Princes Of Legacy Quotes

Kami'd always retold her fairy tales to make the fair maidens braver and more self-sufficient, but she had never had any real objection to the handsome prince.

I never wanted a prince. I prefer an unhinged motherfucker.” “Hey! That’s me!

Why don't you ever call me my prince?" Galen says, feigning insult. "Shut up, my prince. There, is that better?

I love him with my sane and insane parts. He’s my lotus flower. My Prince Charming. The love of my life. Mine.

Fool yourself all you want, little prince, but don’t feign innocence with me. I won’t let your father get away with what he’s done. I won’t let your ignorance silence my pain.

Eggs—runny, coffee—black, beer—cold, music—loud, cars,” I floor the gas. She laughs out the rest. “Fast.

It matters, Emma." He grabs my hand and pulls me to him again. "Tell me right now. Do you care for me?" "If you can't tell that I'm stupid in love with you, Galen, then you aren't a very good ambassador for the hum-" His mouth covers mine, cutting me off. This kiss isn't gentle like the first one. It's definitely not sweet. It's rough, demanding, searching. And disorienting. There's not a part of me that isn't melting against Galen, not a part that isn't combusting with his fevered touch. I accidentally moan into his lips. He takes it for his cue to life me off my feet, to pull me up to his height for more leverage. I take his groan for my cue to kiss him harder. He ignores his cell phone ringing in his pocket. I ignore the rest of the universe. Even when headlights approach, I'm willing to overlook their intrusion and keep kissing. But, prince that he is Galen is a little more refined than me at this moment. He gently pries his lips from mine and sets me down. His smile is both intoxicated and intoxicating. "We still need to talk.

I am, and always have been - first, last, and always - a child of America. You raised me. I grew up in the pastures and hills of Texas, but I had been to thirty-four states before I learned how to drive. When I caught the stomach flu in the fifth grade, my mother sent a note to school written on the back of a holiday memo from Vice President Biden. Sorry, sir—we were in a rush, and it was the only paper she had on hand. I spoke to you for the first time when I was eighteen, on the stage of the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, when I introduced my mother as the nominee for president. You cheered for me. I was young and full of hope, and you let me embody the American dream: that a boy who grew up speaking two languages, whose family was blended and beautiful and enduring, could make a home for himself in the White House. You pinned the flag to my lapel and said, “We’re rooting for you.” As I stand before you today, my hope is that I have not let you down. Years ago, I met a prince. And though I didn’t realize it at the time, his country had raised him too. The truth is, Henry and I have been together since the beginning of this year. The truth is, as many of you have read, we have both struggled every day with what this means for our families, our countries, and our futures. The truth is, we have both had to make compromises that cost us sleep at night in order to afford us enough time to share our relationship with the world on our own terms. We were not afforded that liberty. But the truth is, also, simply this: love is indomitable. America has always believed this. And so, I am not ashamed to stand here today where presidents have stood and say that I love him, the same as Jack loved Jackie, the same as Lyndon loved Lady Bird. Every person who bears a legacy makes the choice of a partner with whom they will share it, whom the American people will “hold beside them in hearts and memories and history books. America: He is my choice. Like countless other Americans, I was afraid to say this out loud because of what the consequences might be. To you, specifically, I say: I see you. I am one of you. As long as I have a place in this White House, so will you. I am the First Son of the United States, and I’m bisexual. History will remember us. If I can ask only one thing of the American people, it’s this: Please, do not let my actions influence your decision in November. The decision you will make this year is so much bigger than anything I could ever say or do, and it will determine the fate of this country for years to come. My mother, your president, is the warrior and the champion that each and every American deserves for four more years of growth, progress, and prosperity. Please, don’t let my actions send us backward. I ask the media not to focus on me or on Henry, but on the campaign, on policy, on the lives and livelihoods of millions of Americans at stake in this election. And finally, I hope America will remember that I am still the son you raised. My blood still runs from Lometa, Texas, and San Diego, California, and Mexico City. I still remember the sound of your voices from that stage in Philadelphia. I wake up every morning thinking of your hometowns, of the families I’ve met at rallies in Idaho and Oregon and South Carolina. I have never hoped to be anything other than what I was to you then, and what I am to you now—the First Son, yours in actions and words. And I hope when Inauguration Day comes again in January, I will continue to be.

I can be your fucking Prince Charming, knight in shining armor, and dream fucking fantasy all rolled into one while I fuck up your life.

I fell in love with a mafia prince.

I want more, too. I want to corrupt, tarnish, and ruin you so deeply, no one will recognize you when I’m done with you. Not even your fucking prince.

Yellow Mask can only be Nikolai Sokolov. Another Russian mafia prince, Killian and Gareth’s cousin, and the craziest twat who ever walked the earth.

Save the world. What a thought. Was this asteroid really speeding toward Earth on a collision course? Would it really wipe out everything? Could humans really do anything to stop it? It was just too incredible. As she considered the circumstances of her life right now, she felt like she’d just stuck her face into the middle of a tornado. But Jeremy wasn’t the tornado. He was an anchor for her heart, and a piece of her she knew she had been missing all her life. He was the kind of guy little girls dream of when they wish to grow up and marry a wonderful prince— strong, sensitive, smart, kind, the list just went on. She smiled at herself. It seems that it’s difficult to focus on the end of the world when you’ve just found love.    

