collected Devin was gone and an anxiety-ridden shell of a man stood before me. His shoulders felt tense beneath my fingers and his eyes held a crazed demeanor. “I need you, Lilly.” He captured my face softly in his hands as he slurred the words. “Please tell me what happened?” “Make it go away, baby,” he whispered as he leaned in and started to kiss me. I let him as I melted against his body. He collapsed against the couch once more, but this time he took me with him. Not once did he break our kiss, and soon, I felt his velvet tongue against mine. I kissed him back and let my fingers play in the hair at the back of his neck. He broke the kiss and started down the side of my neck. “I need you, Lilly,” he repeated against my skin. “I’m here.” I bit at my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning. “Please, just make it all go away,” he drunkenly begged. “I don’t know what’s going on, but tell me what to do to make it better. I want to make it better, Devin.” I stopped him and stared into his eyes as I waited for his response. “Don’t leave me,” he said desperately. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it better.” I wanted to cry. He looked so hurt and afraid. It was strange to see such a strong, confident man so lost and unsure. He flipped me onto my back on the couch and crawled on top of me. His movements were less calculated—slower than usual. “I want you. I need to be inside you,” he said aggressively.

Not a comforting thought, but Bryce nonetheless popped the silver bean into her mouth, worked up enough saliva, and swallowed. Its metal was cool against her tongue, her throat, and she could have sworn she felt its slickness sliding into her stomach. Lightning cleaved her brain. She was being ripped in two. Her body couldn’t hold all the searing light— Then blackness slammed in. Quiet and restful and eternal. No—that was the room around her. She was on the floor, curled over her knees, and … glowing. Brightly enough to illuminate Rhysand’s and Amren’s shocked faces. Azriel was already poised over her, that deadly dagger drawn and gleaming with a strange black light. He noted the darkness leaking from the blade and blinked. It was the most shock Bryce had seen him display. “Put it away, you fool,” Amren said. “It sings for her, and by bringing it close—” The blade vanished from Azriel’s hand, whisked away by a shadow. Silence, taut and rippling, spread through the room. Bryce stood slowly—as Randall and her mom had taught her to move in front of Vanir and other predators. And as she rose, she found it in her brain: the knowledge of a language that she had not known before. It sat on her tongue, ready to be spoken, as instinctual as her own. It shimmered along her skin, stinging down her spine, her shoulder blades—wait. Oh no. No, no, no. Bryce didn’t dare reach for the tattoo of the Horn, to call attention to the letters that formed the words Through love, all is possible. She could feel them reacting to whatever had been in that spell that set her glowing and could only pray it wasn’t visible. Her prayers were in vain. Amren turned to Rhysand and said in that new, strange language—their language: “The glowing letters inked on her back … they’re the same as those in the Book of Breathings.” They must have seen the words through her T-shirt when she’d been on the floor. With every breath, the tingling lessened, like the glow was fading. But the damage was already done. They once again assessed her. Three apex killers, contemplating a threat. Then Azriel said in a soft, lethal voice, “Explain or you die.

It’s just a kiss,” she says softly. “Why are you all torn up about a kiss?” She’s studying me way too closely. “I’m not torn up,” I protest. “You’ve been moping ever since I told you about the fundraiser, Sean,” she says. “What’s your problem? It’s for charity, for God’s sake.” She lays her free hand on her chest. “My kiss is going to feed victims of domestic violence. I’m doing my part for a better community.” I look down at her mouth. God, I could just slide my fingers into her hair, pull her to me, and kiss her right here and now. But I won’t. Because she doesn’t want me. “I can’t believe you’re going kiss some stranger,” I bite out. “Don’t do it.” “I’ve kissed men before, Sean,” she reminds me. I wish she would keep that shit to herself. “What if it’s some big, goofy guy with really bad breath?” I ask. “What if it’s some big, brawny guy who smells like you and kisses like a god?” she asks. She smiles, the corners of her lips tilting up so prettily. Her fingertips touch my forearm lightly, and she traces the tattoos that decorate my arm from wrist to shoulder. Every hair on my body stands up, and I lift my hand from her knee and thread my fingers with hers so she’ll stop. “If I’m lucky, he’ll be all tatted up, too.” She looks off into the distance, her gaze no longer on me. “Honey, if you want to kiss someone who looks like me and smells like me, I think I can accommodate you so you don’t have to kiss some stranger.” Her eyes shift back to meet mine, and she may as well have just punched me in the gut. She looks into my eyes and stares as if she’s looking into my soul. She can look into it anytime. Shit, I’d give it to her, if she wanted it. But it’s not me she wants. She’s made that abundantly clear. “If I ever kissed you, I would never be able to stop,” I say quietly. My voice sounds like it’s been dragged down a gravel road and back, and I fucking hate that she can affect me this way. “Prove it,” she says, and then she licks her cherry-red lips. She doesn’t break eye contact. I move quickly. This is the first time she’s ever made an offer like this, and my gut tells me that she’s going to take it back. I cup her neck with my palm and pull her toward me. My gentle tug brings her flush against my chest, and the weight of her settles against me and feels so right. Her lips are so close to mine that her inhale is my exhale. My hand quivers as it holds her nape, so I work my fingers into the hair at the back of her head. I hold her still and look into her green eyes. “Tell me you want me to kiss you and you got me, honey,” I whisper. She shivers and inches up my chest ever so slightly, her mouth moving closer to mine. So close. Just a little closer. I can almost taste her. “I want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “Please.” Suddenly, the door opens, and Lacey jumps up, separating us in one final, powerful leap. Fuck. I pull the pillow from behind my head and shove it in my lap, sitting up on the side of the bed. Friday,

