Lucy Stone Quotes

Lucy looked and saw that Aslan had just breathed on the feet of the stone giant. It's all right!" shouted Aslan joyously. "Once The feet are put right, all the rest of him will follow.

Don't be so foolish to believe empires are built on stone. They're on bamboo stilts at best.

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

After all, moms were appreciated only on Mother's Day. That's why they invented it. So they could treat you like a household appliance the rest of the year.

My eyelids are heavy as stone. But when I sleep, I'll have that dream again. I haven't wanted to tell you about it, until now. I'll be in the Separates, and I'll be digging with my bare hands. When I've made a hole deep enough to plant a tree, I'll place my fingers inside. I'll slip off the ring you gave me. It will catch the light and glint a rainbow of colors over my skin, but I will take my hands away, leaving it there. I'll sprinkle the earth back over it, and I will bury it. Back where it belongs. I'll rest against a tree's rough trunk. The sun will be setting, it's dazzling color threading through the sky, making my cheeks warm. Then I will wake up. Good-bye, Ty, Gemma

You’d picked me up, so gently, as if I were a leaf you didn’t want to crush. You’d carried me somewhere. And I’d curled into your arms, tiny as a stone.

It is very little to me to have the right to vote, to own property, etc., if I may not keep my body, and its uses, in my absolute right

After all, God had created all the animals, and only one—mankind—had lost its innocence.

... it had become agreed that Jane would be excused household duties. It sounds like a tiny thing – and indeed it was – but a tiny trickle of water gradually hollows out a stone. Jane’s ducking out of the housework in order to write would lead inexorably onwards, upwards, towards women working, to women winning power in a world of men. This is the significance of trying to reconstruct the detail of Jane Austen’s daily life.

It was the eternal conundrum. Time passed too slowly, and then it was over too quickly. Hurry up and die.

If looks could kill, she’d be a dead woman.

Named for the early feminist crusader Lucy Stone—the first woman to keep her maiden name

Even though everything in the past twenty-four hours had been leading to this, even though it was a fear Isabel had harboured from the day she had first laid eyes on Lucy as a baby, still, the moment ripped through her. 'Please!’ she pleaded through tears. ‘Have some pity!’ Her voice reverberated around the bare walls. ‘Don’t take my baby away!’ As the girl was wrenched from her screaming, Isabel fainted onto the stone floor with a resounding crack.

When abolitionist and suffragist Lucy Stone married Henry Blackwell in 1855, the couple asked their minister to distribute a statement protesting marriage’s inequities. It read, in part: “While acknowledging our mutual affection by publicly assuming the relationship of husband and wife . . . this act on our part implies no sanction of, nor promise of voluntary obedience to such of the present laws of marriage, as refuse to recognize the wife as an independent, rational being, while they confer upon the husband an injurious and unnatural superiority.” Stone kept her last name, and generations of women who have done the same have been referred to as “Lucy Stoners.” An

He knew everything about big Mike Ainsel in this moment, and he liked Mike Ainsel. Mike Ainsel had none of the problems that Shadow had. Ainsel had never been married. Mike Ainsel had never been interrogated on a freight train by Mr. Wood an Mr. Stone. Televisions did not speak to Mike Ainsel (You want to see Lucy's tits? asked a voice in his head).

Who is Aslan?” asked Susan. “Aslan?” said Mr. Beaver, “Why, don’t you know? He’s the King. He’s the Lord of the whole wood, but not often here, you understand. Never in my time or my father’s time. But the word has reached us that he has come back. He is in Narnia at this moment. He’ll settle the White Queen all right. It is he, not you, that will save Mr. Tumnus.” “She won’t turn him into stone too?” said Edmund. “Lord love you, Son of Adam, what a simple thing to say!” answered Mr. Beaver with a great laugh. “Turn him into stone? If she can stand on her two feet and look him in the face it’ll be the most she can do and more than I expect of her. No, no. He’ll put all to rights, as it says in an old rhyme in these parts: Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight, At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more, When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again. You’ll understand when you see him.” “But shall we see him?” asked Susan. “Why, Daughter of Eve, that’s what I brought you here for. I’m to lead you where you shall meet him,” said Mr. Beaver. “Is--is he a man?” asked Lucy. “Aslan a man!” said Mr. Beaver sternly. “Certainly not. I tell you he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea. Don’t you know who is the King of Beasts? Aslan is a lion--the Lion, the great Lion.” “Ooh!” said Susan, “I’d thought he was a man. Is he--quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.” “That you will, dearie, and no mistake,” said Mrs. Beaver. “If there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.” “Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy. “Safe?” said Mr. Beaver. “Don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ’Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.