And a piece of advice, little prince. Don't put your life in my hands unless you want that life to end.

There’s my motherfucker.

It is lonely when you’re among people, too.”—Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

We both know I didn’t deserve you . . . but you made me feel like I did . . . even if I wouldn’t even fucking hold your hand,” I admit. “I was going to,” I sniff. “I was going to try to be that guy. I was that guy. I just . . .” I slide my thumb along hers, the burn unbearable. “I would give fucking anything for one more day. Just one.

He’s my lotus flower. My Prince Charming. The love of my life. Mine.

Anyaele Sam Chiyson Leadership Law of Legacy: Supreme leaders determine where generations are going and develop outstanding leaders they pass the baton to.

Despite what some say, not all birds are attracted to shiny, spinning things.

But you are worth it for me, Dom.

A mouthwatering combination of fire and water.

You’re an asshole.” And you’re the most beautiful punishment I’ve ever been dealt.

You’re a living, breathing fucking human being and allowed to behave as one.

But the true reason was, if I so much as took another step toward her, I never would have gotten back in that car.

If you leave, we will be brothers wherever you go, right, Maman?

I feel sorry for the bastard that will deserve and eventually claim her for good. She’s going to give him hell.

I love you too, Cecelia.” No more rain.

Elle est trop belle. Trop intelligente. Mais trop jeune. Cette fille sera ta perte . . .” She is too beautiful. Too smart. But too young. This girl will be your undoing . . .

Do you want me to lie to you? Do you want me to wear a mask around you, pretend to be someone who’ll be accepted by your pretty little morals, is that it, Glyndon? Because I can be your fucking Prince Charming, knight in shining armor, and dream fucking fantasy all rolled into one while I fuck up your life.

By the way, I googled the meaning of Brandon, and it literally means prince or king. Don't I get brownie points for calling you Prince Charming?

my last confession, far, far too late. “I love you too, Cecelia.” No more rain.

Because I can be your fucking Prince Charming, knight in shining armor, and dream fucking fantasy all rolled into one while I fuck up your life.

Mmm. Prince Charming is covered in my cum. Yum. I can get used to this view.

He’s a man with too many secrets and no one to share them with.

Not in the mood for foreplay right now, but how about a Mountain Dew?

Your people, your guards-- they're nothing more than killers, rapists and thieves. The only difference between them and criminals is the uniform they wear." She pulls herself to her feet and palms the tears from her eyes. "Fool yourself all you want, little prince, but don't feign innocence with me. I won't let your father get away with what he's done. I won't let your ignorance silence my pain.

Now, it is our understanding that his Majesty Grom is requesting an unsealing from his mating with the Common Paca?” “That is correct,” Antonis says, rolling his eyes. “Poseidon’s beard, but this is repetitive.” Tandel ignores the elder king’s bluster. “It is also our understanding that Prince Galen requests, in exchange for his help, and the help of Emma the Half-Breed, that he is permitted to mate with Emma as if she were full-blooded Syrena.” “You have that correct,” Galen answers gruffly. Tandel pauses. “And do the Royals have any more requests at this time?” “Yes,” Emma says, to Galen’s surprise. She’s never held back from speaking what’s on her mind. But she never acknowledged herself as a Royal until now. “Because of my Half-breed status, and the fact that I’ve lived on land all my life, I would like for the Royals to be able to visit me here whenever they like. I know that under the current laws, that’s not allowed, but I want that changed.” “You might as well agree to that, Tandel,” Antonis says. “Or else you’ll be holding another tribunal for the Royals, because all of us intend to be visiting land more often I think.” “Actually I won’t be visiting land,” Galen says. He turns to Emma. “I’ll be living here.” Tears pool in her eyes. He catches one sliding down her cheek and kisses it away. Her reaction just confirms what he’d suspected all along. That she’s been worried about it. How it would work out between them, where would they live. Emma had said before that she wanted the best of both worlds. Prom, graduation, college. Swimming with dolphins, visiting the Titanic, searching for Amelia Earhart’s plane. He intends to make sure she has it all.

As allergic as I am to the feeling circus, even I know women crave some show of possessiveness, even if I agree they should be given the choice.

These men don’t need a King. They don’t need a Princess. They need a mother.

No matter how mad you make each other, you will always be brothers.

You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, Cecelia, especially when you come apart for me.

As if she feels my summons, she turns her head, and our eyes collide. The second it happens, an odd premonition runs through me as a whisper snakes its way into my psyche.

Despite the grudge I have against her maker, she really is the most beautiful fucking girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Looking into her eyes, I vow she’ll never know about the monsters she can’t see because I’ll slay them all before they have a chance to get to her. Even if that monster is me.

We spend far too much of our lives at work to have it be in opposition to the person we desire to be.

Your creations carry on your legacy longer than your kids will ever do.

I’m not afraid to go head-to-head with whatever waits around the corner, but I’m terrified her hand will no longer be there when I reach for it.

This is love, and I’m dangerously consumed by it.

You have found love.” Delphine’s whisper trickles in. It found me. Whoosh. Whoosh. “I love you,” I whisper in declaration just as thunder rattles the sliding glass doors,

Mother greet you, Father keep you. I love you, brother.” Whoosh. “It’s time to sleep, Petit Prince.

Feral kids with no one looking for or calling us home while we did the best we could with our dealt hands.

Come on, Sean!” “I’m right behind you,” I whisper in promise, “I’m right behind you, Dom.