The boy's smile was a mockery of innocence. 'Are you frightened?' 'Yes,' I said. Never lie- that had been Rhys's first command. The boy stood, but kept to the other side of the cell. 'Feyre,' he murmured, cocking his head. The orb of faelight glazed the inky hair in silver. 'Fay-ruh,' he said again, drawing out the syllables as if he could taste them. At last, he straightened his head. ''Where did you go when you died?' 'A question for a question,' I replied, as I'd been instructed over breakfast. ... Rhys gave me a subtle nod, but his eyes were wary. Because what the boy had asked... I had to calm my breathing to think- to remember. But there was blood and death and pain and screaming- and she was breaking me, killing me so slowly, and Rhys was there, roaring in fury as I died. Tamlin begging for my life on his knees before her throne... But there was so much agony, and I wanted it to be over, wanted it all to stop- Rhys had gone rigid while he monitored the Bone Carver, as if those memories were freely flowing past the mental shields I'd made sure were intact this morning. And I wondered if he thought I'd give up then and there. I bunched my hands into fists. I had lived; I had gotten out. I would get out today. 'I heard the crack,' I said. Rhys's head whipped toward me. 'I heard the crack when she broke my neck. It was in my ears, but also inside my skull. I was gone before I felt anything more than the first lash of pain.' The Bone Carver's violet eyes seemed to glow brighter. 'And then it was dark. A different sort of dark than this place. But there was a... thread,' I said. 'A tether. And I yanked on it- and suddenly I could see. Not through my eyes, but- but his,' I said, inclining my head toward Rhys. I uncurled the finger of my tattooed hand. 'And I knew I was dead, and this tiny scrap was all that was left of me, clinging to the thread of our bargain.' 'But was there anyone there- were you seeing anything beyond?' 'There was only that bond in the darkness.' Rhysand's face had gone pale, his mouth a tight line. 'And when I was Made anew,' I said, 'I followed that bond back- to me. I knew that home was on the other end of it. There was light then. Like swimming up through sparkling wine-' 'Were you afraid?' 'All I wanted was to return to- to the people around me. I wanted it badly enough I didn't have room for fear. The worst had happened and the darkness was calm and quiet. It did not seem like a bad thing to fade into. But I wanted to go home. So I followed the bond home.' 'There was no other world,' the Bone Carver pushed. 'If there was or is, I did not see it.' 'No light, no portal?' Where is it that you want to go? The question almost leaped off my tongue. 'It was only peace and darkness.' 'Did you have a body?' 'No.' 'Did-' 'That's enough from you,' Rhysand purred- the sound like velvet over sharpest steel. 'You said a question for a question. Now you've asked...' He did a tally on his fingers. 'Six.' The Bone Carver leaned back against the wall and slid to a sitting position. 'It is a rare day when I meet someone who comes back from true death. Forgive me for wanting to peer behind the curtain.

A folded triangle of paper landed in the center of his notebook. Normally he’d unfold it discreetly, but Beamis was so clueless that the note could have hit him in the head and he wouldn’t notice. Loopy script in purple pen. The paper smelled like her. What’s your #? Wow. Hunter clicked his pen and wrote below her words. I have a theory about girls who ask for your number before asking for your name. Then he folded it up and flicked it back. It took every ounce of self-control to not watch her unfold it. The paper landed back on his desk in record time. I have a theory about boys who prefer writing to texting. He put his pen against the paper. I have a theory about girls with theories. Then he waited, not looking, fighting the small smile that wanted to play on his lips. The paper didn’t reappear. After a minute, he sighed and went back to his French essay. When the folded triangle smacked him in the temple, he jumped a mile. His chair scraped the floor, and Beamis paused in his lecture, turning from the board. “Is there a problem?” “No.” Hunter coughed, covering the note with his hand. “Sorry.” When the coast was clear, he unfolded the triangle. It was a new piece of paper. My name is Kate. Kate. Hunter almost said the name out loud. What was wrong with him? It fit her perfectly, though. Short and blunt and somehow indescribably hot. Another piece of paper landed on his notebook, a small strip rolled up tiny. This time, there was only a phone number. Hunter felt like someone had punched him in the stomach and he couldn’t remember how to breathe. Then he pulled out his cell phone and typed under the desk. Come here often? Her response appeared almost immediately. First timer. Beamis was facing the classroom now, so Hunter kept his gaze up until it was safe. When he looked back, Kate had written again. I bet I could strip na**d and this guy wouldn’t even notice. Hunter’s pulse jumped. But this was easier, looking at the phone instead of into her eyes. I would notice. There was a long pause, during which he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. Then a new text appeared. I have a theory about boys who picture you na**d before sharing their name. He smiled. My name is Hunter. Where you from? This time, her response appeared immediately. Just transferred from St. Mary’s in Annapolis. Now he was imagining her in a little plaid skirt and knee-high socks. Another text appeared. Stop imagining me in the outfit. He grinned. How did you know? You’re a boy. I’m still waiting to hear your theory on piercings. Right. IMO, you have to be crazy hot to pull off either piercings or tattoos. Otherwise you’re just enhancing the ugly. Hunter stared at the phone, wondering if she was hitting on him—or insulting him. Before he could figure it out, another message appeared. What does the tattoo on your arm say? He slid his fingers across the keys. It says “ask me about this tattoo.” Liar. Mission accomplished, I’d say. He heard a small sound from her direction and peeked over. She was still staring at her phone, but she had a smile on her face, like she was trying to stifle a giggle. Mission accomplished, he’d say.

Then with a single movement he slipped off the 'moocha' or girdle round his middle, and stood naked before us. 'Look,' he said, 'what is this?' and he pointedto the mark of a great snake tattooed in blue round his middle, its tail disappearing in its open mouth just above where the thighs are set into the body. Infadoos looked, his eyes starting nearly out of his head, and then fell upon his knees.

Why would you want to leave?’ ‘I’ve just made up my mind. It’s the best thing to do. Lots of people move to London.’ ‘Lots of people living in London wish they could move to Cornwall.’ Tears were now rolling down Millie’s cheeks. Silently, they dripped on to the starched cotton sheets pulled up over her knees. When she was confident she could sound normal - and not as if she was blubbing like a big baby - she said, ‘I just think I need a change. Nothing wrong with that. Oh, and there’s something else I’ve decided.’ There was a long pause. ‘What?’ ‘The next time we bump into each other, I’m going to show you something. My tattoo.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because it doesn’t matter any more. I’ll be moving away, won’t I?’ Draining the last dregs from the bottle into her tooth mug, Millie wiped her

He wore a black tank, which showed off his slender tattooed arms and a pair of skintight leather pants with boots that buckled up to his knees. His shaggy black hair nearly fell over his eyes, but I could see he had a nose ring and tiny silver hoops lining at least one ear. He held an unlit cigarette between full lips. Fuck.

You know, the kind of person who gets this tattoo is probably the kind that should keep it very quiet,” she says, looking at me from the corner of her eye. “Or else someone will start thinking they’re Divergent.” “Divergent?” “That’s a word we have for people who are aware during simulations, who refuse categorization,” she says. “A word you don’t speak without care, because those people often die in mysterious circumstances.” She has her elbows resting on her knees, casual, as she sketches the tattoo I want on transfer paper. Our eyes meet, and I realize: Amar. Amar was aware during simulations, and now he’s dead. Amar was Divergent. And so am I. “Thanks for the vocabulary lesson,” I say. “No problem.” She returns to her drawing. “I’m getting the feeling you enjoy putting yourself through the wringer.” “So?” I say. “Nothing, it’s just a pretty Dauntless quality for someone who got an Abnegation result.

The healers drained our old blood in the arms or back of the knee. They tattooed ancient symbols on our bodies, especially children. Tattoos protect our spirits.

