Protector Man Quotes

Threats are the last resort of a man with no vocabulary.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, my lord. You are an evil man.

Weakness may excite tenderness, and gratify the arrogant pride of man; but the lordly caresses of a protector will not gratify a noble mind that pants for, and deserves to be respected. Fondness is a poor substitute for friendship.

A man was attacking me with a wet handkerchief.

He was so very large and so very gruff that he rather terrified her, but he always behaved correctly in public, and there was a lot to be said for a man who sported such well-tailored jackets---even if he did change into a ferocious beast once a month.

Really, Channing,” remonstrated Alexia, “did you have to eat the man’s dog? I am convinced you will experience terrible indigestion.

Oakbridge did his work with dramatics and prophecies that all would go horribly awry. Having dealt with him over midwinter, Kel wondered why the man hadn’t died of a heart attack. Instead he seemed to thrive on disaster and finding people seated in the wrong places.

Sherman made the terrible discovery that men make about their fathers sooner or later... that the man before him was not an aging father but a boy, a boy much like himself, a boy who grew up and had a child of his own and, as best he could, out of a sense of duty and, perhaps love, adopted a role called Being a Father so that his child would have something mythical and infinitely important: a Protector, who would keep a lid on all the chaotic and catastrophic possibilities of life.

Be careful what you ask for, Erin," Ivan warned. "I'm not the kind of man to walk away from something I want." His thumb caressed the side of my neck. "One taste of you and I won't be able to let you go.

What do you buy a woman to get back on her good side when you've made her really, really angry? Cake? Fudge?" The wrinkles on the old man's face scrunched together as he frowned. "How angry did you make her boy?" "She set my car on fire.

Never think of those you missed, who were left without help. Only think of the contribution you made to those you did help.’ This is what my guardian had taught me. She had been the last protector before me. She should have been there still and I, a carefree young man but life was not perfect.

I suppose that saves us from having to determine what to do with a butler who goes around killing people. It certainly reflects badly upon our domestic staff. Still, I shall miss him. There was a man who knew how to brew a good cup of tea.

Lord Maccon, being Lord Maccon and good at such things, then changed, right there in the Thames, from dog-paddling wolf to large man treading water. He did so flawlessly, so that his head never went under the water. Professor Lyall suspected him of practicing such maneuvers in the bathtub.

Lord Maccon, might we have words on the proper tying of a cravat? For my sanity’s sake? Lord Maccon was nonplussed. Professor Lyall, on the other hand, was pained. “I do what I can.” Lord Akeldama looked at him, pity in his eyes. “You are a brave man.

You're too good for me and I should be a better man and push you away--but God help me I can't. I love you, Vee.

The only proper purpose of a government is to protect man's rights, which means: to protect him from physical violence. A proper government is only a policeman, acting as an agent of man's self-defense, and, as such, may resort to force only against those who start the use of force. The only proper functions of a government are: the police, to protect you from criminals; the army, to protect you from foreign invaders; and the courts, to protect your property and contracts from breaches or fraud by the others, to settle disputes by rational rules, according to objective law. But a government that initiates the employment of force against men who had forced no one, the employment of armed compulsion against disarmed victims, is a nightmare infernal machine designed to annihilate morality: such a government reverses its only moral purpose and switches from the role of protector to the role of man's deadliest enemy, from the role of of policeman to the role of a criminal vested with the right to the wielding of violence against the victims deprived of the right of self-defense. Such a government substitutes for morality the following rule of social conduct: you may do whatever you please to your neighbor, provided your gang is bigger than his.

Mistresses, have you ever noticed that when we disagree with a male – I hesitate to say ‘man’ – or find ourselves in a position over males, the first comment they make is always about our reputations or our monthlies?” One of the new women snorted. Others snickered. Kel looked at the man, who was momentarily speechless. “If I disagree with you, should I place blame on the misworkings of your manhood? Or do I refrain from so serious an insult” – she made a face – “far more serious, of course, than your hint that I am a whore. Because my mother taught me courtesy, I only suggest that my monthlies will come long after your hair has escaped your head entirely.

Joyful friends, mostly loyal, they hadn't abandoned their protector before the gathering storm; and despite the threatening sky, despite the shuddering earth, they remained, smiling, considerate, and as devoted to misfortune as they had been to prosperity.

When everything has gone down, God wants you to look up

A true poet is more than just a man who can write a poem with a pen. A true poet writes poetry with his very life. A true poet doesn't use poetic devices to con the heart of a woman but uses the beauty of all that is poetic to serve, cherish, and express love to the heart of a woman. Just as a true warrior is not a conqueror of femininity but a protector of femininity, a true poet is not just a wooer of a woman's heart but one who knows how to nurture and plant love in a woman's heart. Simply put, a true poet is a man who knows how to be intimate with a lover - first and foremost with Christ.

Worldly possessions didn't matter much to him, but his freedom did. He could come and go as he pleased, with nothing more than the backpack underneath his seat. It was a simple existence for a simple man.