Come, Paul!" she reiterated, her eye grazing me with its hard ray like a steel stylet. She pushed against her kinsman. I thought he receded; I thought he would go. Pierced deeper than I could endure, made now to feel what defied suppression, I cried - "My heart will break!" What I felt seemed literal heart-break; but the seal of another fountain yielded under the strain: one breath from M. Paul, the whisper, "Trust me!" lifted a load, opened an outlet. With many a deep sob, with thrilling, with icy shiver, with strong trembling, and yet with relief - I wept. "Leave her to me; it is a crisis: I will give her a cordial, and it will pass," said the calm Madame Beck. To be left to her and her cordial seemed to me something like being left to the poisoner and her bowl. When M. Paul answered deeply, harshly, and briefly - "Laissez-moi!" in the grim sound I felt a music strange, strong, but life-giving. "Laissez-moi!" he repeated, his nostrils opening, and his facial muscles all quivering as he spoke. "But this will never do," said Madame, with sternness. More sternly rejoined her kinsman - "Sortez d'ici!" "I will send for Père Silas: on the spot I will send for him," she threatened pertinaciously. "Femme!" cried the Professor, not now in his deep tones, but in his highest and most excited key, "Femme! sortez à l'instant!" He was roused, and I loved him in his wrath with a passion beyond what I had yet felt. "What you do is wrong," pursued Madame; "it is an act characteristic of men of your unreliable, imaginative temperament; a step impulsive, injudicious, inconsistent - a proceeding vexatious, and not estimable in the view of persons of steadier and more resolute character." "You know not what I have of steady and resolute in me," said he, "but you shall see; the event shall teach you. Modeste," he continued less fiercely, "be gentle, be pitying, be a woman; look at this poor face, and relent. You know I am your friend, and the friend of your friends; in spite of your taunts, you well and deeply know I may be trusted. Of sacrificing myself I made no difficulty but my heart is pained by what I see; it must have and give solace. Leave me!" This time, in the "leave me" there was an intonation so bitter and so imperative, I wondered that even Madame Beck herself could for one moment delay obedience; but she stood firm; she gazed upon him dauntless; she met his eye, forbidding and fixed as stone. She was opening her lips to retort; I saw over all M. Paul's face a quick rising light and fire; I can hardly tell how he managed the movement; it did not seem violent; it kept the form of courtesy; he gave his hand; it scarce touched her I thought; she ran, she whirled from the room; she was gone, and the door shut, in one second. The flash of passion was all over very soon. He smiled as he told me to wipe my eyes; he waited quietly till I was calm, dropping from time to time a stilling, solacing word. Ere long I sat beside him once more myself - re-assured, not desperate, nor yet desolate; not friendless, not hopeless, not sick of life, and seeking death. "It made you very sad then to lose your friend?" said he. "It kills me to be forgotten, Monsieur," I said.

Finalmente capiva l'empatia che provava per quella ragazza che conosceva solo da pochi giorni. Lucy era una combattente. Non si rassegnava di fronte alle carte che il destino le aveva assegnato. Ogni giorno lottava per vivere, contro tutti i pronostici. Quel giorno avrebbe potuto scegliere di non premere il pulsante. Avrebbe potuto cedere alla sua malattia e scegliere la pace eterna ma non l'aveva fatto e c'era solo una cosa che glielo aveva impedito: la speranza

Lucy had no complaints about her dinner. Anything was fine with her as long as she didn’t have to cook it.