Brasse saw Karol’s back on the table. It was held down by weights at the edges and seemed in good condition. His knees began to tremble. He tried to say something, but his voice caught in his throat. He could only speak after several attempts. “Who did this?” His friend didn’t reply. He lowered his eyes in silence. The photographer, in shock, thought about what it must have been like to have to skin a man. He leaned over and vomited on the ground. Morawa held him up and pulled him away, out of the crematorium. “Was it Entress who told you to cut the tattoo off this man?” Brasse pressed. “Yes. He came in person.” “What did he say to you?” Morawa looked him straight in the eyes. “He told me to treat the skin carefully and preserve it well, because it’s going to be used as the binding for a book. He said that. And he repeated it. Do you understand? A man died because a mad doctor wants to bind a book.

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

Rhys had already been gone by breakfast, though one of his notes had been on a bedside table. Thank you- for last night, was it had said. No pen to write a response. But I'd hunted down one anyway, and had written back, What do the tattooed stars and mountain on your knees mean? The paper had vanished a heartbeat later. When it hadn't returned, I'd dressed and gone to breakfast. I was halfway through my eggs and toast when the paper appeared beside my plate, neatly folded. That I will bow before no one and nothing but my crown. This time, a pen had appeared. I'd merely written back, So dramatic. And through our bond, on the other side of my mental shields, I could have sworn I heard his laugh.

Begging is a good start.” Crew plants his tattooed hands on the arms of the chair and grips it tightly. “But it’s better done on your knees.” My eyes narrow, fighting every instinct inside that urges me to flip him off for talking to me like that. But I asked for this. I want this. It’s why I showed up here instead of anywhere else. “What do you want me to do? Pray to you, my lord?” Sarcasm drips from my tone, while the words make me shiver at the thought. Crew’s sick smile hitches. “I don’t want your prayers, Echo. I’m no faux saint like my brother. I want your sins. I want to watch you burn for me. You want this? Then get on your knees, princess, and crawl.

Darkness casts shadows on his features, sculpting a vicious, tattooed god my body wants to bow down to. So I do. I drop to my knees to prove to him I’m here for a reason.

Finishing her cigarette, Raven put it out in the ashtray then sighed. “I never really bought into the God thing. Religion felt like a lie men told to make people listen to them. Mostly, it seemed dumb to think a magic man in the sky cared about us. Like if I was a magic man and could make the earth or whatever, I wouldn’t waste time on helping out losers.” Raven set the ashtray on the ground and crossed her arms as if cold. “I see what Lark has now with you, this house, the ugly dogs, her friends, and now the baby. It makes me think God might exist. While losers run in our family, Lark could be more if she let herself. Now she has more and I think God might have helped her out. I prayed someone would. Even not believing, I prayed and told God if He was real and wanted me to believe that He needed to help Lark. I guess He heard me because she’s happy like I’ve never seen her happy before. Not even when Phoenix was alive and we were the best we ever were as a family.” “I’m glad you’re here and you’re welcome to stay as long as you want, but, Raven, my dogs aren’t ugly.” She laughed and tapped her foot against mine. “You’re a good guy. I know I said that before, but I didn’t think you would be. I’ve been around and good guys are rare.” “They exist though.” Raven nodded. “I need to quit men the way I need to quit smoking. Just go cold turkey. If I try to be rational about it, I’ll fool myself into falling for another creep. No, just say enough is enough all that shit. Focus on other stuff like a job and roller derby and family.” “If you ever get sick of living here, the Johanssons have an apartment that Cooper used to live in.” “There are plenty of apartments in Ellsberg.” “Yeah, but if you want to avoid loser men, those apartments won’t help. They’re full of assholes. College shitheads and lowlife fuckers. If you stay out there with the Johanssons, no man will bother you. You might even like Bailey. She’s an acquired taste, but a good friend if you can deal with her mouth.” “Bossy bitches are my favorite,” Raven said, pulling her knees up to her chest. “No hurry moving out though. Lark is feeling unsure about stuff and having you here makes her feel more centered. Like she’s combining her old life with her new one and it fits.” “I just have one question, bud,” Raven said, standing up and ready to leave the cold evening. “Are you planning to fix her damn worm?” “I don’t normally tattoo pregnant women.” “You really going to have your kid born to a chick with a worm tattoo?” Smiling at Raven, I nodded. “I don’t want to do anything to jinx the pregnancy. Since we’ve been together, Lark was hurt by Larry, got into a fight with my ex, and had to hide under the table during a bar brawl. I want the rest of her pregnancy to be as pain free as possible.” “Sissy,” she said, grinning. “I’m really glad you aren’t an asshole. It was a pleasant surprise.” “Glad you approve, but don’t mock my dogs again and stop barking at Pollack.” “Fuck off,” she said over her shoulder while walking inside.

What are you looking to do?” Aaron asked as we walked into his workroom. “Nothing too complicated,” I said, displaying my wrist. “I want Bailey’s name on my wrist.” Aaron exhaled slowly. “Are you sure? The Johanssons don’t play when it comes having their women’s names on their wrists. It’s forever shit for them. That’s how I knew Cooper wasn’t fucking around with Farah.” “Bailey’s mine, but I can’t find a way to make her truly believe. When I try, it feels like just words. I know her name on my wrist is a word too, but maybe it’s one that she’ll know means forever.” “Fair enough. Just know once the Johansson boys see her name on your wrist, it’s like you’ve gotten on one knee and proposed. Trust me that Bailey and Jodi will be talking wedding dates behind your back. If you lose interest or cheat or break it off, it’s not going down softly. The shit will hit the fan.” “The only way Bailey gets rid of me is to put me in the ground.

And maybe it was because she'd been raised around a bunch of rowdy bikers, but she always got a little weak in the knees when confronted with badass tattoos inked into tough, tan skin. Put it all together, add a pinch of I-haven't-been-laid-in-way-too-long, and what did you come up with? A big ol'dollop of yeehaw, cowgirl! with a side of 'wanna take-a-ride'?