Our contemporaries are constantly wracked by two warring passions: they feel the need to be led and the desire to remain free. Unable to destroy either of these contrary instincts, they seek to satisfy both at once. They imagine a single, omnipotent, tutelary power, but one that is elected by the citizens. They combine centralization with popular sovereignty. This gives them some respite. They console themselves for being treated as wards by imagining that they have chosen their own protectors. Each individual allows himself to be clapped in chains because that the other end of the chain is held not by a man or a class but by the people themselves.

there was a lot to be said for a man who sported such well-tailored jackets—even if he did change into a ferocious beast once a month.

The Earl of Woolsey glared at her. “Cheap clothing is no excuse for killing a man.” “Mmm, that’s what you say.

Is this what she would have wanted, Hawke?" Ronan asked quietly. "Justice at the cost of an innocent man and his child?

Along with the trust issues, one of the hardest parts to deal with is the feeling of not being believed or supported, especially by your own grandparents and extended family. When I have been through so much pain and hurt and have to live with the scars every day, I get angry knowing that others think it is all made up or they brush it off because my cousin was a teenager. I was ten when I was first sexually abused by my cousin, and a majority of my relatives have taken the perpetrator's side. I have cried many times about everything and how my relatives gave no support or love to me as a kid when this all came out. Not one relative ever came up to that innocent little girl I was and said "I am sorry for what you went through" or "I am here for you." Instead they said hurtful things: "Oh he was young." "That is what kids do." "It is not like he was some older man you didn't know." Why does age make a difference? It is a sick way of thinking. Sexual abuse is sexual abuse. What is wrong with this picture? It brings tears to my eyes the way my relatives have reacted to this and cannot accept the truth. Denial is where they would rather stay.

The hatred of your country is not because it attacks theirs; it is because it keeps theirs safe. Never seek popularity. You can have supremacy or be loved but never both. What is felt toward you is ten percent genuine disagreement and ninety percent envy. Never forget two things! No man can ever forgive his protector. There is no loathing that any man harbors more intense than that toward his benefactor.

But I am a knight of the Round Table," he protested, weakly. "I am a protector of the realm, a slayer of evil, I defeat all those who raise their swords in opposition to Arthur, King of all Britain." "Trust me, kid, women prefer a man who can cook.

I walked towards her. Jean-Claude grabbed my arm. "Do not harm her, Anita. She is under our protection." "I swear to you that I will not lay a finger on her tonight. I just want to tell her something." He released my arm, slowly, like he wasn't sure it was a good idea. I stepped next to Monica, until our bodies almost touched. I whispered into her face, "If anything happens to Catherine, I will see you dead." She smirked at me, confident in her protectors. "They will bring me back as one of them." I felt my head shake, a little to the right, a little to the left, a slow precise movement. "I will cut out your heart." I was still smiling, I couldn'tseem to stop. "Then I will burn it and scatter the ashes in the river. Do you understand me?" She swallowed audibly. Her health-club tan looked a little green. She nodded, staring at me like I was the bogey man. I think she believed I'd do it. Peachy keen. I hate to waste a really good threat

I have a counteroffer. I'll tell you the job description I really want." Raine's throat tightened in frustration. If he was going to keep it on this level, it was up to her to force them to the next one. As always. Seth looked down at his feet. She saw his Adam's apple bob, once. Twice. He met her eyes, with the look of a man who was facing the firing squad. "Full-time lover," he said hoarsely. "Father of your children. Companion in adventure, champion, guardian, protector, helpmeet, mate. Love of you life. Forever.

But it was useless. This man—this hybrid, was the only one who made her feel…anything.

Lord Maccon believed that if his trousers were on his legs, and something else was on his torso, he was dressed. The less done after that, the better. His wife had been startled to find that in the summertime, he actually went around their room barefoot! Once -- and only once, mind you -- he even attempted to join her for tea in such a state. Impossible man. Alexia put a stop to that posthaste.

Do you always drink from a glass?" she finally exploded. Gavriel shook his head. "Over my lifetime, I have fed in nearly every way imaginable. Drinking from a glass is tame is comparison." Meryn started to grin. "Would you drink from a man?" Gavriel nodded. "Would you drink in a van?" she asked, her eyes dancing. "I don't see why not," he replied. Elizabeth stared as Meryn continued. "Would you drink from an actor?" Again, Gavriel nodded. Laughing, Elizabeth shook her head at Meryn. "Would you drink on a tractor?" Meryn could barely get the words out she was laughing so hard. Gavriel frowned. "Maybe from a farmer if the need were dire.

So we just…we take it slow." With a mischievous grin, she added, "And even if you totally screw it up, I won't know right? What else do I have to compare it to, Kolya?" He snorted with amusement. "You really know how to encourage a man.

I’m doubly sorry for your loss,” the old monk began after a time. “First, because every son should have a chance to know his father, not as a child knows his protector, but as a man knows another man.

One new indulgence was to go out evenings alone. This I worked out carefully in my mind, as not only a right but a duty. Why should a woman be deprived of her only free time, the time allotted to recreation? Why must she be dependent on some man, and thus forced to please him if she wished to go anywhere at night? A stalwart man once sharply contested my claim to this freedom to go alone. “Any true man,” he said with fervor, “is always ready to go with a woman at night. He is her natural protector.” “Against what?” I inquired. As a matter of fact, the thing a woman is most afraid to meet on a dark street is her natural protector. Singular

What the hell is that?" yelled Lord Maccon. He had turned to anger so swiftly; Alexia could only stare at him, speechless. She let out her pent-up breath in a whoosh. Her heart was beating a marathon somewhere in the region of her throat, her skin felt hot and stretched taut over her bones, and she was damp in places she was tolerably certain unmarried gentlewomen were not supposed to be damp in. Lord Maccon was glaring at her coffee-colored skin, discolored between the neck and shoulder region by an ugly purple mark, the size and shape of a man's teeth. "that is a bite mark, my lord," she said. Lord Maccon was ever more enraged. "Who bit you?" he roared. Alexia tilted her head to one side in amazement. "You did." She was then treated to the spectacle of an Alpha werewolf looking downright hangdog. "I did?" She raised both eyebrows at him. "I did.