How in the hell am I supposed to do this without you? The truth is, I can’t . . . but you’re going to make me, aren’t you?

With the slam of Russell’s car door, the morning birds begin to sing as if our whole world didn’t just fucking stop. My only friend.

You’re his greatest investment,

I wish you would have taken me with you, but I guess, in a way, you took us all with you.

I’m sorry.” Feeling the shatter of finality, I press a salty, damp kiss to her temple, my whisper for her ear, my last confession, far, far too late. “I love you too, Cecelia.” No more rain.

Life given and life taken away, and every moment in between. I live it all, with them, through them, as them. Whoosh. “If you leave, we will be brothers wherever you go, right, Maman?” Whoosh. Tobias presses his forehead to mine as I relay through stunted breaths that there is no separation—one last secret to take with me. “Frères pour toujours.” Whoosh. Cecelia’s storm engulfs me fully, sweeping me into the blissful state only she could ever take me as my brother’s whisper reaches me, “Mother greet you, Father keep you. I love you, brother.” Whoosh. “It’s time to sleep, Petit Prince.” Whoosh.

I didn't have a choice." "Are you saying...What are you saying?" Is he...could he be talking about me? He runs a hand through his hair. I've never seen him this emotional before. He's always so controlled, so sure of himself. "I'm saying you're what I want, Emma. I'm saying I'm in love with you." He steps forward and lifts his hand to my cheek, blazing a line of fire with his fingertips as they trace down to my mouth. "How do you think it would make me feel to see you with Grom?" he whispers. "Like someone ripped my heart out and put it through Rachel's meat grinder, that's how. Probably worse. It would probably kill me. Emma, please don't cry." I throw my hands in the air. "Don't cry? Are you serious? Why did you come here, Galen? Did you think it would make me feel better to know that you do love me, but that it still won't work out? That I still have to mate with Grom for the greater good? Don't you tell me not to cry, Galen! I...c...c...can't h...h...help-" The waterworks soak me. Galen looks at me, hands by his side, helpless as a trapped crab. I'm bordering on hyperventilation, and pretty soon I'll start hiccupping. This is too much. His expression is so severe, it looks like he's in physical pain. "Emma," he breathes. "Emma, does this mean you feel the same way? Do you care for me at all?" I laugh, but it sounds sharper than I intended, because of a hiccup. "What does it matter how I feel, Galen? I think we pretty much covered why. No need to rehash things, right?" "It matters, Emma." He grabs my hand and pulls me to him again. "Tell me right now. Do you care for me?" "If you can't tell that I'm stupid in love with you, Galen, then you aren't a very good ambassador for the hum-" His mouth covers mine, cutting me off. This kiss isn't gentle like the first one. It's definitely not sweet. It's rough, demanding, searching. And disorienting. There's not a part of me that isn't melting against Galen, not a part that isn't combusting with his fevered touch. I accidentally moan into his lips. He takes it for his cue to lift me off my feet, to pull me up to his height for more leverage. I take his groan for my cue to kiss him harder. He ignores his cell phone ringing in his pocket. I ignore the rest of the universe. Even when headlights approach, I'm willing to overlook their intrusion and keep kissing. But, prince that he is, Galen is a little more refined than me at this moment. He gently pries his lips from mine and sets me down. His smile is both intoxicated and intoxicating. "We still need to talk." "Right," I say, but I'm shaking my head. He laughs. "I didn't come all the way to Atlantic City to make you cry." "I'm not crying." I lean into him again. He doesn't refuse my lips, but he doesn't do them justice either, planting a measly little kiss on them before stepping back.

Spleen Je suis comme le roi d'un pays pluvieux, Riche, mais impuissant, jeune et pourtant très vieux, Qui, de ses précepteurs méprisant les courbettes, S'ennuie avec ses chiens comme avec d'autres bêtes. Rien ne peut l'égayer, ni gibier, ni faucon, Ni son peuple mourant en face du balcon. Du bouffon favori la grotesque ballade Ne distrait plus le front de ce cruel malade; Son lit fleurdelisé se transforme en tombeau, Et les dames d'atour, pour qui tout prince est beau, Ne savent plus trouver d'impudique toilette Pour tirer un souris de ce jeune squelette. Le savant qui lui fait de l'or n'a jamais pu De son être extirper l'élément corrompu, Et dans ces bains de sang qui des Romains nous viennent, Et dont sur leurs vieux jours les puissants se souviennent, II n'a su réchauffer ce cadavre hébété Où coule au lieu de sang l'eau verte du Léthé // I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch, one who escapes his tutor's monologues, and kills the day in boredom with his dogs; nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry, his people dying by the balcony; the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite no longer gets him through a single night; his bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb; even the ladies of the court, for whom all kings are beautiful, cannot put on shameful enough dresses for this skeleton; the scholar who makes his gold cannot invent washes to cleanse the poisoned element; even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy, our tyrants' solace in senility, he cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood. — Robert Lowell, from Marthiel & Jackson Matthews, eds., The Flowers of Evil (NY: New Directions, 1963)