How are you doing, Harper?" Trent hadn't touched her yet, but he was standing right behind her. She could feel his warm breath on her skin. "A bit light-headed, to be honest." "Put your head down between your knees. It's either the presence of my greatness-which happens all the time, so don't feel bad-or the adrenaline. Take some slow, deep breaths. What you're doing tonight is a huge step." She did as he said. His scuffed black boots disappeared from her line of sight and reappeared a minute later. "Please don't pass out and fall off the bed-my insurance doesn't cover dental." - Trent & Harper

Reaching the brow of a stunted hill, Amelia paused in bewilderment at the sight of a towering contraption made of metal. It appeared to be a chute propped up on legs, tilted at a steep angle. Her attention was caught by a minor commotion farther afield … two men emerging from behind a small wooden shelter … they were shouting and waving their arms at her. Amelia instantly realized she had stumbled into danger, even before she saw the smoldering trail of sparks move, snakelike, along the ground toward the metal chute. A fuse? Although she didn’t know much about explosive devices, she was aware that once a fuse had been lit, nothing could be done to stop it. Dropping to the sun-warmed grass, Amelia covered her head with her arms, having every expectation of being blown to bits. A few heartbeats passed, and she let out a startled cry as she felt a large, heavy body fall on hers … no, not fall, pounce. He covered her completely, his knees digging into the ground on either side of her as he made a shelter of his body. At the same moment, a deafening explosion pierced the air, and there was a violent whoosh over their heads, and a shock went through the ground beneath them. Too stunned to move, Amelia tried to gather her wits. Her ears were filled with a high-pitched buzz. Her companion remained motionless over her, breathing heavily in her hair. The air was sharp with smoke, but even so, Amelia was aware of a pleasant masculine scent, skin-salt and soap and an intimate spice she couldn’t quite identify. The noise in her ears faded. Raising up on her elbows, feeling the solid wall of his chest against her back, she saw shirtsleeves rolled up over forearms cabled with muscle … and there was something else … Her eyes widened at the sight of a small, stylized design inked on his arm. A tattoo of a black winged horse with eyes the color of brimstone. It was an Irish design, of a nightmare horse called a pooka: a malevolent mythical creature that spoke in a human voice and carried people away at midnight. Her heart stopped as she saw the heavy rounded band of a thumb ring. Wriggling beneath him, Amelia tried to turn over. The strong hand curved around her shoulder, helping her. His voice was low and familiar. “Are you hurt? I’m sorry. You were in the way of—” He stopped as Amelia rolled to her back. The front of her hair had come loose, pulled free of a strategically anchored pin. The lock fanned over her face, obscuring her vision. Before she could reach up to push it away, he did it for her, and the brush of his fingertips sent ripples of liquid fire along intimate pathways of her body. “You,” he said softly. Cam Rohan.

This outfit makes me want to get my nose pierced and spend some time at the tattoo parlor,” I said, frowning at the clothing. “Hey, we can make that happen,” Nessa, joked. “That’s very funny, Nessa,” I said as I pulled out the knee high black combat boots and black fishnet stockings to match. “It is better than the plaid cowboy shirt and Wranglers they got me,” Noah said, as he held up the outfit complete with worn leather cowboy boots. “Oh, Nessa, we will pay you back dearly for this,” I said sarcastically.

my knees, and watched the tattooed man stride about in the snow. Pictures all over his face, no skin left no more, just ink and blood. Looking for me,

I sat up high, oak branch ’tween my knees, and watched the tattooed man stride about in the snow. Pictures all over his face, no skin left no more, just ink and blood. Looking for me, he was. Always looking for me. He left red drops in the white, fallen from his fish knife. Not fish blood though. Man blood. Boy blood. Lad from Tucket lost his scalp to that knife. Scrap of hair and pink hung from the man’s belt. That was dripping too, hot and fresh. He’d left the body in the thicket for the wolves to find. I

Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Matt?” I ask. And I really want to know, because it’s unfathomable to me that he’s single. He’s handsome, and he’s so kind. He shakes a finger at me. “There’s a story there,” he says. I settle into the sofa a little deeper and turn so that my feet are pointed toward him, my legs extended. My toes almost touch his thigh. But then he lifts my feet and slides under them, scooting closer to me. “I was in love with a girl. For a long time.” “What happened to her?” I ask. He starts to tickle across my toes, and then his fingertips drag down the top of my foot. It’s a gentle sweep, and it feels so good that I don’t want him to stop. His fingers play absently as he starts to talk. “When I got the diagnosis,” he says, “she couldn’t deal with it.” “Cancer?” I ask. He nods. His fingers drag up and down my shin, and he slides around to stroke the back of my knee. I don’t stop him when his hand slides beneath my skirt, although I do tense up. He smiles when he finds the top of my thigh-highs, and he unclips the little fastener that attaches them to my garters. He repeats the action on the other side, his hands teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as he frees the stocking and rolls it down. He pulls it all the way over my foot, and does the same with the other side. I am suddenly really glad I shaved my legs this morning. I wiggle my toes at him, and he starts to stroke me again. I don’t ever want him to stop. “This okay?” he asks. But he’s not looking at my face. He’s looking at my legs. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Keep talking. You got diagnosed…” “I got diagnosed, and the prognosis wasn’t good. I went through chemo and got a little better. But then I needed a second round. Things didn’t look good, and we were flat broke. I couldn’t work at the tattoo parlor anymore because my immune system was too weak, so I had no money coming in. I was poor and sick, and she didn’t love me enough to walk the path with me.” He shrugs, but I can tell he’s serious. “She cheated with my best friend.” He shrugs again. “And that’s the end of that sad story.” “You still love her?” I ask. I don’t breathe, waiting for his answer. He shakes his head and looks up. “I did love her for a long time. And I haven’t been looking for a relationship. I haven’t dated anyone since her. But I’m not in love with her anymore. I know that now.” “Why now?” I ask. He looks directly into my eyes and says, “Because I met you, and I feel really hopeful that you’ll want to go after something real with me. I know we just met and all, but I was serious about making you fall in love with me.” He laughs. “Then you hit me in the nose tonight, and I knew it was meant to be.” “What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. “When my brother Logan met Emily, she punched him in the face. And when Pete and Reagan first started dating, she hit him in the nose.” He reaches up and touches his nose gently. “So, when you hit me tonight, I just knew it was meant to be.” He grins. “I hope you feel the same way, because I really want to see where this thing is going to go.” “So the women your brothers fell in love with, they committed bodily harm to them and that’s how you guys knew it was real?” “We kind of have a rule. If a woman punches you in the face, you have to marry her.” He laughs. “I didn’t punch you.” “Same difference,” he says. “That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

