Loren Eyes Quotes

Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical.

Sophia Loren said, "Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical.

Cheekbones that cut like ice and eyes like liquid scotch. Loren Hale is an alcoholic beverage and he doesn't even know it.

If you haven't cried, your eyes cannot be beautiful

He stares down into me and says, “I’ll keep her safe.” My eyes well with tears while my lips pull high. “Against the world, Loren Hale?” “Yeah,” he nods. “Against the world, Lily Calloway. I’m familiar with that battle.

One does not meet oneself until one catches the reflection from an eye other than human.

I was hoping you'd finally open your eyes and realize that I was there. I was right in front of you.

...did you have parents or did the devil just create you from some spare parts?

People say exactly what they mean when they are angry. That's when they are the most free to do so. They may not mean to hurt you, but they always mean what they say.

Did you bet on me?' I ask dumbfounded. 'Yeah,' Lo says, unabashed. His eyes fall to mine. 'And I'll always bet on your side.

No, but I do read a lot. I love to read. I could read for days and never stop. I use to be such a bookworm. I would barely look up to notice much of anything.

Just yesterday I was twenty and meeting some of these people⏤people that I'd spend my life with, that'd become my home. Just yesterday I was twenty⏤still deeply and desperately in love with my best friend. I grew older. We all grow older. In a blink of an eye, our children will grow old too. And I'll think: just yesterday they were twenty. Headed for college. Falling in love. Memories will flood behind us, the lake house no longer filled to the brim. As quiet as the moment we first walked in⏤and we'll sit on this hill. Feeling the stillness that exists. And then we end⏤we end where we started. Just us. All six of us.

Did you just roll your eyes at me?" "Yes, I did and you better get used to it if you're going to say stupid things.

Only God could save me from a certain deadly fate, and so rightfully, he sent the devil to rescue me.

Ohhh,” Lily gasps in realization. She frowns a little and then turns to Loren. I hear her whisper, “So we’re not magic?” “We’re definitely magic,” he whispers back with a nod. “Then what are they?” Her eyes flicker to Connor and me, catching us watching them. Lo purposely raises his voice so we can hear. “An immortal god who married an immortal demon.” He flashes me a dry smile. “Match made in purgatory.

Since the first human eye saw a leaf in Devonian sandstone and a puzzled finger reached to touch it, sadness has lain over the heart of man. By this tenuous thread of living protoplasm, stretching backward into time, we are linked forever to lost beaches whose sands have long since hardened into stone. The stars that caught our blind amphibian stare have shifted far or vanished in their courses, but still that naked, glistening thread winds onward. No one knows the secret of its beginning or its end. Its forms are phantoms. The thread alone is real; the thread is life.

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengence need not be feared" Nicolo Machiavelli Nicholas Jayzon

I assumed he would be busy with some inflatable whore! Or did she round a corner to fast and bust a tit on her way here?

She is not too good about sharing and I am not too good with having to listen her complain. So, please stay away from her.

Oh my! Did you see him?' Exie stops abruptly and turns to watch a man who smiles at her. ' Ooh yeah, he is fine.' 'You're not going to stop to talk to him?' 'Why ruin what we have by getting to know him?' She said with a wink.

Whiskey Wendi," Kerrick said. "Oh, yes," Loren said. A slow smile spread on his lips. "That was Grzebien? Wow that was... a wild time." "That was also over a year ago before Estrid and when the Booze Baron ruled the town. Do you really think the people would remember us?" Quain asked. "Whiskey Wendi," Loren repeated, looking at Quain with a gleam in his eyes. "Oh, yeah." Quain grinned. "Yeah, they'd remember.

Loren Hale is not the monster in his son's eyes. He's the hero.

I have the body - they didn't have to tell me that - or that I am innocent looking enough to drive the man crazy, but I blushed when they call me pretty.

You could recognize him from any angle: lean tall stature, deep black hair, and a walk that had an air of authority - like no one could possibly have anything to say that was of any importance to him

After what I told her and she still wants me to date her son? He must be a perfectly wonderful catch.

...he walks out the door making eye contact with me for only a second. It was at that moment that he lured me in. I was captivated by him and, for the first time, I understood his power. Nicholas Jayzon commanded attention when he walked into a room.

The last time I saw him, I didn't breath again until he had dressed himself completely. From the crack in my sister's door, I saw him get out of her bed and inhale, as if he had accomplished his mission for the day.

Nick almost breaks a full smile when the men around him laugh aloud. "I don't kiss on the cheek." He said smoothly giving her the opportunity to end it there, but instead, she drags the bride over to him and asks again.