Where do I belong?” “With me,” my mother and Galen say in unison. They exchange hard glares. Galen locks his jaw. “I’m her mother,” she tells Galen, her voice sharp. “Her place is with me.” “I want her for my mate,” Galen says. The admission warms up the space between us with an impossible heat and I want to melt into him. His words, his declaration, cannot be unspoken. And how he’s declared it to everyone who matters. It’s out there in the open, hanging in the air. He wants me for his mate. Me. Him. Forever. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. How I should feel about that. I’ve known for some time that he wanted that eventually, but how soon? Before we graduate? Before I go to college? What does it mean to mate with him? He’s a Triton prince. His place is with the Syrena, in the ocean. And let’s not forget that my place with them is dead-no Half-Breeds allowed. We have so much to talk about before this can even happen, but I feel saying so might make him feel rejected, or embarrass him in front of his older brother, the great Triton king. Or like I’m having second thoughts, and I’m not. Not exactly. I peer up at him, wanting to see his eyes, to see the promise in them that I heard in his voice. But he won’t look at me. He’s not looking at Mom, either. He keeps his iron glare on Grom, unyielding and demanding. But Grom doesn’t wither under the weight of it. In fact, he deflects it with an indifferent expression. They are definitely engaging in some sort of battle of will via manly staring contest.

But you are worth it for me, Dom.” My shoulders relax slightly as I circle her waist, my heart still pounding with the truth—there was never really a fucking decision. There was only giving into the one I’d already made.

The helplessness, utter hopelessness I’ve felt over the last months hasn’t gone unnoticed by the one person I’ve refused to show any of my cards to, and still, she sees me. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Because she does know me.

It’s the sight of Dom’s limp hand that has my throat closing as Sean’s agonized grunts fill the air. With the slam of Russell’s car door, the morning birds begin to sing as if our whole world didn’t just fucking stop. My only friend.

As it turns out, hell isn’t discriminatory about geographic location but is, in fact, a state meant for me to endure wherever I may roam. That truth made evident today when it faithfully followed me home to watch me shatter on impact.

I lost the best thing that ever happened to me because of that failure while discovering one of the most damning truths about the four-letter curse—about love, which is that you don’t know how significant or powerful it is until you lose it.

I was robbed, Errin.” He strokes my face with his thumb before turning it back to him. “Of my life. Of my inheritance. Snuffed out at barely twenty-two years old. I have spent five hundred years asleep. I woke to nothing. The legacy my family spent generations building is ash, scattered to the wind. I was promised a kingdom,” he snarls. “I was promised the greatest kingdom the world had ever known. And I will have one. If it means cobbling one together from the ruins of Lormere and Tregellan.

I’m so fucking lost, Dom.” I fist my eyes as the merciless crack ripples through me as it has every single day since he left. “How in the hell am I supposed to do this without you? The truth is, I can’t . . . but you’re going to make me, aren’t you?

To Renard's suspicious eye, Elizabeth's nebulous role at court had taken on a new and sinister signifiance. This unspoken Protestant heir presumptive was suddenly the greatest obstacle to Prince Philip's path to England and Renard had already resolved to dispose of her at his earliest conveneicne. Accordingly, he invited her to dance and tried his hand at a little subtle flattery. They manoevered delicately down the Hall, like two scorpions locked in mortal combat, but no matter how he tried, he could not get close enough to sting.

I decide to hate him for as long as I can for his unshakable faith in me—along with sharing his current obsession—while firmly sticking to the belief that labels are for weak-minded, insecure men. That a woman’s affection and loyalty should be freely given, never demanded.

Her kiss is hungry, as if long deprived. As if they didn’t already spend the morning doing just exactly this, making up for the lost time they were apart. Triton’s trident, I could do this all day. Then he catches himself. No, I couldn’t. Not without wanting more. Which is why we need to stop. Instead, he entwines his hands in her hair, and she teases his lips with her tongue, trying to get him to fully open his mouth to her. He gladly complies. Her fingers sneak their way under his shirt, up his stomach, sending a trail of fire to his chest. He is about to lose his shirt altogether. Until Antonis’s voice booms from the doorway. “Extract yourself from Prince Galen, Emma,” he says. “You two are not mated. This behavior is inappropriate for any Syrena, let alone a Royal.” Emma’s eyes go round as sand dollars. He can tell she’s not sure what to think about her grandfather telling her what to do. Or maybe she’s caught off guard that he called her a Royal. Either way, like most people, Emma decides to obey. Galen does, too. They stand up side by side, not daring to be close enough to touch. They behold King Antonis in a polka-dot bathrobe, and though he’s the one who looks silly, they are the ones who look shamed. Galen feels like a fingerling again. “I apologize, Highness,” he says. It seems like all he does lately is apologize to the Poseidon king. “It was my fault.” Antonis gives him a reproving look. “I like you, young prince. But you well know the law. Do not disappoint me, Galen. My granddaughter is deserving of a proper mating ceremony.” Galen can’t meet his eyes. He’s right. I shouldn’t be flirting with temptation like this. With the Archives on their way-or possibly here already-there is a distant but small chance that he and Emma can still live within the confines of the law. That they can still live as mates under the Syrena tradition. And he almost just blew it. What if it had gone too far? Then his mating with Emma would forever be blemished by breaking the law. “It won’t happen again, Highness.” Not until we’re mated, anyway. “Um. Did you just promise not to kiss me ever again?” Emma whispers. “Can we talk about this later? The Archives are obviously here, angelfish.” She’s on the verge of a fit, he can tell. “He’s just looking out for us,” Galen says quickly. “I agree, we need to respect the law-“ At this her fit subsides as if it was never there. She smiles wide at him. He can’t decide if it’s genuine, or if it’s the kind of smile she gives him when he’ll pay for something later. “Okay, Galen.” “Galen, Emma,” Nalia calls from the dining room, saving him from making a fool of himself. “Everyone is here.” Emma gives him a look that clearly says, “We’re so not done with this conversation.” Then she turns and walks away. Galen takes a second to regain a little bit of composure-which kissing Emma tends to steal from him. Then there’s the mortification of being interrupted by-Get it together, idiot.