He tips his glass and drinks. So does Matt. And everyone in the crowd. Except me. “What’s wrong?” Matt asks. “Nothing,” I say. I motion my mother forward, and she puts a box in my hands. It’s small, but it’s weighty at the same time. “I have a present for you.” “I thought our honeymoon was our present to each other,” he reminds me with a scowl. We’re leaving for the Carolina coast for a week with the kids tonight. I can’t wait. I motion for him to take my package. “The vacation is our gift. This is just extra.” I blink back the tears that are already forming in my eyes. He makes a face and opens up the box. He looks inside and then gets confused. He pulls the tiny little item out of the box. It’s a onesie that has tattoo designs all over it, and on the back, it has the name Reed. “What’s this?” he asks, confused. Then his eyes grow wide. Friday gasps when she realizes what’s going on, and the rest of the crowd rumbles and fidgets. “Is this…?” he asks. He stops, because he’s choked with emotion. “Yes,” I say. Tears roll down my face, and I don’t care. I lean close to him. “You knocked me up.” He takes me in his arms and pulls me close, and a sob rolls through him. “Are you serious?” “Completely serious, Matt,” I say. “But wait.” I look down and shake the onesie out. A second one falls out, and Matt catches it in the air. “Two?” he asks. I nod, so broken by his reaction that I can’t speak. “Two tiny little heartbeats,” I say as soon as I can. “Holy fuck,” he breathes into my ear. He squeezes me so tightly that I chirp. “I love you so fucking much,” he says to me. He takes a second to breathe me in and compose himself, then he drops to his knees and lays his forehead on my belly. He says something quietly to his unborn children, and I’m not even sure what it was, but I do know it was between him and them. Or him and God. I’m not sure which. Then he stands and looks up at the crowd. Half of them are as teary-eyed as we are. “Do you know what this means?” he asks our friends and family. They rumble, but he can’t hear one voice over another. He points to Logan. “This means my sperm are better swimmers than yours, little brother!” he says. He signs while he talks, and Logan flips him off. But he’s laughing. He wraps his arms around Emily and lays his hands on the small swell of her belly. I slap his shoulder. “What if it’s my eggs that are amazing and not your sperm?” “What if it’s just us?” he asks quietly, and he kisses me. “Us together.” “I told you I believe in miracles, Matt,” I say when I can finally lift my head. “You’re my miracle,” he says. “You. Just you.

Deerfield, Massachusetts February 29, 1704 Temperature 0 degrees Mercy could not keep up the pace. Gradually the line passed her by, until she was walking with Eben Nims, and she must not fall farther behind than that, because the Indians behind Eben were the end of the line. Daniel held tight and sucked his thumb. But not only did Marah refuse to walk, she kept yelling that her feet were cold, and she wanted Stepmama, and she needed her mittens, and she was hungry. Mercy could walk, though not fast enough, and she could carry, though not easily. But she could not supply food, warmth or Stepmama. Mercy tried to believe that Stepmama was up ahead of her with the baby; that it was so crowded and chaotic Mercy could not spot her. But in her heart, she did not think Stepmama had left the stockade. “The savage put food in my pack, Mercy,” said Eben quietly. “If you slip your hand into the opening near my left shoulder, there’s a loaf of bread on top.” They walked on, considering whether the Indians would tomahawk her for stealing Eben’s own bread. Well, they’d shortly tomahawk Marah for whining, so Mercy might as well get on with it. She set the two children down, and Eben bent his knees so she could reach and Mercy fished around in the pack. She slid the loaf out. It was long and fat and crusty. Her Indian was watching. Mercy looked straight at him while she ripped off a chunk for Marah. He did nothing. Mercy decided to give some to Jemima too, which would give her something to do besides whine. She would give bread to Eliza and hope food would break Eliza’s grieving stupor. Marah didn’t take a single bite. She threw the bread across the snow. “I want Mama!” she said fiercely. She glared at Mercy, as if all this hiking and shivering were Mercy’s fault. Mercy could not abandon the bread out there in the snow. She was going to need that bread. It was all they had, and somehow Mercy had become responsible for Marah and Daniel and Ruth and Eliza and Jemima, and probably even for Eben. Mercy stepped off the trodden path to retrieve the crust, but her Indian stopped her, shaking his head. On his face was no expression but the one painted in black. His arms were tattooed with snakes that curled their fangs when he tightened his muscles. How could he go half bare in this weather? she thought, and then remembered that she wore his rabbit-lined cloak. Daniel, sitting happily on her hip, reached out from under the rabbit fur and patted the snake. The Indian tensed his upper arm to make the snake slither. Daniel giggled, so the Indian did it again, and it seemed to Mercy that he actually smiled at Daniel. Then, blessedly, he took Marah for her.

I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll to Sky’s number. It’s late, but I want to hear her voice. It’s stupid, I know. But it is what it is. “Hello,” she says, her voice hesitant. I lean against the building because my knees wobble when I talk to her. It makes me giddy. “Hi,” I say quietly. “Hi,” she breathes back. “Were you asleep?” “No, I was just thinking.” “About what?” “You,” she admits. My heart starts to beat harder. “Good thoughts?” I ask. I can almost hear her smile through the phone. “Very good.” “I just wanted to say good night.” It sounds stupid aloud. “I’m glad you called,” she replies. “Really glad.” “Can I call you tomorrow?” She laughs. “You better.” “Good night, Sky,” I say. “’Night, Matt.” I disconnect the call and put my phone in my pocket. No one is up when I get home. I’m not even sure if Paul is home. I go into my bedroom and get ready for bed. Just as I slide between the sheets, my phone rings. I see that it’s her number. “Sky?” “Yeah,” she admits. “You okay?” “I just wanted to tell you good night,” she says quietly. “I think you already did that.” But inside, my heart is beating like a tattoo gun. “Oh,” she says quietly. She laughs. “Sorry.” “You tired?” I ask. “Not at all.” So we talk late into the night. We talk until my eyes are droopy, and I still don’t want to hang up the phone.

Will you let me move into your fortress with you?” I blurt out. Her brow furrows, and she looks so damn cute that I want to kiss her, but I know I can’t. “What?” she breathes out. I get up and walk to her. “That fortress where you reside? Will you let me live there with you?” “What the fuck are you talking about?” she asks. She puts her hands on her hips and glares at me. “I don’t want to blow all your walls to bits,” I say. She has a piece of hair stuck to her lips, so I pull it away and tuck it behind her ear. “I just want to live inside them with you. Fuck,” I say, throwing up my hands. “I fucking love your walls. Every single brick. But let me move in. Let me be there with you. Then you can find out if you love me, and you can invite me to stay if you find out that you do. Just let me inside.” I take a deep breath and watch her. “Did you hit your fucking head on the way to work?” she asks. I laugh and rub my forehead. “No, but Logan just slapped some sense into me.” “Then what the fuck is wrong with you?” “I’m in fucking love with you, Friday!” I cry. “I fucking love you, you irritating, obnoxious, sexy-ass woman that I can’t get out of my fucking head.” I hit myself in the head with my fists like I’m knocking. “I’m in love with you.” I drop down onto my knees in front of her, and she steps back, so I inch forward until I can pull her belly to touch my forehead. “I’m in love with you.” I look up at her. “I’m on my knees, and I’m not going to try to get you to marry me or make you do anything you don’t want to do. Just let me in, and I’ll be happy with it.” “So, you don’t want to talk me into marrying you?” I shake my head, staring up at her like a puppy. “You’re not going to hold it over my head and refuse intimacy until I cave to what you want?” “No.” “You’re not going to keep asking me again and again?” “No.” “You’re going to stop being stupid?” I grin. “I don’t know about that one.” “You have testicles,” she says, and she shrugs. “I can’t have it all, can I?” She sinks down onto her knees in front of me. She bites her lower lip and stares at me. “Say it,” I coax. She goes back to glaring at me. “Say what?” “Whatever you’re thinking.” “I’m thinking that my knees are uncomfortable on this fucking floor, and I’m wondering how long you’re going to fucking make me stay down here.” I laugh. God, she’s so contrary! She takes my face in her hands. “Tonight, can I make you dinner?” she asks. My heart does that pitter-patter thing again. “Like a date?” She rocks her head back and forth like she’s weighing her words. “I guess you could call it a date.” “Then yes, I’d love that.” Then I remember. “But I have Hayley tonight.” She brightens. “Good.” She kisses me quickly and grins. “Because that’s about as close to a threesome as you’ll ever get with me.” She points to the floor. “Can I get up now?” she asks. “Get the fuck up,” I growl. I get to my feet, too. She falls against me and wraps her arms around my waist. “So does this mean that you don’t want to marry me?” she asks, her voice muffled against my chest. Her words touch the tattoo I just got, and it stings a little. But I don’t pull back. I don’t want her to see it yet. “I didn’t say that.” “You didn’t say the opposite.” I set her back a little and look down into her upturned face. “Are you telling me you do want to marry me?” She shakes her head and jabs a finger at me. “But I want to leave the door open.” Oh, holy hell. She’s opening a fucking door and I didn’t even have to threaten her or withhold anything or torment her in any way. I might pass out. “Okay,” I say.