Nick snatches the picture from the man's hand and laughs. "This is funny to you, asshole?" Nick tosses the picture back behind him. "No. No, it's not. What is funny is that you believe your whore of a wife." "Stand up your spineless punk!" The man yells in sheer rage.

Oh, that boy is in so much trouble.' Exie screeches out of the parking lot as if Jerran can hear her.

Hot as hell isn't he?' Exie questioned from over my shoulder. 'Yeah, I guess he is' 'You guess? Are you blind? Girl, he is so fine it's scary. I nearly had an orgasm the other day when he asked me a cup of tea. But don't stare too hard, Meagan will scratch your eyes out if she catches you staring at her man.' Exie said with a high eyebrow warning.

Few approach Nick the rest of the night, I am the only one brave enough to take him his specially made tea. "Thank you", he said barely glancing up at me. "You're welcome", I said waiting for him to look up at me but he won't. I have to force myself to say something before the doubt takes me over. " That guy was wrong, but you should have ignored her to begin with. She would have been humiliated enough by that alone. Your ego got in the way of your judgment." I said before walking away proudly.

I'm Exie and despite what you may hear I am the best dancer here. No one else compares. So, don't even think you're going to come in here and take my time slots. With a slight smile,' Well, if you're that good then you shouldn't have to worry about it, should you' I said. Exie's bright smile forms smoothly across her face, 'I like you...

The mind sees what the eyes cannot

Who’s your celebrity crush?” Savannah asks. Daisy smiles wide. “James Dean.” My eyes pierce the camera. “Audrey Hepburn.” Lily stares off in thought. “Uhhh…” She flushes. “Loren Hale.

One day we are looking at the Magnum photograph of Sophia Loren at the Christian Dior show in Paris in 1968 and thinking yes, it could be me, I could wear that dress, I was in Paris that year; a blink of the eye later we are in one or another doctor's office being told what has already gone wrong, why we will never again wear the red suede sandals with the four-inch heels, never again wear the gold hoop earrings, the enameled beads, never now wear the dress Sophia Loren is wearing.

She is a mess, her dress once pulled together long and fresh, now drooping and awkwardly weighted to one side of her head. "What happened? Are you okay?" The women clamor around her. Nick walks out in perfect order and perfect swagger, passing her with a downward glance. "You forgot your panties". He said tossing her underwear onto the table in front of her. After being embarrassingly ignored by the group of debutants, the nearby college boys feel justified by the turn of events and break into hysterics. Slinking out the side door, the mortified women exit without another word.

Campus is dark by the time we leave Kepler’s office. We walk side by side down the wide sidewalk that runs along the Quad. There’s a safe three feet between us, our hands in our pockets, and I’m trying my damnedest not to let my eyes linger on him. Act cool, J. And not like you just came in your TA’s mouth.

We aren’t just dating, we’re in love with each other,” Darien continued. “I fucking love you, sweetheart. You can hate me all you want, but it doesn’t change anything. I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you. I love you when you’re angry. I love you when you’re sad. I love you when you’re happy. I love you, Loren, and I will love you for the rest of your life—

Indigenous History and Nonfiction Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong, by Paul Chaat Smith Decolonizing Methodologies, by Linda Tuhiwai Smith Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, edited by Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woodworth Being Dakota, by Amos E. Oneroad and Alanson B. Skinner Boarding School Blues, edited by Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc Masters of Empire, by Michael A. McDonnell Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee, by Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior Boarding School Seasons, by Brenda J. Child They Called It Prairie Light, by K. Tsianina Lomawaima To Be a Water Protector, by Winona LaDuke Minneapolis: An Urban Biography, by Tom Weber

The pretense that place does not matter turns us all into straw dogs subjected to the whims of marketing. If we are unattached, we need. We need so many things to ground us. If we point the lens into the core of us and no galaxy appears, then what? We dangle, storyless, bland words rolling across the windy landscapes of our tongues. We stay awake all hours of the night, peering out windows until, at last, we let go of longing and accept the constellations that connect us all. We rest our eyes on a horizon that tells a story from the bones out, embraces us from the skin in, lets us rise from the dust of where we’ve been and where we are, like coyotes, hunting, hungry, finally knowing exactly what it is that feeds us. MINERAL AS IN SOLID, CRYSTALLINE, INTERLOCKED, CREATING A SOMETIMES

Lo,” I breathe. He raises his head barely to meet my expression, and I see how reddened his eyes have become. I’ve seen him at his lowest point in life. I’ve watched him get sober and watched him relapse. I’ve carried him, barely alive, in my arms. He’s seen me shed tears after the birth of my daughter. I’ve seen him smile after the birth of his son. We’ve been through two weddings, five of his birthdays, even more holidays and trips around the world. There is never a dull moment in the company of Loren Hale.