The dead don’t give up anything, but the living do.

A wife should no more take her husband’s name than he should hers. My name is my identity and must not be lost.

There is an Oscar Wilde quote about looking with a heart of stone upon the one you loved in your youth, at the hair you madly worshipped and wildly kissed.

Ooh!” said Susan in a different tone. “Look! I wonder--I mean, is it safe?” Lucy looked and saw that Aslan had just breathed on the feet of the stone giant. “It’s all right!” shouted Aslan joyously. “Once the feet are put right, all the rest of him will follow.” “That wasn’t exactly what I meant,” whispered Susan to Lucy. But it was too late to do anything about it now even if Aslan would have listened to her.

A trellis filled with roses arched above the patio, leading to a winding garden path made out of stones that Lucy wanted to skip along. Flowers in reds and pinks and whites and purples bloomed from the curved edges of the yard, so beautiful they reminded Lucy of something out of Eliza's paintings.

It all must have cost a fortune, guessed Lucy, who had lost track of the actual total sometime around December 18. Oh, sure, it had been great fun for the hour or two it took to open all the presents, but those credit card balances would linger for months. And what was she going to do about the letter? It was from the financial aid office at Chamberlain College advising her that they had reviewed the family’s finances and had cut Elizabeth’s aid package by ten thousand dollars. That meant they had to come up with the money or Elizabeth would have to leave school. She guiltily fingered the diamond studs Bill had surprised her with, saying they were a reward for all the Christmases he was only able to give her a handmade coupon book of promises after they finished buying presents for the kids. It was a lovely gesture, but she knew they couldn’t really afford it. She wasn’t even sure he had work lined up for the winter.

Tooth, leaning against the doorframe, all sweaty and butch, and oh, that body would soon be naked and wet from the shower. And Luci would be out here, silently howling by the door. “I could um… shower with my eyes closed. How’s that work?” Luci knew they were now wasting more time than they could possibly save by showering together, but pushing for it was impossible to resist. Not to mention that if Tooth ever actually agreed, Luci would open his eyes, see the Holy Grail of dicks, and then get spanked for it. Perfect. Two birds with one stone.

Something was crawling. Worse still, something was coming out. Edmund or Lucy or you would have recognized it at once, but Eustace had read none of the right books. The thing that came out of the cave was something he had never even imagined--a long lead-colored snout, dull red eyes, no feathers or fur, a long lithe body that trailed on the ground, legs whose elbows went up higher than its back like a spider’s, cruel claws, bat’s wings that made a rasping noise on the stones, yards of tail. And the lines of smoke were coming from its two nostrils. He never said the word Dragon to himself. Nor would it have made things any better if he had.

Oft had I heard of Lucy Gray, And when I crossed the Wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary Child. No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide Moor, The sweetest Thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the Fawn at play, The Hare upon the Green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. 'To-night will be a stormy night, You to the Town must go, And take a lantern, Child, to light Your Mother thro' the snow.' 'That, Father! will I gladly do; 'Tis scarcely afternoon -- The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon.' At this the Father raised his hook And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work, and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe, With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time, She wandered up and down, And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reached the Town. The wretched Parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the Moor; And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood A furlong from their door. And now they homeward turned, and cried 'In Heaven we all shall meet!' When in the snow the Mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downward from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they crossed, The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost, And to the Bridge they came. They followed from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living Child, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome Wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

Lucy Gray Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, And when I cross'd the Wild, I chanc'd to see at break of day The solitary Child. No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wild Moor, The sweetest Thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the Fawn at play, The Hare upon the Green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. "To-night will be a stormy night, You to the Town must go, And take a lantern, Child, to light Your Mother thro' the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do; 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon." At this the Father rais'd his hook And snapp'd a faggot-band; He plied his work, and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe, With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse, the powd'ry snow That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time, She wander'd up and down, And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reach'd the Town. The wretched Parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the Moor; And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood A furlong from their door. And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd "In Heaven we all shall meet!" When in the snow the Mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track'd the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone-wall; And then an open field they cross'd, The marks were still the same; They track'd them on, nor ever lost, And to the Bridge they came. They follow'd from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none. Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living Child, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome Wild. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