Rebellious"™ You're a barefoot odyssey, perched on a granite counter. Perched on edgeless intensity and arched reasoning. Why do I succumb to valiant persuasions? Just shatter me with your mammoth reality, break me into shards you think will clatter. But, I'm not made of material gravity I'm a symphony of notes looking to burst free! Call me lyrical, call it mercy, call this poetic justice and end my dispassionate existence so criminal. Bang your gavel against my criminalistic loins, I'm guilty of animalistic tendencies and tamed to humanoid inadequacies. I can shatter you in all aspects, and put you back in form in all retrospectives. I do not care to mold you into material to use as an art plateau. My hilly curves canvas's your mighty sword, burst free! Sing to me! Write me your lies. I beckon to endure your truths passionately, injustice webbed upon us is it poetic? Or law abiding? Where will it begin? Where will it end? Time has frozen around me, and all I can think of is this consumption of you. Wholely intoxicating, and wholely seductive. And I can't decide; When your limbs are apart and pinned displayed like a canvas to be ravaged, will you be entirely vulnerable to my demonstrations? Or will you swallow me whole? Swallow you, wallow in you... I'm invaded by your touch. Caught up! Caught up! Caught up! So caught up to us. I say; just lay down my body, tie up my mind, spank my assets, kisses so low and divine. This hasn't yet fully begun, and for sure won't end soon. So meet in our place of desire this noon, when footsteps cross the moon. Darkness descends during daylight when I draw the curtains tight, shutting out the world that claims our time. Now you're mine, you can't escape me, you can't escape this! I won't let you! Now you're a convoluted odyssey subdued by ministration firm, tender, meticulous, smitten, sensitized and shackled. You're a richly tainted taste of sin. A resolute candle of insatiable inspiration. Whose wick lit quick, whose burn smoulders on. Lights out, darkness nears and you burn within me. If I'm a sin, get on bended knees. Prey on me, and you're forgiven. To hell with Mary I want to cum quick see? Rebel no more, we've found retribution! Call it retribution, call it mercy, call this poetic justice, call this confession. I want the marks of your claws to escort me out the door. I want the ruthless indulgence of rebellion tattooed across your psyche! Exhale my name, and blow the flame out! I'll lay and lay som more, till the next time my rebellious lover comes through the door...

You are truly terrifying.” “I fell in love with a heavily tattooed biker tattoo artist from the wrong side of the tracks and was disowned by family and friends. Then I raised an openly gay son in a community that’s sometimes intolerant. I learned sweet only gets you so far before you gotta cut someone off at the knees.” “Vicious.” “You fucking know it.” “How

Then Rhys fell to his knees and took Nesta’s hands in his, pressing his mouth to her fingers. “Thank you,” he wept, head bowed. Cassian knew it wasn’t in gratitude for Rhys’s own life that he knelt upon the sacred tattoos inked upon his knees.

Not that I would mind if through the inheritance of a rich uncle I was finally able to afford health insurance, or go to a dentist who wasn’t a student. Before we left for the will reading, I did what I could to make myself presentable, which was always an uphill battle. My hair was shaggy, about three months overdue for a haircut, and my beard nearly reached my Adam’s apple. I hadn’t gotten new frames for my glasses in six or seven years, so I still wore my painfully hipster thick black rims. And, of course, there was little I could do about the wear in the knees of my pants, the dangling threads on my sweater, and least of all the tattoo of SpongeBob SquarePants on my forearm. A remnant of simpler times. I doubt I would have thought of any of those things had Robby not generously pointed them out one by one. My mind was elsewhere.

Something warm and solid landed on my bare leg, and I looked down, finding Ivan’s wide hand wrapped around my knee. He gently squeezed, and my breath caught. I stared at his hand, the veins running beneath his tattooed skin, how they rippled when he squeezed again. Without thinking, I laid my hand on top of his. I was aware he and Freddie were speaking to each other. Their laughter was the soundtrack to my fingers sliding over his. He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at him. Not his face, anyway. My focus was on his hand and mine. The size difference. How beautiful the ink decorating his skin was. The place behind my knee where his index finger rubbed back and forth. The spiral in my chest slowly settled until I no longer felt like running out of the dining hall. It was nice to regain control without having to isolate myself from everyone.

Rhys fell to his knees and took Nesta’s hands in his, pressing his mouth to her fingers. “Thank you,” he wept, head bowed. Cassian knew it wasn’t in gratitude for Rhys’s own life that he knelt upon the sacred tattoos inked upon his knees. Nesta dropped to the carpet. Lifted Rhys’s face in her hands, studied what lay in it. Then she threw her arms around the High Lord of the Night Court and held him tightly.

Sitting up slowly so I don’t get dizzy, I let the blanket fall away. And then I see him. The Alpha. The Brutal One.  He’s sitting in a large metallic stool, his large, tattooed hands resting on his knees. His midnight hair streams over his shoulder. He’s watching me.  For a moment

Grace’s gaze skimmed over her, taking in the various marks of possession that decorated her flesh. “Well, short of having Property of Trey Coleman tattooed on your forehead, he couldn’t have made it any clearer that he considers you his, could he?” Very true. In addition to those marks that Trey had left while they consummated the claiming, there were those that he had made during the second, third, and fourth rounds that followed through the night. There was a bite at the hollow of her throat, another on her inner wrist, a third one on the swell of her breast, and also claw marks on both upper arms—and those were only the ones that weren’t hidden beneath her black T-shirt, navy jeans, and black leather knee-high boots.