Love your enemies you might, but when the entire country and its people depend on you, you are no longer a man of your own.

But he's so cute when he gets all determined and commanding, isn't he?" ... "It's not cute, it's very manly!

And atop the wolf, looking as dignified and butlerlike as might be possible for a man riding a werewolf, was Floote. Alexia

Never had I thought that I'd have to give a grown man - a grown man who up until a second ago was carefully stroking my clit - the birds and the bees talk.

They think of policemen as they do of Labradors – noble, loyal, good with children, man’s protector and friend. In

Dearest Alexia, Oh, please absolve me of this guilt I already feel squishing on my very soul! My troubled heart weeps! Oh dear, Ivy was getting flowery. My bones ache with the sin that I am about to commit. Oh, why must I have bones? I have lost myself to this transplanting love. You could not possibly understand how this feels! Yet try to comprehend, dearest Alexia, I am like a delicate bloom. Marriage without love is all very well for people like you, but I should wilt and wither. I need a man possessed of a poet’s soul! I am simply not so stoic as you. I cannot stand to be apart from him one moment longer! The caboose of my love has derailed, and I must sacrifice all for the man I adore! Please do not judge me harshly! It was all for love! ~ Ivy.

Decide for yourselves as to what you should thing of those who say there is God, that he is the preserver of justice and that he is the protector of all, even after seeing the practice of untouchablity in the form of man being banned from human sight and contact, from walking into the streets, from entering the temples and drawing water from a tank, is rampant in the land, and yet that land is not spared from being razed by an earthquake, burnt by the fiery lava of a volcano, engulfed in a deluge from the ocean, submerged in the chasm of the earth, or fragemented by thunder-storm.

You were his protector, yet he betrayed you.” James shrugged. “Odd thing is, I know if I asked, he’d die for me.” She studied him for a moment. “But you’d never ask.” “Nay. I never would.” “You’re a complicated man, James Sterling.” She said softly.

She fastens her other hand securely on my wrist, and moves so that she's behind me. Good job, angel. Let him know I'm your man. At least your a fast learner. I rub my thumb over her smooth skin in approval, then stop. She doesn't need my approval. I'm not her man, but, for now, I am her protector.

Me? I was obsessed with serial killers. More specifically, I was obsessed with the idea of female serial killers. Hear the phrase serial killer, and most of us probably picture a man. It’s not surprising—let’s be real, men are responsible for at least ninety-two percent of the evil in the world. For centuries, women have been socially programmed to be the nurturers, after all—the protectors, the emotional bridges—so when we hear of a woman who takes life instead of creating it, it’s instinctively shocking.

I dried my hands and took out my pocket-book from the inside of my tunic hanging on the wall. Rinaldi took the note, folded it without rising from the bed and slid it in his breeches pocket. He smiled, "I must make on Miss Barkley the impression of a man of sufficient wealth. You are my great and good friend and financial protector." "Go to hell," I said.

He also grew a very large and scruffy beard, with which she was far less delighted. "A man's virility is in his beard," he insisted. To which Alexia replied, "And a woman's is in her décolletage. Yet you don't see me allowing mine to get out of control, now do you?" "If wishes were balloons," was his only response.

BD: It gets better. Ted Moynohan at this point is in charge of the Atlanta Chapter. DA: That fuckhead again. The gift that keeps on giving. I still don’t understand how he got to be the Knight-Protector. If that man was in charge of nothing except his own dick, sooner or later he’d suspect it of presenting a danger to humanity.

I have no quarrel with democrats in principle, except that they are as much frauds and liars as the rest. It is often said that mankind will not be free till the last king is strangled with the guts of the last priest; if you ask me, the man who ordered the strangling would promptly step forth to proclaim himself Lord Protector, and it would all begin again.

No doubt, a father he is the most respected man in our lives, the most admired person. He is the protector, and the guardian of our lives.

I'm not your knight in shining armor. I'm just a man who stands between you and hell.

There is something living deep within us all that welcomes, even relishes, the role of victimhood for ourselves. There is no cause in the world more righteously embraced than our own when we feel someone has wronged us. Perhaps it is a psychological leftover from early childhood, when we felt the primeval terror of the world around us and yearned for the intervention of a mother/protector to keep us safe. Perhaps it makes it easier to explain away our personal failures when the work of an enemy can be blamed. Perhaps we just get tired of long explanations and like the cleanliness of an easy solution. It is for wiser people than me to say. Whatever its allure, this primitive ideology of Hutu Power swept through Rwanda in 1993 and early 1994 with the speed of flame through dry grass.