How can sloths exist when they’re such losers?” As a zoologist and founder of the Sloth Appreciation Society I get asked this question a lot. Sometimes “losers” is further defined—“lazy,” “stupid” and “slow” being perennial favorites. And sometimes the query is paired with the rider—“I thought evolution was all about survival of the fittest”—delivered with an air of bemusement or, worse, a whiff of superior species smugness. Sloths are, in fact, one of natural selection’s quirkiest creations, and fabulously successful to boot. Skulking about the treetops barely quicker than a snail, and being covered in algae, infested with insects and defecating just once a week might not be your idea of aspirational living, but then you’re not trying to survive in the highly competitive

Through Poppy’s eyes, she learned to see the treasures that the mountains held for those who lowered their eyes and let them linger on the ground: neat little mats of wild thyme encrusted on sun-baked rocks and stones covered with pin cushions of yellow saxifrage bobbing up and down between the sparkling ripples of the mountain streams. Lucy had passed waterfalls where tall, pink adenostyles stood proudly at the edge to be showered and splashed, and frothy clumps of white saxifrage cascaded from crannies in the shining, rocky sides into the tumbling waters below. She had wandered across hillsides where wild cumin blew on the breeze, ambled under the cool shadows of the pinewoods punctuated by bright, dainty astrantia and plodged through mountain bogs amongst the fluffy white drumsticks of cotton grass. 

To me he seems now all sacred, his locks are inaccessible, and, Lucy, I feel a sort of fear, when I look at his firm, marble chin, at his straight Greek features. Women are called beautiful, Lucy; he is not like a woman, therefore I suppose he is not beautiful, but what is he, then? Do other people see him with my eyes? Do you admire him?” “I’ll tell you what I do, Paulina,” was once my answer to her many questions. “I never see him. I looked at him twice or thrice about a year ago, before he recognised me, and then I shut my eyes; and if he were to cross their balls twelve times between each day’s sunset and sunrise, except from memory, I should hardly know what shape had gone by.” “Lucy, what do you mean?” said she, under her breath. “I mean that I value vision, and dread being struck stone blind.” It was best to answer her strongly at once, and to silence for ever the tender, passionate confidences which left her lips sweet honey, and sometimes dropped in my ear—molten lead. To me, she commented no more on her lover’s beauty.

Apples, heigh-ho,” said Trumpkin with a rueful grin. “I must say you ancient kings and queens don’t overfeed your courtiers!” They stood up and shook themselves and looked about. The trees were thick and they could see no more than a few yards in any direction. “I suppose your Majesties know the way all right?” said the Dwarf. “I don’t,” said Susan. “I’ve never seen these woods in my life before. In fact I thought all along that we ought to have gone by the river.” “Then I think you might have said so at the time,” answered Peter, with pardonable sharpness. “Oh, don’t take any notice of her,” said Edmund. “She always is a wet blanket. You’ve got that pocket compass of yours, Peter, haven’t you? Well, then, we’re as right as rain. We’ve only got to keep on going northwest--cross that little river, the what-do-you-call-it?--the Rush--” “I know,” said Peter. “The one that joins the big river at the Fords of Beruna, or Beruna’s Bridge, as the D.L.F. calls it.” “That’s right. Cross it and strike uphill, and we’ll be at the Stone Table (Aslan’s How, I mean) by eight or nine o’clock. I hope King Caspian will give us a good breakfast!” “I hope you’re right,” said Susan. “I can’t remember all that at all.” “That’s the worst of girls,” said Edmund to Peter and the Dwarf. “They never carry a map in their heads.” “That’s because our heads have something inside them,” said Lucy.