What do the tattooed stars and maintain on your knees mean? . . . That I will bow before no one and nothing but my crown.

Get on your hands and knees,” he ordered, his voice so low she could barely understand him. But her blood heated, and an ache that had nothing to do with how hard he’d just taken her began to build between her legs once more. So Nesta did as he bade, baring herself, still wet and gleaming with both of their releases. He snarled in satisfaction. “Beautiful.” She whimpered a bit—because beneath the praise, pure lust simmered. He growled, “Put your hands on the headboard.” Her breath began sawing out of her again, but she obeyed, already thrumming with need. Cassian rose behind her, gripping her hips. He knocked a knee against each of her own, spreading her legs wider. Callused fingertips brushed down the length of her spine, over the tattoo there, the ink binding them. He leaned to whisper in her ear, “Hold on tight.

Handprints. She’d burned right through the tattoo on his left arm. She was on her feet in an instant, wondering if she should be on her knees begging for forgiveness instead.

Licorice tattoo turned a gun metal blue Scrawled across the shoulders of a dying town Took the one eyed-jacks across the railroad tracks And the scar on its belly pulled a stranger passing through He's a juvenile delinquent, never learned how to behave But the cops would never think to look in Burma-Shave And the road was like a ribbon and the moon was like a bone He didn't seem to be like any guy she'd ever known He kind of looked like Farley Granger with his hair slicked back She says, I'm a sucker for a fella in a cowboy hat How far are you going? Said depends on what you mean He says I'm only stopping here to get some gasoline I guess I'm going thataway just as long as it's paved And I guess you'd say I'm on my way to Burma Shave And with her knees up on the glove compartment She took out her barrettes and her hair spilled out like root beer And she popped her gum and arched her back Hell, Marysville ain't nothing but a wide spot in the road Some nights my heart pounds like thunder Don't know why it don't explode 'Cause everyone in this stinking town's got one foot in the grave And I'd rather take my chances out in Burma Shave Presley's what I go by, why don't you change the stations? Count the grain elevators in the rearview mirror She said mister, anywhere you point this thing It got to beat the hell out of the sting Of going to bed with every dream that dies here every mornin' And so drill me a hole with a barber pole And I'm jumping my parole just like a fugitive tonight Why don't you have another swig and pass that car if you're so brave I wanna get there before the sun comes up in Burma Shave And the spiderweb crack and the mustang screamed The smoke from the tires and the twisted machine Just a nickel's worth of dreams and every wishbone that they saved Lie swindled from them on the way to Burma Shave And the sun hit the derrick and cast a batwing shadow Up against the car door on the shotgun side And when they pulled her from the wreck You know she still had on her shades They say that dreams are growing wild Just this side Of Burma Shave

I leaned into Tamlin, sighing. 'It feels- feels as if some of it was a dream, or a nightmare. But... But I remembered you. And when I saw you there today, I started clawing at it, fighting, because I knew it might be my only chance, and-' 'How did you break free of his control,' Lucien said flatly from behind us. Tamlin gave him a warning growl. I'd forgotten he was there. My sister's mate. The Mother, I decided, did have a sense of humour. 'I wanted it- I don't know how. I just wanted to break free of him, so I did.' We stared each other down, but Tamlin brushed a thumb over my shoulder. 'Are- are you hurt?' I tried not to bristle. I knew what he meant. That he thought Rhysand would do anything like that to anyone- 'I- I don't know,' I stammered. 'I don't... I don't remember those things.' Lucien's metal eye narrowed, as if he could sense the lie. But I looked up at Tamlin, and brushed my hand over his mouth. My bare, empty skin. 'You're real,' I said. 'You freed me.' It was an effort not to turn my hands into claws and rip out his eyes. Traitor- liar. Murderer. 'You freed yourself,' Tamlin breathed. He gestured to the house. 'Rest- and then we'll talk. I... need to find Ianthe. And make some things very, very clear.' 'I- I want to be a part of it this time,' I said, halting when he tried to herd me back into that beautiful prison. 'No more... No more shutting me out. No more guards. Please. I have so much to tell you about them- bits and pieces, but... I can help. We can get my sisters back. Let me help.' Help lead you in the wrong direction. Help bring you and your court to your knees, and take down Jurian and those conniving, traitorous queens. And then tear Ianthe into tiny, tiny pieces and bury them in a pit no one can find. Tamlin scanned my face, and finally nodded. 'We'll start over. Do things differently. When you were gone, I realised... I'd been wrong. So wrong, Feyre. And I'm sorry.' Too late. Too damned late. But I rested my head on his arm as he slipped it around me and led me toward the house. 'It doesn't matter. I'm home now.' 'Forever,' he promised. 'Forever,' I parroted, glancing behind- to where Lucien stood in the gravel drive. His gaze on me. Face hard. As if he'd seen through every lie. As if he knew of the second tattoo beneath my glove, and the glamour I now kept on it. As if he knew that they had let a fox into a chicken coop- and he could do nothing. Not unless he never wanted to see his mate- Elain- again. I gave Lucien a sweet, sleepy smile. So our game began. We hit the sweeping marble stairs to the fornt doors of the manor. And so Tamlin unwittingly led the High Lady of the Night Court into the heart of his territory.

I leaned into Tamlin, sighing. 'It feels- feels as if some of it was a dream, or a nightmare. But... But I remembered you. And when I saw you there today, I started clawing at it, fighting, because I knew it might be my only chance, and-' 'How did you break free of his control,' Lucien said flatly from behind us. Tamlin gave him a warning growl. I'd forgotten he was there. My sister's mate. The Mother, I decided, did have a sense of humour. 'I wanted it- I don't know how. I just wanted to break free of him, so I did.' We stared each other down, but Tamlin brushed a thumb over my shoulder. 'Are- are you hurt?' I tried not to bristle. I knew what he meant. That he thought Rhysand would do anything like that to anyone- 'I- I don't know,' I stammered. 'I don't... I don't remember those things.' Lucien's metal eye narrowed, as if he could sense the lie. But I looked up at Tamlin, and brushed my hand over his mouth. My bare, empty skin. 'You're real,' I said. 'You freed me.' It was an effort not to turn my hands into claws and rip out his eyes. Traitor- liar. Murderer. 'You freed yourself,' Tamlin breathed. He gestured to the house. 'Rest- and then we'll talk. I... need to find Ianthe. And make some things very, very clear.' 'I- I want to be a part of it this time,' I said, halting when he tried to herd me back into that beautiful prison. 'No more... No more shutting me out. No more guards. Please. I have so much to tell you about them- bits and pieces, but... I can help. We can get my sisters back. Let me help.' Help lead you in the wrong direction. Help bring you and your court to your knees, and take down Jurian and those conniving, traitorous queens. And then tear Ianthe into tiny, tiny pieces and bury them in a pit no one can find. Tamlin scanned my face, and finally nodded. 'We'll start over. Do things differently. When you were gone, I realised... I'd been wrong. So wrong, Feyre. And I'm sorry.' Too late. Too damned late. But I rested my head on his arm as he slipped it around me and led me toward the house. 'It doesn't matter. I'm home now.' 'Forever,' he promised. 'Forever,' I parroted, glancing behind- to where Lucien stood in the gravel drive. His gaze on me. Face hard. As if he'd seen through every lie. As if he knew of the second tattoo beneath my glove, and the glamour I now kept on it. As if he knew that they had let a fox into a chicken coop- and he could do nothing. Not unless he never wanted to see his mate- Elain- again. I gave Lucien a sweet, sleepy smile. So our game began. We hit the sweeping marble stairs to the front doors of the manor. And so Tamlin unwittingly led the High Lady of the Night Court into the heart of his territory.