Intuition isn’t something I’ve been granted the same way others have—a gift that sparks up at certain times for guidance. It’s never been that way for me. For the entirety of my life, it’s been my daily fuel and has never failed me. Not once. So how did I get here? How in the fuck did I get here?

All I'd wanted was a normal life. Then I'd met Nicco, and it was like being in a fairytale. My very own prince to chase away the monsters and protect my heart. But it was all a lie. The truth was much worse. The truth was my life had just become a living nightmare. One I didn't know how I would survive.

Allowing the ache to have its way with me, I watch as Clint steps forward. He pulls his latest annual sobriety chip from his pocket before bending down to Dom’s grave, his words drifting back to Zach and me. “I wanted you to have this one.” He pushes the chip into the ground in front of the gravestone. “You saved my life, brother. In more ways than one. Thank you.

When I remain silent, his voice darkens to an edge I’ve never heard before. “Do you want me to lie to you? Do you want me to wear a mask around you, pretend to be someone who’ll be accepted by your pretty little morals, is that it, Glyndon? Because I can be your fucking Prince Charming, knight in shining armor, and dream fucking fantasy all rolled into one while I fuck up your life.

They’re not worthy to rule. None of them. I will go and get the Half-Breed and prove to you just how untrustworthy they are. All of them know about her. Every last one. I challenge Prince Galen to deny it.” Galen locks eyes with Toraf. How could he do this to me? How could he do this to Emma? Now everyone present knows of her existence. She won’t be safe anywhere, not with Jagen in control. Especially because Toraf, the best Tracker in Syrena history, has just vowed to find her and bring her here. Which will be excessively easy, since he knows exactly where she is. She trusts him. Rachel trusts him. It will be so simple for him. And I have no way of warning her, of getting to her. All I can do is protect her when she gets here. Tandel quiets the crowd, one of his primary duties as of late. When he has achieved control, he turns to Galen. “Your Highness, would you like to address these accusations against you?” Galen swims to the center stone without taking his eyes off Toraf. “If something happens to her because of you,” he whispers to his one-time friend, his voice raw with hurt, “your death will be my priority.” Toraf opens his mouth to say something, but Galen cuts him off to address the crowd. There is nothing Toraf can say to him that will make this right. There is nothing Toraf can say to him that will hurt him more. “I have nothing at all to say to these accusations.” Tandel sighs. “Very well, Highness. Thank you.” Galen swims to the Trackers who hold his sister. His sister who now sobs uncontrollably. “Come on, minnow,” he says. “He’s not worth your tears.” “Yes, he is,” she wails. The Trackers release her to her brother. They’re distressed with the task of comforting a hysterical female. Galen squeezes her to him, but won’t let her turn around and look at Toraf. “He isn’t. In time you’ll see that.” “Why would he bring Emma here, Galen? Why would he do this to us?” Galen swallows the vomit creeping its way into his throat. “I don’t know, minnow. I don’t know.

Think of all the love poured into him. Think of the tuitions for Montessori and music lessons. Think of the gasoline expended, the treads worn carting him to football games, basketball tournaments, and Little League. Think of the time spent regulating sleepovers. Think of the surprise birthday parties, the daycare, and the reference checks on babysitters. Think of World Book and Childcraft. Think of checks written for family photos. Think of credit cards charged for vacations. Think of soccer balls, science kits, chemistry sets, racetracks, and model trains. Think of all the embraces, all the private jokes, customs, greetings, names, dreams, all the shared knowledge and capacity of a black family injected into that vessel of flesh and bone. And think of how that vessel was taken, shattered on the concrete, and all its holy contents, all that had gone into him, sent flowing back to the earth. Think of your mother, who had no father. And your grandmother, who was abandoned by her father. And your grandfather, who was left behind by his father. And think of how Prince's daughter was now drafted into those solemn ranks and deprived of her birthright — that vessel which was her father, which brimmed with twenty-five years of love and was the investment of her grandparents and was to be her legacy.

Visions flood in as I watch her chest rise and fall . . . the second our eyes locked in my backyard, the flash of surety I initially dismissed but still rang true through every fiber of my being. She knows you. The long looks we shared across every space, to the minute we snapped on that float before we collided and were created. The same continuous buzz thrumming steadily as we stole glances of each other between the flip of pages as storms raged outside my window. Her fingers tracing my skin, wonder in her eyes, to running my palm reverently over her back—in awe of the heart that beat inside of her, wrapped in her mystery. To the burst of sun that lit her up in my passenger seat as she adjusted her honeysuckle crown. The laughter spilling from us where she lay beneath me, tangled in the sheets before our smiles faded. Hearts raw and aching as we locked together, lost in our connection, chests bouncing in unison due to the tie that bound us. That still binds us. A fate we created together. A story I’ll continue to relive without regret. Falling for her was worth hitting bottom—and every single ache that comes with it. Reaching out, I trace the curve of her cheek. “You gutted me, baby,” I croak in confession as my chest caves. “But I can’t say I don’t deserve it . . .” I falter, grunting through the pain consuming me. “You thrive on love, and I . . . we fucking starved your heart . . . we just left you here.