I am your protector," he said softly, one hand wrapping around her waist, the other moving to remove leaves and twigs from her hair. "I am your knight. I would kill with my bare hands any man who dared to touch you without your consent. I would go to the ends of the earth for you. I WOULD SLAY DRAGONS FOR YOU.

The Constitution is a limitation of the government, not on private individuals--that it does not prescribe the conduct of private individuals, only the conduct of the government--that it is not a charter for government power, but a charter of the citizens' protection against the government. Instead of being a protector of man's rights, the government is becoming their most dangerous violator; instead of guarding freedom, the government is establishing slavery; instead of protecting men from the initiators of physical force, the government is initiating physical force and coercion in any manner and issue it pleases; instead of serving as the instrument of objectivity in human relationships, the government is creating a deadly, subterranean reign of uncertainty and fear, by means of nonobjective laws whose interpretation is left to the arbitrary decisions of random bureaucrats; instead of protecting men from injury by whim, the government is arrogating to itself the power of unlimited whim--so that we are fast approaching the stage of ultimate inversion; the stage where the government is "free" to do anything it pleases, while the citizens may only act by permission; which is the stage of the darkest periods of humanity, the stage of rule by brute force.

A watershed moment exists in every man's life...sometimes it's profound, sometimes it's barely a blip. But every man has the moment when he stops being his mother's son and becomes another woman's man. When he goes from protected to protector.

Later, long after my grandfather was dead, I would regret that I could never be the kind of man that he was. Though I adored him as a child and found myself attracted to the safe protectorate of his soft, uncritical maleness, I never wholly appreciated him. I did not know how to cherish sanctity, and I had no way of honoring, of giving small voice to the praise of such natural innocence, such a generous simplicity. Now I know that a part of me would like to have traveled the world as he traveled it, a jester of burning faith, a fool and a forest prince brimming with the love of God. I would like to walk his southern world, thanking God for oysters and porpoises, praising God for birdsongs and sheet lightning, and seeing God reflected in pools of creekwater and the eyes of stray cats. I would like to have talked to yard dogs and tanagers as if they were my friends and fellow travelers along the sun-tortured highways, intoxicated with a love of God, swollen with charity like a rainbow, in the thoughtless mingling of its hues, connecting two distant fields in its glorious arc. I would like to have seen the world with eyes incapable of anything but wonder, and a tongue fluent only in praise.

A chaser-away of monsters under the bed, a sneaker of cookies before dinner, an encourager, a protector, a teacher of what a real man is supposed to be.

The last man who’d been obsessed with me tried to kill me.

But you didn’t. You’re not that man.” “I’m not, but I could have been. Almost was.

I had a hard time believing the man who’d put a hit out on me was anything other than a monster.

I’m with the man, not the king. The king can kiss my ass.” The king had every intention of kissing her ass, maybe biting it as well.

Saying a man had sex with a child is like saying a man had dinner with the pork chop.

Man, she was cute. Nerdy and sexy and brilliant. An alluring combination for a scarred former Viking.

A woman like her wasn’t meant for a man like me.

He was no longer a frail old man, nor a scholar lost in his thoughts, but the rightful protector of a child.

The only relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected.... He daren't let a woman decide. He's the type who's kept Europe back for a thousand years. Every moment of his life he's forming you, telling you what's charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinks womanly; and you, you all all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own.

You know that, Ted. It's the most precious thing we have. Loyalty between us, between protector and serf, between a man and his mistress." "Maybe," Benteley said slowly, "a person should be loyal to an ideal.

In asking me to contribute a mite to the memorial to Gutenberg you give me pleasure and do me honor. The world concedes without hesitation or dispute that Gutenberg’s invention is incomparably the mightiest event that has ever happened in profane history. It created a new and wonderful earth, and along with it a new hell. It has added new details, new developments and new marvels to both in every year during five centuries. It found Truth walking, and gave it a pair of wings; it found Falsehood trotting, and gave it two pair. It found Science hiding in corners and hunted; it has given it the freedom of the land, the seas and the skies, and made it the world’s welcome quest. It found the arts and occupations few, it multiplies them every year. It found the inventor shunned and despised, it has made him great and given him the globe for his estate. It found religion a master and an oppression, it has made it man’s friend and benefactor. It found War comparatively cheap but inefficient, it has made it dear but competent. It has set peoples free, and other peoples it has enslaved; it is the father and protector of human liberty, and it has made despotisms possible where they were not possible before. Whatever the world is, today, good and bad together, that is what Gutenberg’s invention has made it: for from that source it has all come. But he has our homage; for what he said to the reproaching angel in his dream has come true, and the evil wrought through his mighty invention is immeasurably outbalanced by the good it has brought to the race of men.

Several hundred thousand Hoosiers had pledged fealty to and were effectively governed by a rapist, a murderer, a drunk, and a dictator. He was not a man of God, but a fraud. He was no protector of women’s virtue, but a violent predator.

Floote shot his other gun. This time the bullet hit the man's chest. The vampire fell backward, crashed into a loaded display cabinet, and landed on the floor, making exactly the same sound a carpet makes when whacked to get the dust out.