Up ahead, a shadowy building loomed. It looked more like a gothic cathedral than a school, with grossly elongated black spires jutting into the night sky. They unnerved Tony. Somehow, they resembled horns silhouetted against the moon. He counted ten of these protuberances, each with an arrowhead as its tip. Tony found the structure difficult to make his mind up about. It was beautiful, that was for sure, but its beauty was intermingled with an ill-masked sense of horror. The black exterior had a pair of peculiar projections on either side of the building resembling a bat's wings. His feet on concrete now, he pulled up to a webbed gate— also reminiscent of a bats with the hind, bone-like array supporting an oily black, translucent texture. He saw some girls a few dozen feet from the gate at the entrance of the building. They were garbed in black sailor fuku skirts too high above the knees to facilitate concentration upon anything academic. The males were also dressed in black corduroy pants and black dress shirt. A throng by the massive doors stared holes through them as they approached. Up close, he noted some of the girls were quite pale, sporting piercings and tattoos on their necks and hands. He even saw one with a spider web inked on the side of her face. When he followed Silver Man into the building— his toes squeaking in his soaked shoes—he was awed by the aesthetics. There was a rather large gathering in the hall that looked more like large shadows with all the children in black. Tony felt out of place in his brown pants and long sleeved white shirt. The hall was bleak; the only source of illumination was a pair of horizontal cylindrical lamps set upon wooden rafters near the ceiling. Silver Man proceeded toward the platform where Tony could just make out the form of a thin man donning a monocle. He looked like an old scientist. He was sitting cross-legged, stroking his chest-length pearl white beard. The man appeared to be watching them as they progressed through the hall. Then he stood as they neared the stage, now caressing his bald head. He had a monkish appearance. His black robe— quite similar to the one Silver Man wore— was tied at the waist by a red cloth. The bald, monocled man extended a spindly hand which Silver Man gave a firm tug before leaning in and whispering something. The man nodded, turning to Tony. Tony flinched as he regarded him through his peculiar eyewear: a single gold-rimmed, circular lens. He now folded himself into an accentuated bow. "Listen up folks!" he shouted. Tony saw the students rushing inside the castle pell-mell, summoned by the voice of the bespectacled man. “We have a late recruit ladies and gentlemen,” the man said. His voice was much stronger than his thin frame suggested. “Join me as I induct him into the hallowed spirit of Imajinaereum.

When she looked up Tony was already walking toward the pool gate. As he lifted his arm to open it, his shorts suddenly slid down to his knees to reveal the entirety of his buttocks. “Fuck!” he said with deep feeling. Frances stared. What in the world? The man had tattoos of bright yellow smiley faces on both his butt cheeks. It was extraordinary. It was like discovering he was wearing a secret clown suit beneath his clothes.

I’d gotten twenty dollars’ worth of fake tattoos from a vending machine, and we were giving each other full sleeves and laughing at people in the bar. “Okay,” Josh said, pressing a wet napkin to my forearm to stick a tattoo. “If you could turn anything into an Olympic sport, what would you win a medal for?” I lifted the napkin and peeled off the plastic backing, looking at my new rose tattoo. “Sarcasm.” He laughed, his brown eyes creasing at the corners. “All right, my turn,” I said, laying an anchor tattoo on Josh’s impressive biceps. “Window seat or aisle?” He watched me slap on the wet napkin. “Middle seat. That way I’m next to you no matter which one you want.” Gah. This man. So selfless. He’d said it so casually it was like thinking about me first came naturally. Like it was knee-jerk for him. My lips twisted into a smile, and we gazed at each other for a moment. He was having a good time. He was happy. I wondered if he was this happy when we weren’t together. If he had this much fun with his friends, or the crew at work. Or any of the dates he went on. I didn’t. Not even with Sloan. It was different with Josh. It just was. How many good days like this did we have left? In a few weeks, I wouldn’t be seeing him anymore. I’d be recovering from my surgery, and he would be long gone.

Sestina" For a week now our bodies have whispered together, telling each other secrets you and I would keep. Their language, harder and more tender than this, wakes us suddenly in the half dawn, tangled dragons on their map. They have a plan. We are stranded travelers who plan to ditch our bags and walk. The hill wind whispers danger and rain. We are going different ways. That tangled thornbush is where the road forks. The secrets we told on the station bench to keep awake were lies. I suspect from your choice of language that you are not speaking your native language. You will not know about the city plan tattooed behind my knee. But the skin wakes up in humming networks, audibly whispers over the dead wind. Everybody’s secrets jam the wires. Syllables get tangled with bus tickets and matchbooks. You tangled my hair in your fingers and language split like a black fig. I suck the secrets off your skin. This isn’t in the plan, the subcutaneous transmitter whispers. Be circumspect. What sort of person wakes up twice in a wrecked car? And we wake in wary seconds of each other, tangled damply together. Your cock whispers inside my thigh that there is language without memory. Your fingers plan wet symphonies in my garrulous secret places. There is nothing secret in people crying at weddings and singing at wakes; and when you pack a duffel bag and plan on the gratuitous, you will still tangle purpose and habit, more baggage, more language. It is not accidental what they whisper. Our bodies whispered under the sheet. Their secret language will not elude us when we wake into the tangled light without a plan.

There was a severed head, and two soft white forearms, and two long legs from the knees down, all laid out on the tile floor, with the hideous cuts of the saw clearly visible. The faucet was running, and the water had filled the bathtub and overflowed onto the floor. The long, luxuriant black hair on the bloated head twined and floated in the water like an undulant knot of snakes.

Just below a three-inch scar on my right knee, I have a tattoo that reads “Jeremiah 29:11: ‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” When I’m uncertain about my circumstances, all it takes is one look at that tattoo to remind me not to give up or walk out before I can see God’s plan at work in my life.