When they had gone less than a bowshot from the shore, Drinian said, “Look! What’s that?” and everyone stopped. “Are they great trees?” said Caspian. “Towers, I think,” said Eustace. “It might be giants,” said Edmund in a lower voice. “The way to find out is to go right in among them,” said Reepicheep, drawing his sword and pattering off ahead of everyone else. “I think it’s a ruin,” said Lucy when they had got a good deal nearer, and her guess was the best so far. What they now saw was a wide oblong space flagged with smooth stones and surrounded by gray pillars but unroofed. And from end to end of it ran a long table laid with a rich crimson cloth that came down nearly to the pavement. At either side of it were many chairs of stone richly carved and with silken cushions upon the seats. But on the table itself there was set out such a banquet as had never been seen, not even when Peter the High King kept his court at Cair Paravel. There were turkeys and geese and peacocks, there were boars’ heads and sides of venison, there were pies shaped like ships under full sail or like dragons and elephants, there were ice puddings and bright lobsters and gleaming salmon, there were nuts and grapes, pineapples and peaches, pomegranates and melons and tomatoes. There were flagons of gold and silver and curiously-wrought glass; and the smell of the fruit and the wine blew toward them like a promise of all happiness. “I say!” said Lucy. They came nearer and nearer, all very quietly. “But where are the guests?” asked Eustace. “We can provide that, Sir,” said Rhince.

The ownership of land is not natural. The American savage, ranging through forests who game and timber are the common benefits of all his kind, fails to comprehend it. The nomad traversing the desert does not ask to whom belong the shifting sands that extend around him as far as the horizon. The Caledonian shepherd leads his flock to graze wherever a patch of nutritious greenness shows amidst the heather. All of these recognise authority. They are not anarchists. They have chieftains and overlords to whom they are as romantically devoted as any European subject might be to a monarch. Nor do they hold as the first Christians did, that all land should be held in common. Rather, they do not consider it as a thing that can be parceled out. “We are not so innocent. When humanity first understood that a man’s strength could create good to be marketed, that a woman’s beauty was itself a commodity for trade, then slavery was born. So since Adam learnt to force the earth to feed him, fertile ground has become too profitable to be left in peace. “This vital stuff that lives beneath our feet is a treasury of all times. The past: it is packed with metals and sparkling stones, riches made by the work of aeons. The future: it contains seeds and eggs: tight-packed promises which will unfurl into wonders more fantastical than ever jeweller dreamed of -- the scuttling centipede, the many-branched tree whose roots, fumbling down into darkness, are as large and cunningly shaped as the boughs that toss in light. The present: it teems. At barely a spade’s depth the mouldy-warp travels beneath my feet: who can imagine what may live a fathom down? We cannot know for certain that the fables of serpents curving around roots of mighty trees, or of dragons guarding treasure in perpetual darkness, are without factual reality. “How can any man own a thing so volatile and so rich? Yet we followers of Cain have made of our world a great carpet, whose pieces can be lopped off and traded as though it were inert as tufted wool.

friends had started hanging around. Franny could feel her stomach hardening and twisting into knots when they arrived, pushing and shoving one another and tripping over their huge basketball shoes. It was a wonder they didn’t knock over a display rack or topple one of the neatly stacked pyramids of paint cans. They seemed to be everywhere at once, and she couldn’t possibly keep an eye on all of them. Actually, she was a little afraid of them. While they dressed like kids, she knew they were actually young men. They were bigger than she was and full of rough male energy. From what she observed it seemed Ben was their leader and they were reporting to him. She was sure they were up to no good. Their whispered conversation was full of winks and nudges, and they constantly checked over their shoulders to see if they were being overheard. She tried to keep her distance, but if she had to approach them to help a customer, she noticed they would move away or fall silent. Whenever Mr. Slack appeared, they disappeared. Returning to the invoices, Franny went through them one more time. She couldn’t understand it. According to the paperwork, the store had received enough batteries to last through the summer, based on her best estimate using last year’s figures. They’d gotten twenty boxes each of AA and D batteries, the most popular sellers, and ten boxes each of the other sizes. Last week she’d noticed the display rack was nearly empty, and she’d asked Ben to fill it. “Can’t,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes. “They’re all gone.” “There should be plenty in the storeroom,” she’d insisted, looking curiously at his two buddies, who were lounging by the paint display. They seemed to find the conversation extremely amusing. “Go check again.” “There’s no point. I’m telling you, they’re all gone. Look, I’m taking a break now,” he’d said, signaling his friends to follow him outside. Sure enough, she couldn’t find any batteries in the storeroom, either. She was sure they hadn’t been sold; she would have noticed the unusual number of sales and ordered more. Where had they gone? It was very disturbing, especially since she’d been having such a hard time lately making up the bank deposit. That was always the first task of the day. She would take the previous day’s take out of the safe and add up the checks and cash, square them with the total sales figure, and fill out the deposit slip. Then Mr. Slack would put the whole business in a blue vinyl zippered pouch and take it to the red-brick bank across the street. For the past few weeks, however, she hadn’t been able to get the figures to match, even though