The Warrior function is…unmistakable in Scripture…Within the epistles, the mature believing man is often described in militant terms–a warrior equipped to battle mighty enemies and shatter satanic strongholds. The heart of the Warrior is a protective heart. The Warrior shields, defends, stands between, and guards…He invests himself in “the energy of self-disciplined, aggressive action.” By Warrior I do not mean one who loves war or draws sadistic pleasure from fighting or bloodshed. There is a difference between a warrior and a brute. A warrior is a protector…Men stand tallest when they are protecting and defending.

When a man really loves a woman, her secrets don't matter. He knows she's a liar and lives with it. His choice. In his silence he was the protector of her secrets. He maintained her lie out of loyalty, did that to prove his love. Loved her. Pi Suleman

For a protector of life, who is moved by the diversity of life (biodiversity), it is unthinkable that the whole Earth should belong only to one animal species, humanity. Look at man, this person will say: look at him in Bosnia, Palestine, Rwanda, Kurdistan; or look at him in Finland, engaging in inheritance disputes or phone sex or the trade union movement: is man above all other forms of life? Does man have the right to rule the destiny of millions of basically similar species? Is man the living image of God?

What, sir, would you think of a member of the Weaker Sex who assumed the guise of a man, and left the home of her natural protector by way of the window?" "I should assume," replied Sir Richard, "that she had strong reasons for acting with such resolution." "She did not wish to marry me," said Mr. Griffin gloomily. "Oh!" said Sir Richard. "Well, I'm sure I can't see why she should be so set against me, but that's not it, sir. The thing is that here's my mother determined to find her, and to make her marry me, and so hush up the scandal. But I don't like it above half. If she dislikes the notion so much, I don't think I ought to marry her, do you?" "Emphatically not!" "I must say I am very glad to hear you say that, Sir Richard!" said Mr. Griffin, much cheered. "For you must know that my mother has been telling me ever since yesterday that I must marry her now, to save her name. But I think she would very likely make me uncomfortable, and nothing could make up for that, in my opinion." "A lady capable of escaping out of a window in the guise of a a man would quite certainly make you more than uncomfortable," said Sir Richard. "Yes, though she's only a chit of a girl, you know. In fact, she is not yet out. I am very happy to have had the benefit of the opinion of a Man of the World. I feel that I can rely on your judgment." "On my judgment, you might, but in nothing else, I assure you," said Sir Richard. "You know nothing of me, after all. How do you know that I am not now concealing your cousin from you?" "Ha-ha! Very good, upon my word! Very good, indeed!" said Mr. Griffin, saluting a jest of the first water.

These men, good men, control the darkness until it withers away and becomes nothing more than a shadow haunting their innermost thoughts. Something easily forgotten, dismissed, erased. I've never been a good man. My darkness is neither restrained nor buried. It lives right at the surface.

She’s so beautiful it hurts. Golden blond hair flows past her shoulders. Those gorgeous violet eyes shouldn’t be so wide with fear. I’ve dreamed of being this close to her again. I ache to gather her in my arms and keep her safe from the world...to be her protector, but I can’t be that man.

The system is only as good as its leaders. When they fail—when the system fails—you better damn well hope I’m there to pick up the slack.” The man’s glower lost some of its fervor. “No one appointed you humanity’s protector.” “No one had to—and if you don’t understand why that is, then you’re not nearly the man I was told you are. I’m leaving now, and I’m going to assume we’re done. But if you threaten me again, you had better bring help.

and in that moment, Sherman made the terrible discovery that men make about their fathers sooner or later. For the first time he realized that the man before him was not an aging father but a boy, a boy much like himself, a boy who grew up and had a child of his own and, as best as he could, out of a sense of duty and, perhaps, love, adopted a role called being a father so that his child would have something mythical and infinitely important: a Protector, who would keep a lid on all the chaotic and catastrophic possibilities of life. And now that boy, that good actor, had grown old and fragile and tired, wearier than ever at the thought of trying to hoist the Protector's armor back onto his shoulders again, now, so far down the line.

I felt deeply betrayed that the man I depended on as friend, protector, and lover intended to do such a thing to me. And my sense of self-preservation was quietly terrified at the thought of submitting myself to the mercies of someone who handled a fifteen-pound claymore as though it were a flywhisk.

The fear of rape puts many women in their place - indoors, intimidated, dependent yet again on material barriers and protectors... I was advised to stay indoors at night, to wear baggy clothes, to cover or cut my hair, to try to look like a man, to move someplace more expensive, to take taxis, to buy a car, to move in groups, to get a man to escort me—all modern versions of Greek walls and Assyrian veils, all asserting it was my responsibility to control my own and men's behavior rather than society's to ensure my freedom. I realized that many women had been so successfully socialized to know their place that they had chosen more conservative, gregarious lives without realizing why. The very desire to walk alone had been extinguished in them—but it had not in me.

You are a monster, a king who thinks nothing of his subjects and everything of himself. A man who wants all the power he can get but will never know what it is to be truly powerful. And I am a gargoyle, defender of the innocent, protector of the defenseless. And as long as I live, I will never leave you in peace.

You can’t catch up from a body bag, man.

Shitty thing, shooting a man in the back, but some things—like trying to end me—couldn’t go unanswered.

A man’s virility is in his beard,” he insisted.

I’m so sorry, Evan,” I whimpered, clutching him tighter. “I’m so sorry.” Sorry he had to see that. Go through it. Feel it. My little man. My savior. My protector.