Coughing, eyes burning, Loren looked up to see Tanner gaping at her, his mouth full of donut. He was standing in the kitchen—by himself, thank the Star. Well, aside from his wolf Familiar. Silver looked just as confused as Tanner, ears erect. As silence stretched on, Silver looked up at Tanner, a whimper that begged for answers slipping through his whiskery chops. “Why are you in the fireplace?” Tanner demanded. A crumb fell off his donut. Silver slurped it up off the floor, forgetting all about those answers he’d wanted a moment ago as his big tongue dampened the wood. “Do I need to call Darien?” She got up and dusted the soot off her soiled clothes. She stank—horribly. “If you call him, I’m taking those donuts away.” Mortifer ducked under her arm and scampered away, slipping the whiteboard and marker under the couch on his way to the fridge. Looking thoroughly offended, Tanner snatched up the box of donuts from Whisking Witch and clutched it to his chest. “I mean it,” she warned. Tanner merely bit off another bite of donut and walked away, box tucked under his arm, Silver following on his heels.

I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, “but I can’t seem to stop myself from wanting you.” Her ribs cinched tight, stealing her air for a second. “Finn…” He looked up, pushing her hair away from her face, apologies in his eyes. “It’s selfish. I feel like a vampire, taking all I can from you, sucking up the light before I have to go back into the cave. I’m trained to evaluate worst-case scenarios. This scenario is only going to get worse the longer I stick around, but I can’t stop, even when I know I should walk away now. I can’t quit you. Tell me to leave you alone, Liv. Tell me you don’t want me here.” The words wound through Liv like a song, a melancholy one that simultaneously made her want to smile and cry. She stared at him, at the earnest green eyes, the stubbled cheeks, the beautiful sweet boy who’d turned into a beautiful caring man. One who thought he was breaking his personal code by being here with her, putting her heart at risk. She slid her hands onto his shoulders. “I’m not going to lie to you. And what’s the worst-case scenario? I fall in love?” He winced and glanced away. “Right.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his cheek, bravery swelling in her. “I have good news then.” He met her gaze. “You’re already too late. Worst-case scenario achieved. So you might as well ride it out to the end now and make it worth it.” He inhaled a sharp breath, his expression going slightly panicked. “Liv.” She pressed her fingers over his mouth, her heart beating wildly but her voice staying steady. “Don’t freak out about what’s already done. When you leave, no matter what, you can know that you gave me a gift. You reminded me that I’m capable of feeling this.” She looped her arms around his neck. “Now let me feel it, Finn. Don’t take that away by trying to protect me. I don’t need your protection. I just need you to be yourself with me. I love you. And you will leave. And I will be okay.” She said the words almost more to herself than to him. She had to believe that. Had to hold on to that. Because there was no putting the feelings back in a box. They were there. Maybe had always been there on some level, waiting to bloom again. They would come along with a broken heart, but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt fully present. Alive. Real. For that, she would pay the price.

Maybe we should change plans. I feel a fever coming on.” She looked over at him. “Oh really?” He nodded and gave her a serious look. “Yes. I think I need to call and tell them I’ll be in bed for a week. It’s bad. Want to play nurse?” She pulled her hand free and pinched his arm. “Stop. There’s no going back now. We’re doing this. Plus, you’re going to be fine. I’m here to run interference. They’ll be much more likely to take jabs at me than you.” His expression darkened. “I’m not going to let them insult you, Liv. That’s a deal breaker.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Let ’em. After the week I had, I can deal with whatever they throw at me.” He lowered the radio. “You do seem oddly calm about all this. You remember my dad, right?” “Vividly.” “So is it just the sex relaxing you or something else?” He sent her a look of mock concern. “Have you been drinking? Eating mushrooms? Dropping acid?” “Not exactly.” She took a breath and looked forward. “Worse.” “Worse than dropping acid? I’m not even sure what that would be. Meth? Toad licking?” She grimaced. “Ew, gross. Not as bad as licking toads.” “Well, that’s a relief. We did just kiss.” “I quit my job.” “You—” The car jerked to a halt, the tires screeching as he almost missed a stop sign. “What?” She bit her lip and glanced his way. “Yes. That look on your face. That’s basically what I’ve been feeling inside since I walked out of work last night.” He stared at her, green eyes searching. “You’re just telling me this now? Liv…” She shrugged. “I was going to lead with that, but then you had to go and be all hot and seductive. I just quit my job is kind of a mood killer. Plus, I’m…okay about it.