Stone kept her last name, and generations of women who have done the same have been referred to as “Lucy Stoners.

asked.

The area housed many successful medium-sized businesses, such as the Whitechapel Bell Foundry, founded in 1570 (and Britain’s oldest continual manufacturer). By the eighteenth century, the foundry was exporting bells to the Americas, including the Liberty Bell, in 1752. The Liberty Bell left England bearing a biblical inscription which would have been familiar to both the French Protestants who had sought refuge only a stone’s throw away, and also the Jews who worshipped close by. It came from the book of Leviticus 25: 10: ‘Proclaim LIBERTY throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof.

stood Lucy, his

Maybe he was just a crazy guy who liked funerals.” Phyllis was applying polish topcoat with all the care of Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. “Nobody goes to funerals for fun,” said Lucy,

C’mon, Barney,” said Lucy. “Can’t you give me something for the paper? A body in the water is big news.” Lowering his voice so only she could hear, he said, “It’s Old Dan. At least I think it is. It’s hard to tell.” “The body’s decomposed?” she asked. “You could say that.” “His face is gone?” Lucy knew that was common when a body had been in the water. Crabs and fish usually started with the bare skin of the face and hands. “More than his face,” said Barney. “His whole head’s gone.

You think I look  like a queen from the outside?  Well, I can assure you that on the inside I am the whole fucking kingdom.

and she always came away with a sense of relief that she could leave. The place

I’ll be in the morgue.” Good place for him, thought Lucy, as she booted up her computer. If only he could stay there permanently. With Bill. They could sit and congratulate themselves on issuing tough lines and demands and ultimatums while the women of the world conciliated and compromised and kept things going.

Mike took off running toward the fountain and almost slipped on the slick stone surface, making the crowd gasp. Once he secured his footing, he raised his fists in triumph and the crowd cheered.

If you let your emotions—the ties that bind you to your desires and whims—control you," he continues as he finishes pouring. "Then you become attached. When you become attached, you become vulnerable. Emotions help, but they can hinder as well. Remember, you control your emotions and attachments. Never let them control you.

She's doing this for the money, and I'm doing this so I can go to sleep tonight without seeing that bastard's face.

You want to know if I'm okay? Yeah? I'm fucking fine. I survived. I'm not so fucking weak that I let some piece of shit, small-town drug dealer like Roger-fucking-Murphy get to me.

Want to make a bet?” I offer, leaving my fingers there—just inside her filthy wet cunt. It takes a moment for her to answer, and when she does, she sounds breathless. I like it. “What kind of bet?” she asks. “If you come on my fingers in less than two minutes, you’ll return the favor.” She snorts. “You want me to put my fingers in your ass too, D-man?

Oh no, baby, I want you to take my cock inside this sweet place right here.” She sucks my fingers, rolling her tongue around and between them, wetting them. “Deal?

That was less than two minutes,” I whisper with a grin. “Now, it’s my turn, baby.