You’ve never met the king, love.” He nipped her ear and her knees began to tremble. “It’s the man who has you.

Man is not the lord of all the world's animals. He is the protector.

I knew it!" he cried, jubilant. "I thought 'twas you, but there's more of you now. You should've seen the likes of her, boys," he said, turning towards the other convicts as he pointed at Kel. "We was all outlaws, livin' on the edges, and this bunch of pages stumbled into our camp. We chased 'em back in a canyon, and her -" he jabbed his finger at Kel - "she gutted ol' Breakbone Dell, and him the meanest dog-skinner you'd ever hope to meet. Stood there afoot, her and her spear, cool as meltwater with Breakbone ridin' down on her with that neck-cutter sword of his. First time she got 'im in the leg, second in the tripes, and he was done. Her and six lads held us all back, just them. There she was, eyes like stone and that bloody spear in her hand. Lady." He bowed deep. Kel looked at him, not sure what to say. Finally she asked, "What's your name, soldier?" "Me? Gilab Lofts - Gil. Lady. It's - it's good to see you well." He bowed again and returned to his seat, whispering with the men on either side of him. Kel waited for them to quiet once again before she said ruefully, "I'm not sure that being known for gutting a man is exactly a recommendation for a commander." "It is in the north!" cried someone. Several men laughed outright; others grinned.

So time drew on to the War of the Ring, and the sons of Denethor grew to manhood. Boromir, five years the elder, beloved by his father, was like him in face and pride, but in little else. Rather he was a man after the sort of King Eärnur of old, taking no wife and delighting chiefly in arms; fearless and strong, but caring little for lore, save the tales of old battles. Faramir the younger was like him in looks but otherwise in mind. He read the hearts of men as shrewdly as his father, but what he read moved him sooner to pity than to scorn. He was gentle in bearing, and a lover of lore and of music, and therefore by many in those days his courage was judged less than his brother’s. But it was not so, except that he did not seek glory in danger without a purpose. He welcomed Gandalf at such times as he came to the City, and he learned what he could from his wisdom; and in this as in many other matters he displeased his father. ‘Yet between the brothers there was great love, and had been since childhood, when Boromir was the helper and protector of Faramir. No jealousy or rivalry had arisen between them since, for their father’s favour or for the praise of men. It did not seem possible to Faramir that anyone in Gondor could rival Boromir, heir of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower; and of like mind was Boromir. Yet it proved otherwise at the test. But of all that befell these three in the War of the Ring much is said elsewhere.

The man towered over her five-foot-four-inch frame by a good ten inches. He was big, dark and deadly-looking, with piercing ebony eyes and long, silky black hair secured in a ponytail. Dressed all in black—leather jacket, cotton shirt and jeans—he blended into the night like a prince of darkness. Rorie shuddered at the thought. Whoever or whatever this man was, he was danger personified.

You are, inarguably, one of the finest officers who has ever worn the uniform. You eat the impossible for breakfast. You seek out challenges most would never contemplate, holding yourself to ridiculously high standards, and you do it with a ready smile, keen wit, formidable intelligence, and a compassionate heart. You are a bloody beacon in the darkness, an inspiration to anyone dedicating their lives to Starfleet. To a man, those who have served with you in the past would walk naked through fire with you, but right now, I wouldn't follow you to the mess hall." (Hugh Cambridge to Kathryn Janeway).

Miss Tarabotti had the transitory idea that he might be suitable husband material after all. And then realized that a lifelong alliance with a man of such weak character would certainly turn her into a veritable tyrant.

Once a woman has opted for the role of the child (instead of lover) the next step is predetermined. A child must not show too great an interest in sex, on pain of losing both credibility and a child's privileges. A woman who values her status as protegee, therefore, must keep her sex drive under control. She must be in a position to make conscious use of her sexuality for her purposes i.e. to win a man who appears suited to play her father, rather than a man who excites and confuses her senses and her mind. And she must be able to refuse herself to her intended protector until he adopts her or at least commits himself clearly to such an intention. To see primarily the sex partner in a man is the end of her power over him. It means losing the motive of making him her protector - what good is a lover restrained by protective feelings ? - and being quite as dependent on him, sexually, as he is on her.

I raised my eyebrows. Were they really talking about how cute I was when I got mad? Talk about taking the wind out of my sail! I wanted to say 'It's not cute, it's very manly!' but I didn't think either of them would appreciate that. Are we going to do this or not? I asked impatiently.

A man who marries a woman inferior to himself i.e. 'adopts' her must expect that she cannot feel anything for him but liking and gratitude. A woman is better off than a child, after all; if necessary, she can take care of herself, like any man. That she nevertheless allows her husband to pay all the bills is a personal concession that can be retracted at any time. She is entitled, therefore, to high expectations: everything done for her must be first-rate, otherwise she may engage another protector or else, depending upon circumstances, even decide to take care of herself. Compared with the real father, a wife's 'adopted father' has no hope of becoming his pseudo-child's protege in his old age, either. The most he can hope for is the status of an inadequate or pseudo-protege i.e. if he is lucky, he may come to enjoy the woman's altruistic love, her charity. The woman even gets a reward: she inherits his property, his insurance, his pension rights, so that he can go on providing for her after his death, the death she is statistically prepared to survive for, on the average, six years, plus the number of years she is younger than he is.