Only one addiction can actually lead to my decimation. One addiction forces me to forget everything else whenever he’s in my vicinity. Whenever he touches me, kisses me, fucks me. I pretend my outer skin doesn’t exist. I’m not Brandon King. I’m not the broken entity who sees black ink instead of his reflection in the mirror. Not the weak man who’s more often than not swallowed by disgusting nausea and the terrifying notion of nothingness. I’m just me. His lotus flower. His Prince Charming. His baby.

He is about to lose his shirt altogether. Until Antonis’s voice booms from the doorway. “Extract yourself from Prince Galen, Emma,” he says. “You two are not mated. This behavior is inappropriate for any Syrena, let alone a Royal.” Galen feels like a fingerling again. “I apologize, Highness,” he says. It seems like all he does lately is apologize to the Poseidon king. “It was my fault.” Antonis gives him a reproving look. “I like you, young prince. But you well know the law. Do not disappoint me, Galen. My granddaughter is deserving of a proper mating ceremony.

She doesn’t stir, her hand lifeless in mine, breaths shallow but steady as she lays beneath me, looking every bit the sleeping beauty she is. But her eyes won’t open for me because they’re no longer mine to lose myself in. No more escape. No more fire and water to drown out the noise. No more flame. No more rain. No longer mine. Cracking wide, I bend over her, pressing my forehead to hers, “I’m sorry.” Feeling the shatter of finality, I press a salty, damp kiss to her temple, my whisper for her ear, my last confession, far, far too late. “I love you too, Cecelia.” No more rain.

Your life,” she began, voice rising, “is important. All our lives are important— from the guards in my keep to the dye pit workers on the East Side. Don’t throw it away just because you’re angry at some bitch in red and grey. What would your father think of that? If you want to stop her, change the country. Ensure that we never see another rebellion like this again. If you’re angry with the Corrupt Prince, aid the princess so he never sees the throne. You are a Kingman, and sacrificing your life would be pointless and cowardly. Do you understand me? Or should I explain it again?

The three thousand miles in distance he put between himself and Emma tonight is nothing compared with the enormous chasm separating them when they sit next to each other in calculus. Emma's ability to overlook his existence is a gift-but not one that Poseidon handed down. Rachel insists this gift is uniquely a female trait, regardless of the species. Since their breakup, Emma seems to be the only female utilizing this particular gift. Even Rayna could learn a few lessons from Emma in the art of torturing a smitten male. Smitten? More like fanatical. He shakes his head in disgust. Why couldn't I just sift when I turned of age? Why couldn't I find a suitable mild-tempered female to mate with? Live a peaceful life, produce offspring, grow old, and watch my own fingerlings have fingerlings someday? He searches through his mind for someone he might have missed in the past. For a face he overlooked before but could now look forward to every day. For a docile female who would be honored to mate with a Triton prince-instead of a temperamental siren who mocks his title at every opportunity. He scours his memory for a sweet-natured Syrena who would take care of him, who would do whatever he asked, who would never argue with him. Not some human-raised snippet who stomps her foot when she doesn't get her way, listens to him only when it suits some secret purpose she has, or shoves a handful of chocolate mints down his throat if he lets his guard down. Not some white-haired angelfish whose eyes melt him into a puddle, whose blush is more beautiful than sunrise, and whose lips send heat ripping through him like a mine explosion. He sighs as Emma's face eclipses hundreds of mate-worthy Syrena. That's just one more quality I'll have to add to the list: someone who won't mind being second best. His just locks as he catches a glimpse of his shadow beneath him, cast by slithers of sterling moonlight. Since it's close to three a.m. here, he's comfortable walking around without the inconvenience of clothes, but sitting on the rocky shore in the raw is less than appealing. And it doesn't matter which Jersey shore he sits on, he can't escape the moon that connects them both-and reminds him of Emma's hair. Hovering in the shallows, he stares up at it in resentment, knowing the moon reminds him of something else he can' escape-his conscience. If only he could shirk his responsibilities, his loyalty to his family, his loyalty to his people. If only he could change everything about himself, he could steal Emma away and never look back-that is, if she'll ever talk to him again.

A look that annihilated me enough to toss my gun too far out of my reach. It was when her eyes cleared, and she truly saw me as she had all those months ago, that I was gifted those few precious seconds of exchange. A collection of minutes where I was able to confess my fears, apologize for my deceit, and finally deliver my ill-timed declaration wholeheartedly. “Yes.” “Yes, what?” “Yes, I’ve been in love.” A declaration I fucking refused to hold inside another second, knowing it was too late. A confession that gave me a bittersweet sort of peace, along with the notion that one day, I might be a worthy man deserving of the love I selfishly took.