I know what he wants. I know why I'm here. I know why he took off his fucking mask because he’s not planning on letting me out of here alive. "Are we done playing twenty questions now?

You loved every filthy minute, every inch of my cock in your pussy, baby. And I know you want it again. You need time, I get that, and I will wait—no matter that it kills me. But make no mistake, Avalon. You are mine. Regardless of what’s happened, nothing changes that.

I keep sawing, half of the hair in my grip now is loose, having been cut away by my knife. The cutting is uneven, some of it closely shorn to her head, other bits longer and jagged. She's sobbing as she continues to fight me, but I imagine that it would be much worse if I'd merely held her down and let some dude rape her. This isn't even a fraction of what I had felt. This is nothing compared to what I'd gone through. A part of me wishes I could do that to her too, but I won't. Maybe I'm not as bad as I thought, I wonder

I finish chopping off her hair and pull her ponytail away from her head, holding it up as her fingers finally stop trying to hit me and go to the scalp short strands of her head, pulling at them in horror. "Let this be a lesson to you, Kate," I say, waving the hair I have in my grip before her face.

Only one,” he confirms. “Me. Because that’s the only way you’ll get me to stay away from you, Avalon.

I urge her to wrap her thighs around me, and like the good girl, I know she can be—though God knows she rarely is—Avalon does.

I’ve got bad news for you—I’ve seen scary, and you don’t look anything like me.” His smile widens. “Best answer I’ve ever heard,” he says. “And I think it also answers my first question about you.

Taking a life is very personal, Dean," he says quietly. “I want you to understand that.

Emotions keep you human. They ground you.

dream about killing Roger Murphy—over and over again. In any way I can. A bullet to the brain had done the trick, but since then, my sick mind has come up with all other manner of ways I could've done the deed.

I'm going to teach Kate Coleman a lesson," I reply, facing forward in my seat. "Fuck with me and you'll regret it.

This can't be happening. I think I'm in love with Dean Carter.

Then something else she said hits me. She'd known I was going to be there. That isn't possible. It'd been a last-minute thing. I hadn't even known I was going to be there until less than an hour before. My eyes widen. I need to talk to Corina again.

My hand snaps out, my fingers wrapping around her ponytail, and I lift her up by it. She shrieks and claws at my hand as I put the edge of Dean's knife against the strands on the other side of the band keeping her hair in place. "No! Oh my god!" she screams. "What are you doing!

My tongue slips between her folds to find her little clit, pulsing as I lave it with attention. The longer I go, the louder her noises get. Sighs to moans to groans. Her hips bump back as she pushes herself onto my face. I use the bar through my tongue, sliding it up and down over her clit and through her pussy. I wish I’d thought to buy a vibrating tongue ring for just this moment. I feel overwhelmed by her, loving the goddamn demand of her body as she seeks out her orgasm. I

I'm going to kill, but I shouldn't be mad about it? Not when all I am is mad. I'm mad that I'm missing my time with Brax and Abel for this. I'm mad that he's never home, and when he is, I'm pulled into his office for stupid lectures about stupid things. I'm mad that Mom's always drunk, and when she isn't, she's worse.

And strangely, it doesn't get to me the way something else does. His death. Roger's murder at my hands. That's what I remember in clear monochrome sharpened detail. Every twitch of his face as I pressed the barrel of Dean's gun against his forehead and then the resistance against my finger as I squeezed the trigger.

Why had I slept with Dean? Not fucked him, but fallen asleep in his arms, at his side. Because … for the first time in my life, I'd actually felt safe. I hate him. I hate him for giving that to me and then making me rip myself away.

The Sick Boys?" she clarifies. "No, the fucking Wiggles—yes, the Sick Boys," I snap.

But you should know that I will do any number of deliciously wicked things to get you to notice me.

They tortured Roger Murphy before I killed him. They did it like they had done the same thing a thousand times before. Easily. Without remorse. And if I was reading the three of them right, they liked it.

Keep her close. Keep her out of danger, Son. Maintain your emotions. I won't always be around to fix your mistakes.