I lived my life as best I could, hidden behind a thin yet sturdy veil of shyness. Yes, I know it’s hard to believe, but I was really shy, perhaps because of our situation: My father was absent, and my mother was too blond, too tall, too lively, and, above all, unmarried. Her eccentric, excessive beauty embarrassed me. She was a ragazza madre, a girl-mother, as the saying goes. I dreamed of a normal, reassuring mother, with black hair, a creased apron, her hands rough, and her eyes tired—like Mamma Luisa, whom I would find once again a few decades later in A Special Day, a movie in which I play a character named Antonietta, a devoted housewife and mother of six.

Aurelia plunged headfirst into a white expanse of emptiness. There was no time to close her eyes. After a single aching heartbeat, a great shape appeared, looming below. It was an impossible shape, woven out of shifting light, shimmering, polished scales, and wickedly spread blades reaching out towards her. There was a jolt. There was pain. Then there was nothing.

Maybe it was fucked up,” Loren whispers. “I liked your note,” I murmur. His brow rises. “Drink up, pig?” I smile. “Yeah.” His eyes drift to my lips. “You’re strange.” “So are you.” “Good.” He leans closer. “We can be strange together.

Yes, Briar, I realize your name isn’t River. When I first saw your eyes, I thought of a river I saw when visiting Northern California. You see, the Shasta River is mainly spring-fed from Mount Shasta itself, but it is the most beautiful blue color. When I saw your eyes, those two things correlated themselves and it stuck.” I give her a smirk.

This time, close your eyes, you weirdo.

And this time, close your eyes, you weirdo.

Indigenous Lives Holding Our World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkala-Sa A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J. McLeod Indigenous Poetry Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, by Joy Harjo Ghost River (Wakpá Wanági), by Trevino L. Brings Plenty The Book of Medicines, by Linda Hogan The Smoke That Settled, by Jay Thomas Bad Heart Bull The Crooked Beak of Love, by Duane Niatum Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier Little Big Bully, by Heid E. Erdrich A Half-Life of Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation, by Eric Gansworth NDN Coping Mechanisms, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Invisible Musician, by Ray A. Young Bear When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through, edited by Joy Harjo New Poets of Native Nations, edited by Heid E. Erdrich The Failure of Certain Charms, by Gordon Henry Jr. Indigenous History and Nonfiction Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong, by Paul Chaat Smith Decolonizing Methodologies, by Linda Tuhiwai Smith Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, edited by Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woodworth Being Dakota, by Amos E. Oneroad and Alanson B. Skinner Boarding School Blues, edited by Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc Masters of Empire, by Michael A. McDonnell Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee, by Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior Boarding School Seasons, by Brenda J. Child They Called It Prairie Light, by K. Tsianina Lomawaima To Be a Water Protector, by Winona LaDuke Minneapolis: An Urban Biography, by Tom Weber

I knew the moment I laid eyes on Brody Angel Anderson that I was in love. And I’ve lost everything I’ve ever loved.

Keep an eye out for the healpreneurs that may have healed themselves, but perhaps are not ready, equipped or experienced enough to help others heal; much less charge for it.

Okay,” Loren said. “Anything else?” It was like a shadow fell over his face. “Eldon?” “Yeah,” he said. “There’s something else.” “I don’t like the way you said that.” “I don’t like saying it, believe me. But I think whoever did this did more than just smother her.” “What do you mean?” “You know anything about stun guns?” “Some.” “I think they used one.” He swallowed. “In her.” “When you say ‘in her,’ do you mean—” “I mean exactly what you think,” he said, interrupting her. “Hey, I’m a product of Catholic school too, okay?” “Are there burn marks?” “Faint. But if you know what you’re doing—and especially in an area that sensitive—you really shouldn’t leave them. It was also a one-prong stunner, if that helps. Most, like the police-issue stun guns, have two prongs. I’m still running tests, but my guess is, she died in a lot of pain.” Loren closed her eyes.

The girl cupped her hands over her eyes and blinked. She was pretty enough, with blonde highlights that you can only find in youth or a bottle. “Hi.” Loren

The receptionist at Horne, Buckman and Pierce, a classic battle-ax who was comfortably past her prime, eyed Loren as if she’d recognized her from a sex offender poster. Full frown in place, the battle-ax told her to sit. Randal

She shook Loren’s hand firmly, meeting her eye and softening it with a smile. She gave Steinberg a hug and buss on the cheek. “I’d like you to meet Adam Yates. He’s the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Las Vegas office.” Adam

Adam Yates wore freshly ironed khakis and a bright pink shirt that might be the norm on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach but not Broad Street in Newark. He wore loafers without socks, his legs too casually crossed. He had that whole Old World, came-over-on-the-Mayflower thing going on, what with the receding ash-blond hair, the high cheekbones, the eyes so ice blue she wondered if he was wearing contacts. His cologne smelled like freshly cut grass. Loren liked it.

and looked at Loren Page, who had taken on a strange look.