Book Excerpt: "What about your family, Abu Huwa? Are you an orphan?” the little girl very innocently asked the Sphinx. “My father and your father are one and the same. However, I do have a brother who has stood as my mirror throughout time on the opposite horizon. It is I who faces east, but it is he who faces west. I am the recorder of yesterday and he holds the records of tomorrow. I am the positive, and he is my negative. I carry the right eye of the sun and he carries the left eye of the moon. He keeps his eye on the underworld and I keep an eye on the world over. Together we have joined the sky and earth, and split fire and water.” Seham stood on all toes to peek over the Sphinx's shoulder for a sign of his brother. “Where is he?” she asked, her eyes still searching the open horizon. “He has yet to be uncovered, but as I stand above the sands of time, he still sleeps below. Before the descent of Adam, we have both stood as loyal Protectors of the Two Halls of Truth.” The girl asked in astonishment, “I've never heard of these halls, Abu Huwa. Where are they?” “At the end of each of our tails is a passage that will reveal to you the secrets of Time. One hall reflects a thousand truths, and the other hall reflects all that is untrue. One will speak to your heart, and the other will speak to your mind. This is why you need to use both your heart and mind to understand which one is real, and which is a distorted illusion created to misguide those that have neglected their conscience. Both passageways connect you to the Great Hall of Records.” “What is the Hall of Records?” “The Great Pyramid, my child. It is as multidimensional in its shape as it is in its purpose. Every layer and every brick marks the coming of a prophet, the ascension of evil, or another cycle of man. It contains the entire history and future of mankind. And, as is above, so is below. Above ground, it serves as the most powerful energy source to harmonize and power the world! The shape of the pyramid above ground is also the same image mirrored beneath it. Underground, it serves as a powerful well and drain. This is really why Egypt is called the Land of Two Lands. There exists a huge world of its own underneath the plateau, a world within worlds. Large amounts of gold, copper and mercury were once housed here, including the secrets of Time, the 100th name of He Who Is All, and a gift from Truth that still awaits to be discovered. It sleeps with Time in the Great Pyramid, hidden away in a lower shaft that leads to the stars.” Dialogue from 'The Little Girl and the Sphinx' by Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun (Dar-El Shams, 2010)

Every wise man is ransom for the fool, who would not last an hour did not the wise preserve him by compassion and forethought. The wise are like physicians, fighting the infirmities of the sick…. So when I hear that a wise man has died, my heart is sorrowful. Not for him, of course, for he lived in joy and died in honour. No–it is for the survivors that I mourn. Without the strong protecting arm which brought them safety, they are abandoned to the miseries which are their desert, and which they will soon feel, unless Providence should raise up some new protector to replace the old one.

When I was two-and-twenty, and had taken my degree in law, my old uncle, the Abbe Loraux, then seventy-two years old, felt it necessary to provide me with a protector, and to start me in some career. This excellent man, if not indeed a saint, regarded each year of his life as a fresh gift from God.

Who the devil are you?” Alexia asked, the man’s cavalier interference irritating her into using actual profanity. “Major Channing Channing of the Chesterfield Channings.” Alexia gawked. No wonder he was so very full of himself. One would have to be, laboring all one’s life under a name like that. “Well,

At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose, but, seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, "Now is the time! Save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I seek. Do not desert me in the hour of trial!" '"Great God!" exclaimed the old man, "who are you?" 'At that instant the cottage door opened...

Over two days, the remaining superheroic population of the Earth had heeded the call--by ship, teleport, magical portal, elemental transduction...the H-Man, Pangolin the Protector, Glass Tambourine, Omega-Mur, Hammer and Sickle, Jackdaw, the Infinite Wisdom, Doctor Mandragora, Czar and Tzar and Star, Kalamari Karl, Lightening Dancer, Doctor Chlorophyll, Jack Viking, Monomaniac, the Gin Fairy, the Holy Ghanta, the Bandolier, the Nuclear Atom, the Mysterious Flame, Moonstalker, Cataclysm and Inferno, the Skyguard II, Your Imaginary Pal, Dark Storm, the Hate Witch, Psychofire, Rabid, Riot, Fox and Hound, Hydrolad, Captain Fuji, Captain Cape Town, Captain Australia, Captain...Jeannie lost count, one uniform and one costume blurring into another.

The civil law, as well as nature herself, has always recognized a wide difference in the respective spheres and destinies of man and woman. Man is, or should be, woman's protector and defender...The constitution of the family organization, which is founded in the divine ordinance, as well as in the nature of things, indicates the domestic sphere as that which properly belongs to the domain and functions of womanhood. The harmony, not to say identity, of interests and views which belong, or should belong, to the family institution is repugnant to the idea of a woman adopting a distinct and independent career from that of her husband...The paramount destiny and mission of women are to fulfil the noble and benign offices of wife and mother. This is the law of the Creator. 1872

In the United States all Christian denominations and sects are placed on a basis of equality before the law, and alike protected by the government in their property and right of public worship, yet self-supporting and self-governing; and, in turn, they strengthen the moral foundations of society by training loyal and virtuous citizens. Freedom of religion must be recognized as one of the inalienable rights of man, which lies in the sacred domain of conscience, beyond the restraint and control of politics, and which the government is bound to protect as much as any other fundamental right. Freedom is liable to abuse, and abuse may be punished. But Christianity is itself the parent of true freedom from the bondage of sin and error, and is the best protector and regulator of freedom.