When you first got here, I really hoped you would just keep your head down and not stir up any trouble," she answers.

Wrath. Hatred. And sweet, beautiful revenge.

A wildness. A wickedness. A feeling. In this man's eyes, I see none of that. What I see is just … nothing. No emotion. No happiness. No glee. No remorse.

Then tell me something, Dean,” I say. “Since I’m yours, does that make you mine, too?” He drops my hair and stares into my eyes. “Yes.

It's kind of funny how much easier college is compared to high school. High school teachers will do and say almost anything to convince you of how difficult college will be—how uncompromising professors will be. It's all bullshit. High school teachers have to hold themselves to a higher standard, but college professors actually show their humanity. They walk in with bags under their eyes and coffees clutched in their fists just like the rest of us.

My mind is a clusterfuck.

Patricia Manning. If Dean wants to take care of her—set her up in some rehab center somewhere—fine. But I'm done. If she wants to kill herself, let her. I don't care.

Don't be a drama queen, baby. You're sleeping on that bed. With me." He says it as if it brooks no argument, but he's going to get an argument. "I will skin you alive," I snap. He grins, stepping closer. "Kinky.

But you are going to sleep in that bed with me, Ava. Even if I have to tie you down." "Now who's being kinky?" I ask right before I mentally slap myself. I close my eyes and grit my teeth.

I relax into the mattress and in less than two minutes, I pass the fuck out.

Grabbing the half-drunk water from the nightstand, I take it back into the bathroom along with the two others found in the mini fridge and upend them all into the sink, draining the drugged water before placing a quiet call to the front desk to have them replaced with regular ones.

Guilt sits heavy in my chest. It’d been a dick move to drug the water I knew she’d drink. I’d purposefully not stopped for anything on the way here. I’m confident that no one at this hotel will say anything. People’s desire to keep their cash flow always trump their moral compass. Had I not drugged her, though, I knew she would’ve sat up all night thinking. She needs the sleep, I think, as I stare at the dark circles under her eyes.

You don't sleep anywhere but with me, baby," he says. "This?" He gestures to the room at my back. "Is just when you need some space.

I just react to the violence inside of me, letting it loose on the nearest person. I pull my fist back and punch Dean right in his stupid face and then shove him against the wall to get past him.

Running. Danger. Cliff diving. Shit, I bet that's what she's doing right now. I groan. I don't mind the fucked up shit she does. Hell, even if she felt like killing someone, I'd be down, but I just want to be there. With her.

Like a phoenix reborn from the ashes, I know she's going to wreck the world we live in, and like the fucking masochist I am, I want to bathe in her fire.

I would’ve expected Dean or Abel, not Braxton. He’s the one I feel the least angry with right now.

And maybe I’d let you if I knew I could get reciprocation, but since we both know that’s not going to happen, how about we leave my ass alone for the night, hmmm?

Ever heard the phrase 'with power comes great responsibility'?" he asks. I snort. "What are you? Spider-man?

Say they help you when you have nothing to give them. Say they keep your secrets, secrets that they could very well take advantage of. What does it mean when all they ask for in return is for you to let them take care of you?

I'm not sleeping with you," she says matter of factly.

Yes, you are, baby," I say, my tone unremorseful as I prop open the passenger side door and then bend down, setting her back on her feet before hustling her into the car.

That's why he did this?" I demand. "Because he wants to take care of me?

We need to talk about why you feel the need to control me." "You're mine," he says like it's a fact, like it's suddenly some law written in ancient stone.

The scariest part of this whole conversation is that all of my fury is because every time he says ‘mine,’ every time he claims me as his, it doesn’t sound wrong.

As if he senses just how close to the edge I am, Dean rips me away from the wall, turns me around, and shoves me face-first back into it. A wave of fury, combined with … is that … lust? No. It can’t be. I can’t be fucking turned on right now. There’s no way in hell. But I am. I’m irrevocably hot, and even though the anger is there, the rage just simmering beneath the surface, my lust is separate. Sitting there, waiting.