I hadn't slept so well - story of my fuckin' life right there - so I entertained my fraying senses with the procession of passing billboards. One, in particular, caught my ever-discerning eye: KILL YOURSELF AT A DIVE BAR The fuck? I blinked, shook the cobwebs outta my head. The billboard now read - TREAT YOURSELF AT OUR DAY SPA 'Better', I thought. But not by much.

Passyunk Avenue (pronounced pashunk by the locals) cuts a rude swath across an otherwise orderly grid of streets in South Philadelphia. Except for Passyunk (and Moyamensing) Avenue, the neighborhood is composed of a uniform matrix of numbered and named streets—one big street followed by two little streets. Viewed on a map, they form ninety-degree angles and predictable intersections. Passyunk Avenue, or simply Passyunk, is the great disruptor of this comforting geometry. Irregular and meandering, its slashing path intersects with the more obedient byways. Together they form a unique gridwork of inconvenient crossings and odd angles. The cumulative result is one of strangely shaped buildings. Their pointy corners puncture curious cells of dead space—the spaces between. While born of necessity, the resulting architecture created by these acute angles also manages to be strangely beautiful, an exotic visage in a sea of pretty faces. If you’ve ever seen the famous photo of Sophia Loren giving the side-eye to Jayne Mansfield, that’s Passyunk—South Philly’s middle finger to white bread Center City.

They embraced on the bed. His hands touched her thighs, making the soft flesh tingle. Then they moved up her body to her breasts, and he held the heavy mounds of firm flesh for a moment, until she started to pant. “Now, Lew. I’m ready — right now — ” The preliminaries had made her impatient. Now his body was against hers, and she shut her eyes tight, feeling the pinwheeling excitement in her breasts and thighs and loins and buttocks, and he grasped her tightly and she let out a gasp as their bodies joined and began to move, and she felt the thrills cascading through her body, delight upon delight. She dug her fingers into his back and he pressed down on her, flattening her deliciously, and his hands were squeezing her breasts, and she cried out in pleasure as he moved above her — And the cold, clear thought cut through her brain: What on earth am I doing?

But most importantly, my family is here. Loren Hale. Lily. Their little six-year-old who calls me Uncle Garrison but treats me like I’m the coolest guy he’s ever known. Moffy has been giving me a thumbs up about every minute. Even if I don’t catch his eyes, I can see his little thumb up in the air from my peripheral. Lily bounces their two-year-old on her knee, and Luna giggles softly. The Hales took me in when I had nowhere to go—they’re my family now. I feel that cemented deeply. Permanently.

Loren was watching Darien with curiosity. “What’s he saying?” “He wants to take a chunk out of Mortifer.” “Bad Bandit,” Loren reprimanded in a quiet voice, her softly waving hair swaying as she turned to look at the Familiar. Bandit opened one eye. Can you please tell her I’m not like regular dogs? I don’t like simple words like bad dog or roll over. I will tell her no such thing, you bad dog. Bandit squinted his eyes. You’re insufferable. I get it from you. “What’s he saying?” Loren asked. Darien gave her a soft smile. “He says he loves you.” Bandit glared. Liar. Loren beamed at the dog. “I love you too, Bandit.” Bandit rolled his eyes. Watch that attitude, Darien warned, or I’ll take that rubber chicken away. Bandit bristled. Take the chicken, I riot.

Monica Bellucci, Sofia Loren, Gina Lollobrigida, and Ornella Muti could walk in here naked and at the peak of their beauty, and I would still only have eyes for Emberly.

When most of your life is the past you spend too much time in it.

You are beautiful, Loren Calla,” he told her. “And you are special.” Tears pooled in her eyes, and her mouth wobbled. “Don’t you ever doubt it—not for one second.” He pressed his lips to hers, tasting the salt of the tears dripping off her nose. When he pulled away, his breathing was as ragged as hers. “You hear me? Not for one second.

Loren ducked her head, the weight of all those eyes unbearable.

I’m Darien fucking Cassel.” A beat of silence followed his words; it bled into the surrounding crowd until nothing could be heard but the thumping of the music and the distant sound of fighting continuing down on the bottom floor. Up here, movement had ceased, and all eyes were on them. “Yeah, I’m his,” Loren

I’m Darien fucking Cassel.” A beat of silence followed his words; it bled into the surrounding crowd until nothing could be heard but the thumping of the music and the distant sound of fighting continuing down on the bottom floor. Up here, movement had ceased, and all eyes were on them. “Yeah, I’m his,” Loren slurred, teetering in her heels. “And he’s Darien fucking Cassel.