I swear if-“ Galen starts to name all kinds of ways to kill Rachel if she’s involved, but he’s cut off by the sound of his new favorite person to loathe approaching. “Highness, I’ve heard your lovely sister plans to join us soon,” Jagen says from behind them. “What a happy reunion.” Galen rolls his eyes before turning to face him. “You are correct, Jagen. Rayna has missed you. She loves that face you make when you’re upset. She says it’s the best impression of a rockfish she’s ever seen.” Jagen doesn’t like this. His lips curl into a snarl. “Go ahead, young prince. Have a laugh at my expense. I assure you it will be the last time.” Torag glides in front of Galen. “That sounds a lot like a threat. To my knowledge, threatening a Royal is still illegal.” Galen grabs his shoulder. “It’s fine, Toraf. Let this squid release his ink. Ink will only last so long before it fades away in the current. When his protective cloud is gone, everyone will see what’s really going on here.” Jagen nods. “We shall see, young ones.” He rakes his eyes over Toraf. “Tell your mate that she stays with the rest of the Royals. If she tries to leave, I’ll have her thrown in the Ice Caverns. She can wait there until the rest of you join her.” Toraf starts toward Jagen again, but Galen holds him back. “This is not the time,” Galen says. Jagen gives Toraf a smug smile. Galen adds, “Besides, you saw his face when Antonis had him by the throat. We don’t want him to faint before things get interesting, do we?

We are not doing it for Jagen. We are doing it for our kind.” “We?” Rayna snaps. “What Gift do you have, Grom? Oh, that’s right. You and Nalia get to stay safely behind while me and Galen and Emma drown an entire island.” Oh, heck no. “Um, I’m not killing anyone,” I say, raising my hand. “Not humans, not Syrena.” “It’s a good thing your Gift isn’t deadly then, isn’t it?” Rayna sneers. “I have an idea. You can give the humans their last meal. That would be special, wouldn’t it?” “How would you like to go without eating for a while?” I shoot back. I could use my Gift to send the fish away from her, or I could just bust all her teeth out. Maturity seems to be evaporating into the air. I wonder if her Gift includes pushing all my buttons in rapid-point-five seconds. But then, I know her animosity is really toward Grom, not me. All I’m doing is feeding her anxiety. Galen tucks a tendril of my hair behind my ear. It’s enough to distract me and he knows it. I give him a sour look for interfering, but he grins. “You don’t have to kill anyone, angelfish. In fact, we need your help to save them.” He seems to be telling me something with his eyes, but I’m not picking up on it. I’d love to blame it on the pain meds. “Doesn’t that kind of miss the point?” Rayna says. “Of course not,” Galen says. “Our objective is to rescue our kind, not kill the humans. We can do that without destroying them.” Everyone is all ears, but Galen is not ready to divulge his plan just yet. He stands. “Highness, tell the Archives we will meet with them to discuss our terms.” “Terms?” Grom says. “This isn’t negotiable, Galen. They need us. It’s our duty as Royals.” Galen shrugs. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s entirely negotiable. And we’re not Royals anymore, not until I hear it from their lips.” He turns to Antonis. “And tell them that in view of recent events, the council must come here, on land. There is no reason for us to doubt that this is a trap to recapture us.” Antonis chuckles. I get the feeling that this is all an amusing game to him. But then, old people have earned the right to be amused by everything. And I’m pretty sure he’s the oldest person I know. “Young Prince Galen, I am at your service.” With that, my grandfather leaves. I turn away as he begins to finagle the shorts from his skinny waist on his way down the beach.

She knew that the galaxy itself could kill me, that all of me could be shattered and all of her legacy spilled upon the curb like bum wine. And no one would be brought to account for this destruction, because my death would not be the fault of any human but the fault of some unfortunate but immutable fact of "race", imposed upon an innocent country by the inscrutable judgement of invisible gods. The earthquake cannot be subpoenaed. The typhoon will not bend under indictment. They sent the killer of Prince Jones back to his work, because he was not a killer at all. He was a force of nature, the helpless agent of our world's physical laws. This entire episode took me from fear to a rage that burned in me then, animates me now, and will likely leave me on fire for the rest of my days.

But I'm pretty sure Mom won't consent to a field trip across the country with my hot boyfriend. Especially not back to Florida." I clamp my mouth shut so fast my teeth should be chipped. He grins. "You think I'm hot?" "My mom thinks you are." Except, Mom's not the one blushing right now. "Hmm," he says, giving me a you're-busted look. "As hot as I am, I don't think she'd buy into my charm on this one. We'll have to call in a professional." Then that fish prince actually winks at me. "You mean Rachel," I say, toeing the sand. "I guess it's worth a shot. Don't expect much, though. I've already missed too much school." "We could fly down on the weekend. Be back before school on Monday." I nod. "She might go for that. If Rachel plays her cards right." Yeah, she might go for that. She might also pierce her tongue, dye her hair cherry red and spike it peacock-style. Ain't happening. I shrug. "I'll just keep practicing while you're gone. Maybe we don't have to go-" "No!" Galen and Toraf shout, startling me. "Why not? I won't go too deep-" "Out of the question," Galen says, standing. "You will not get in the water while I'm gone." I stomp a hole in the sand. "I already told you that you're not ordering me around, didn't I? Now you've pretty much guaranteed that I'm getting in the water, Your Highness." Galen runs a hand through his hair and utters a string of cuss words, courtesy of Rachel, no doubt. he paces in the sane a few seconds, pinching the bridge of his nose. Suddenly he stops. Relaxes. Smiles even. He walks over to his friend, slaps him on the back. "Toraf, I need a favor.