Time froze, every detail searing itself into memory. Loren’s tie tack was a little crooked, and the gel that kept his blonde hair immaculate was losing its hold. He didn’t look as though he’d just held a long, suspicious meeting so much as just awakened from a nap. In any other context, Buster might have found it funny, but here, in an empty conference room, with the sudden fluorescent lights stabbing at his eyes, the effect was terrifying. Any words he could have knitted together fled for the dark corners of the room, hiding under his spilled papers, in the spaces between the furniture and the floorboards, behind the heavy maroon drapes at the windows. He opened his mouth anyway, and even the start of a stammer died in his throat as his breath stalled out.

You ever had a snow cone before?” he asked her. He dug the plastic spoon out of the dome of fruit-flavored crushed ice and took a bite. “I can’t say I have.” “They’re really good.” He seemed to be speaking louder than he needed to, and when Darien added, “They’re made of crushed ice,” Loren saw a shadow on top of the fridge move, saw Itzel sit up, her neon pink eyes peering from the darkness like two rosy fireflies. “Ooh, ice! That sounds yummy,” Loren said, playing along. “What flavor did you get?” Itzel crept closer to the edge of the fridge, the bright, swirly flames on her head flickering. The tiny Hob reminded Loren of a cupcake with a body. “Cherry and blue raspberry,” Darien said, licking the spoon. Everything this man did was insanely attractive. Was it weird of her to be jealous of a plastic spoon? “I could eat ten of these—” Itzel appeared beside him on the couch in a puff of sparkling smoke. Darien wasn’t even fazed by her sudden appearance, though Loren spotted humor pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You ever tried this before?” Darien asked the Hob, waving the spoon in front of her. She reached for the cup with a tiny hand and missed. “I’ll share it with you,” Darien began, “but you need to promise me something in return.” Itzel glared up at Darien, impatient and suspicious. Loren pressed her lips together to fight a smile. Darien said, “You need to be quieter at night. Every night, not just when Pax is here.” Itzel’s grabby hands strained to reach the cup— Darien moved it out of her reach. “Uh-uh,” he said, dark hair gleaming as he shook his head. “You don’t get any of this unless you agree.” Itzel folded her arms, plopped down on the cushion, and scowled. “You can still watch TV, but you need to keep the volume low. And no pots and pans orchestra on Tuesdays. Deal?” She glowered at a corner of the room, the pink flames on her head burning hot. Darien taunted her by lifting the spoon to his mouth, moving it as if it were an airplane. “Mmmm, so good—” Itzel relented and smacked the couch cushions, bleating noises floating from the mouth she opened in a wide O. “Is that a ‘yes’?” Darien prompted. Itzel nodded with enthusiasm, the motion sending pink sparks flying. “Here.” He passed the snow cone to her.

For a long while, they stared at each other. Standing several feet apart, feet frozen in place, as if not believing what their eyes were telling them. And then they were moving. Loren crossed the distance to him in a sprint, her eyes stinging with tears. He met her halfway, and she launched herself at him. He bent to catch her behind the thighs, lifting her up so her legs were wrapped around his waist, as he crushed his lips to hers. Her hands fisted in his hair as she pulled him close, unable to get enough of this. Of him.

Loren…,” Agatha tried. But Loren tipped her head back and dripped one drop into each eye.

He closed his eyes. As he stirred his magic awake, the whites and irises were engulfed by the black of the Sight. He coaxed his power up to the surface of his mind, eyelids flying back open as he unleashed the force of it on his girlfriend. Even from this far away, he could see Loren’s legs shake from the unbridled pleasure he threw onto her. Her knees buckled, and she slipped to the grass, barely catching herself before she could topple down the hill. Darien was impressed that she managed not to drop anything or fall flat to the ground, though her body visibly trembled. He kept his magic going until he was certain she’d fully climaxed before he reined it in, stamping it down to its place of rest. An unholy grin spread across his face.

I am home,” he slurred. When she looked at him, she saw tears welling in his eyes, the clear moisture diluting the blood. “You’re my home, Lola. You’re my home.” Loren wept. “You’re mine too, Darien. You’re mine too.

I love you, Loren.” There was such raw truth in the statement that he almost didn’t recognize his own voice. His next words were thick and wobbling, and his eyes began to burn. “I’m so in love with you. None of us would be here right now if it weren’t for you, and now you’re here in this hospital…barely alive—” His breathing hitched, his free hand squeezing into a fist on his knee.

In the silence of their suite, Darien watched Loren sleep. A weight pulled on his heart, and there was a burning sensation behind his eyes that he barely recognized, he’d felt it so seldomly. He threaded his fingers through hers, the heat from her hand seeping into his. Until she’d come along, he hadn’t dared to dream, and had rarely ever prayed. And until she’d come along, and he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her, he hadn’t realized she was not only a dream come true, but a desperate prayer he hadn’t realized he’d made being answered.

I know I said that I would leave you alone,” Darien began. “And I will. But I wanted to apologize for how I behaved at your dad’s. I don’t want you to think that I’m mad at you, sweetheart. I love you so fucking much, Loren, and I need you to know that I would do anything for you, anything that you ask, even if you want me to leave you alone for good, I’ll do it. But I can’t stop thinking about how awful I was to you, Loren. I’m ashamed of how I just stormed out on you, and I needed…I needed to apologize. I don’t want my behavior to influence whether or not you come back to me.” He drew a deep, rattling breath as he stared out at the red-and-blue lights, wishing she would just pick up. “Call me whenever you want, and I’ll be here.” He hung up before he could say anything else, that stinging feeling in his eyes again.

Finally! Bandit fumed, black nose twitching. We have been waiting hours for you! There has been an emergency. Darien’s arms tensed around Loren. “What kind of emergency?” The female demon-monkey has stolen Cluckles! Darien rolled his eyes. “Oh for fuck’s sake.

He shifted his eyes from side to side in confusion. “What?” he asked quietly. Loren was shaking her head. “I’m starting to think you’re less of a devil than you paint yourself to be.” Darien gave her the kind of crooked smile that made the world tilt beneath her feet. “Sweetheart, I am not a devil. I am the devil. Don’t start getting the wrong idea.

Loren, you look scared. Maybe you should sit down.” Her voice is nicer than usual. I eye Connor. I look scared because your husband is domineering as hell.

Fuck, he was…nervous. So damn nervous. She was the only woman who’d ever managed to make him feel this way. The only woman who ever would. There would be no one after her. So he really hoped he wasn’t about to fuck their relationship up. If he did, he’d grovel. Would get on his knees like he’d told her before. Crawl for her—anything. Loren held his heart in her hands. She’d held it since the day he’d laid eyes on her in that alley on the Avenue of the Scarlet Star. He had belonged to her since the moment he’d chosen to kill for her—and back then, she didn’t even know it. And neither did he.

I dreamed of you,” Loren whispered, remembering that awful night in the Old Hall, when it had started raining. Flooding. Darien pulled back a little—just enough to see her face. There was a crease between his dark brows, and she fought the urge to smooth it, to trace his features with the tips of her fingers. Loren swallowed, tears flooding her eyes. “I was drowning, and you…you helped me breathe again.

But it wasn’t Darien. It was Bandit. He stood in the doorway, his eyes glowing like red fireflies. His rubber chicken toy was in his mouth. “Bandit?” she whispered. “What are you doing in here?” He took her question for an invitation to come inside, paws padding across the floor. ‘I bring a peace offering.’ Her brows went up. “A peace offering?” He came closer and opened his mouth. The chicken plopped onto the floor with a squeak. “You’re giving me Cluckles?” He sat down. ‘If I do, will you stop being angry with us?’ “Oh, Bandit,” she said with a soft laugh. Bandit must not have gotten the memo; she wondered what it was like for other people and their Familiars. How the mental bond worked. Bandit licked his chops. ‘Please. Take the chicken.’ He nudged it closer with his nose. ‘We cannot handle another day of Darien’s sour mood.’ “We?” she echoed. ‘Me and Cluckles, of course.’ She tried her darn best not to laugh, but it was so hard when he was this serious about the chicken. “Oh. You don’t have to give me your chicken, though, Bandit. Really.” He tilted his head. ‘I don’t?’ “No,” she said, unable to stop her laugh this time. “Darien and I already made up.” Bandit blinked his glowing eyes. Yep, he definitely hadn’t gotten the memo. Boots pounded on the stairs. Down the hallway. Darien appeared in the doorway. “Bandit,” he hissed. “It’s late. What the hell are you doing?” ‘Nothing.’ To Loren, Darien said, “Is he bothering you?” ‘I’m not bothering anyone,’ Bandit said. ‘I brought her a peace offering. It’s a good one, too.’ He puffed his chest out with pride. Darien came into the room. “A peace offering?” ‘I don’t want her to be mad anymore,’ Bandit said. ‘But she said you already made up and rutted, so I get to keep Cluckles.