The Scythe I created has been used for unspeakable crimes. Infected children have been hunted—killed. Physicians have turned to murderers. The Old Book of Alders has been defiled by Rowans to justify their every whim. Pain is Blunder’s legacy. It has perforated the kingdom for centuries, and would continue to do so if your family—my rightful heirs—were to forcibly take it back. There would be terrible unrest. You and I are Blunder’s reckoning, Ravyn Yew. Not its peace.” His voice softened, as if he were easing a child to rest with a story. “I had five hundred years to imagine my revenge. Hauth Rowan tasted it, that night at Spindle House. But poetry is as judicious as violence. And wouldn’t it be poetic to undo the Rowans from within? To take that legacy of pain, and watch one of their own grind it under his heel? To carve the way for a Prince who never used the Scythe for violence? Your cousin Elm has done more than Brutus Rowan or I ever could. He has looked pain in the eye—and refused to let it make a monster of him.

A legacy of plunder, a network of laws and traditions, a heritage, a Dream, murdered Prince Jones as sure as it murders black people in North Lawndale with frightening regularity. “Black-on-black crime” is jargon, violence to language, which vanishes the men who engineered the covenants, who fixed the loans, who planned the projects, who built the streets and sold red ink by the barrel. And this should not surprise us. The plunder of black life was drilled into this country in its infancy and reinforced across its history, so that plunder has become an heirloom, an intelligence, a sentience, a default setting to which, likely to the end of our days, we must invariably return. The killing fields of Chicago, of Baltimore, of Detroit, were created by the policy of Dreamers, but their weight, their shame, rests solely upon those who are dying in them. There is a great deception in this. To yell “black-on-black crime” is to shoot a man and then shame him for bleeding. And the premise that allows for these killing fields—the reduction of the black body—is no different than the premise that allowed for the murder of Prince Jones. The Dream of acting white, of talking white, of being white, murdered Prince Jones as sure as it murders black people in Chicago with frightening regularity. Do not accept the lie. Do not drink from poison. The same hands that drew red lines around the life of Prince Jones drew red lines around the ghetto.

Another secret organization that tries to influence world politics is the Bilderberg Group, founded in 1954 by Prince Bernhard van Lippe Biesterfeld and Joseph Retinger. This group consists of a number of permanent members that form a small core, and a number of changing members that are invited to take part in conferences. The members meet once a year behind closed doors. The Inner Circle, that is the Round Table, consists of nine members of the Bilderberg Group. Then there is a decision making forum that consists of thirteen members. Finally there are three more members that make up the Inner Circles. These consist of members of the black nobility and other exceptionally influential men. Despite the strict confidentiality and secrecy surrounding the Bilderberg Group, some of their objectives got out. The following objectives are strived for: An international economic Power Block. Founding an international Parliament. Creating an international “World Army” through the abolition of national armed forces. Restriction of the power of national governments in favor of a unique and coordinated World Government. Traditionally the international press never mentions anything about the content of the off-the-record discussions. Sometimes a conference where prominent members from the world of politics, business and society speak confidentially about international questions is mentioned briefly. It is always mentioned that the participants assist as private persons, not in their official occupations. However it is striking that the participants of every Bilderberg conference are flown in from all parts of the world with airplanes and helicopters belonging to different air forces. Also, the large police force used to prevent disturbances and protect the invited is paid for by the tax contributors.[48]

The Iranian and Jewish people have ancient bonds dating back to Cyrus the Great and Queen Esther. As the children of Cyrus, the Iranian people aspire to have a government that honors his legacy of upholding human rights and respecting religious and cultural diversity, including through the restoration of peaceful and friendly relations with Israel and Iran’s other neighbors in the region, Millions of my compatriots still recall living alongside their Jewish-Iranian friends and neighbors before the Islamic Revolution tore apart the fabric of our society. They reject the regime’s genocidal anti-Israel and anti-Semitic policies and yearn for cultural, scientific and economic exchange with Israel. A democratic Iran will seek to re-establish ties with Israel and our Arab neighbors—perhaps as part of a future Cyrus Accords. In my view, that day is closer than ever.

The second we connect, a tidal wave of awareness crashes into me. That’s when I see it, fucking feel it, and I’m not the only one. A heartbeat later, Delphine confirms it with a French whispered warning. “Elle est trop belle. Trop intelligente. Mais trop jeune. Cette fille sera ta perte . . .” She is too beautiful. Too smart. But too young. This girl will be your undoing . . .

As the pain of that statement singes me, I feel sorry for the bastard that will deserve and eventually claim her for good. She’s going to give him hell. In the next second, I fucking hate him because it’s not me, and maybe I’ll never be worthy of being in the running with the way I’ve deceived her.

It makes sense to me now why twin flames are a love addict’s choice, and since we’ve been together, she’s drawn an addiction I didn’t know I had out of me. But we’re the caustic kind of identical flames, and there’s nothing that can change that.

She holds my eyes hostage with her next question. “Why won’t you let people know you?” You’re my people. “You know me.

The idea of her moving on makes me physically fucking ill. The thought of that has jealousy rooting deep. I have to get to her.

I’m the man who would step in front of a bullet for either one of you, no questions asked, but I’m also the man who held your fucking hands before I shaped them into fists. I’m the same man—up until I met her—who put you both above everyone else. But right now, who am I right now? I’m the man who loves her enough to not let anyone or anything in front of her.” Tobias, The Finish Line

No more escape. No more fire and water to drown out the noise. No more flame. No more rain. No longer mine.