I didn’t know people like this really existed,” Muse said. But she did. She saw them at Starbucks, the harried, doe-eyed women who thought a coffee shop was the perfect place for Mommy and Me hour, what with Brittany and Madison and Kyle in tow, all running around while the mommies—college graduates, former intellectuals—gabbed incessantly about their offspring as if no other child had ever existed. They gabbed about their poopies—yes, for real, their bowel movements!—and their first word and their social skills and their Montessori schools and their gymnastics and their Baby Einstein DVDs and they all had this brain-gone smile, like some alien had sucked their head dry, and Muse despised them on one level, pitied them on another and tried so damn hard not to be envious. Loren

I love you.” The statement, said with so much heart, made her blood sing, her pulse skipping for a reason unrelated to her health. “Anything you want, Loren, I’ll do it. You want me to get down on my knees, I’ll get down on my knees, I don’t care that these assholes are watching,” he said of Logan and Tanner, who pulled their eyes off them and found somewhere else to look. “I’ll do it right here.” He began to lower himself to the floor⁠— She squeezed his hands, stopping him. “Darien. No.” “Then name it. Whatever it is that’ll make you forgive me, I’ll do it, Loren. I’ll even lick the floor at your feet, if you want me to.” “If you lick the floor, I’ll be even more mad at you,” she said sternly. “Fine, no floor licking. But I mean it, baby, I’ll do anything.” He grasped her hands a little tighter, thumbs again grazing the backs of them as he awaited her response. Her forgiveness.

Hey,” Darien scolded, his door thumping shut. “Did she tell you that you’re allowed to sit on her?” Bandit turned his head to look Loren in the eyes, his nose nearly bumping against her cheek. ‘Excuse me, may I sit on you?’ She smiled and stroked the dog’s cropped ears. “Yes, Bandit, you may sit on me.

A Window Without Curtains She was called Mira by her clients, though it wasn’t her real name. Her real name had been shed years ago, discarded like an old skin in a city that didn’t care for pasts. She walked through the night in cheap perfume and tighter smiles, her heels echoing on concrete that never forgot the stories of women like her. By daylight, she was invisible. By night, she was needed. Room 403 was like the others. Beige walls. A bed that smelled of cleaning chemicals and regret. A window that didn’t open, without curtains, as if the hotel itself had given up pretending to offer privacy or dreams. Tonight, the man was late. Mira didn’t mind. The quiet was better company than most. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the flickering red numbers on the digital clock. 9:46. The room buzzed faintly from an old neon light outside. She could see its pink glow on the wall, shaped like the outline of a woman, eternally lit and forever waiting. She used to wait like that — in doorways, under blinking signs, for someone who would change things. A man with kind eyes. A job that didn’t come with bruises. A way out. But hope, she had learned, was a luxury sold to people with options. Not to girls like her. She met Layla at the corner of 52nd and Main three years ago. Layla had been in the game longer, a little older, a little harder. She smoked menthols and always carried pepper spray and a knife in her purse. "Hope gets you killed," Layla said once, lighting a cigarette with a shaky hand. “You dream, you slip. You slip, you die.” Mira remembered laughing. Not because it was funny — but because it was the only sound she could make that didn’t feel like screaming. The client finally showed. Tall, maybe mid-40s, with a wedding ring he didn’t bother to hide. “I don’t want to talk,” he said, tossing a crumpled wad of bills on the dresser. She nodded. It was easier that way. Words were dangerous — they made people real. She didn't want him to be real. She went through the motions. The fake moans. The practiced eyes. She thought of the ceiling, counted the little bumps in the paint, kept her breath even. When he left, she showered with the water scalding hot, scrubbing skin that never quite felt clean. Then she sat back on the bed, legs folded, watching the window again. It was raining now. The neon woman outside still smiled. One night, a month ago, Mira had walked into a bookstore. She didn’t know why. Maybe because it was raining, and she had nowhere to be yet. Maybe because it smelled like old paper and safety. She wandered in wet heels past shelves full of stories — princesses, detectives, women who fought dragons. She picked up a poetry book and flipped it open. The words were soft. Angry. Beautiful. “Do you want help finding something?” the clerk asked. Mira looked up, startled. The girl behind the counter couldn’t have been more than twenty, with round glasses and gentle eyes. “No,” Mira whispered, holding the book tighter. She didn’t buy it. She left without a word. But she came back two days later. And again the week after. She never bought anything. Just touched the spines and read a line or two. Something about it made her feel almost human again. Tonight, she opened her little purse. The one with the broken zipper. Inside were five twenties from the client, a stick of gum, a cracked compact, and a folded receipt from the bookstore. She stared at the receipt like it was a relic. Like it belonged to someone else.