(Isabelle) “You can do whatever you’d like at my house.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Within reason,” she added. “If I find you in my bed with a woman, you’re a dead man.” He grinned bigger. Her stomach knotted. “Did I say that?” He continued to grin. She had said it. Must be the fatigue. Three hours of sleep didn’t cut it. He stepped closer. Oh, boy. “Izzy, the only woman I want in that bed is you.

Henry I was not an administrator or a social engineer. He was an extremely able ruler who understood the art of propaganda. of playing the waiting game, and of manipulating the hopes and fears of men. His nature was calculating, determined, even ruthless; he loved material possessions and was self-evidently a man of strong sexual appetites. Yet there was more to Henry than political cunning: this was a man who, if feared by some, could win and keep the loyalty of others. He possessed a clear sense of what it was to rule England and Normandy, and took his role as protector of the church in his realms very seriously. The churchmen who knew him, such as Peter the Venerable and Archbishop Hugh, and those who wrote about him, like Orderic Vitalis, recognized that in an imperfect world, peace and security in England and Normandy had come to rest on his shoulders.

And yes, many of us became fathers to fully understand what it means to be a father. Albert Einstein once said: "Every man is a genius but if you judge a fish by its ability to climb trees, it will spend the rest of its life believing that its stupid." To the men who never let other people’s metrics of success become the yardstick with which they measure theirs. It is no coincidence that we are diagrammatically represented by a circle with an arrow on the edge that points out. To all of us who may not always be "there" so that we can always "be there", To every hunter, every fighter, every missionary, To every planter and tiller of a garden of eden, To every warrior, conqueror of territories, every man always going out so he can bring something home. To every provider and protector of his family. Every defender of his domain and representative of God in the lives of his dependants. To every man that choose character over caliber, Every Major General, Lord of the Rings, Lion of the Tribe of his house. To every correcter with a shout, Every tough and tender 9-ribbed carrier of his cross. For every skill, strength, qualification and effort that we put into building meaningful relationships with our women, bonds with our children, and shield through tough times. For every ‘crave’ for success without substituting values. For the unconditional love, unflinching sacrifice, and diehard determination to go places our parents never imagined for themselves. To those who happily lead, as though money, fame and power didn’t exist. To those who stand tall and sit straight, Who understand that it doesn't take a 6-figure to be a Father figure. Happy Father's Day to every man who understands the responsibility and deserves the title. *Happy Father's Day to You and Me.*

No doubt the movement which rightly or wrongly we have learnt to call the emancipation of women is in the first place a result of the transformation of society into a capitalist and industrial community, in which the home has lost its importance as an economic and productive unity. But the bitter tone of the champions of Woman’s Rights in their arraignment of man’s rule, the suspiciousness which refused to believe that anything but oppression and masculine tyranny was at the bottom of a great number of laws and customs, which in reality were designed just as much to safeguard women and provide them with protectors and maintenance—the rabidity of militant feminists, in short—was a direct reaction against a dressing-gown and slippers tyranny which was peculiar to non-Catholic Europe at the beginning of the nineteenth century—a revolt against mock heroes who slouched about their homes trying to assert authority over their womenfolk. The other day I came across a book which illustrates in a rather droll way the extent to which Northern European women have taken it for granted that this peculiar North European form of the subjection of women since the Reformation was characteristic of the whole past of Europe. It was a little essay by an English writer, Virginia Woolf—I confess that it is all I have read of hers,1 but she is said to have a great reputation as a novelist.

Why Trump, many wondered, including many evangelicals themselves. For decades, the Religious Right had been kindling fear in the hearts of American Christians. It was a tried-and-true recipe for their own success. Communism, secular humanism, feminism, multilateralism, Islamic terrorism, and the erosion of religious freedom—evangelical leaders had rallied support by mobilizing followers to fight battles on which the fate of the nation, and their own families, seemed to hinge. Leaders of the Religious Right had been amping up their rhetoric over the course of the Obama administration. The first African American president, the sea change in LGBTQ rights, the apparent erosion of religious freedom—coupled with looming demographic changes and the declining religious loyalty of their own children—heightened the sense of dread among white evangelicals. But in truth, evangelical leaders had been perfecting this pitch for nearly fifty years. Evangelicals were looking for a protector, an aggressive, heroic, manly man, someone who wasn’t restrained by political correctness or feminine virtues, someone who would break the rules for the right cause. Try as they might—and they did try—no other candidate could measure up to Donald Trump when it came to flaunting an aggressive, militant masculinity. He became, in the words of his religious biographers, “the ultimate fighting champion for evangelicals.” 6

A powerful man Inspired by my beloved uncle Elliot Lubisi Powerful is a man who respects his role of being a provider, a protector and a peacemaker in the family. A man who understands what it means to lead. A man who knows how to show others the right direction, and ensure he follows it too. He who does not just talk talk talk, but walks the talk. A powerful man may not have a stable income. He may not drive the latest car. He may not stay in a posh island. He may not own the most expensive yatch. But, he’s got something that cannot be taken away. A powerful man has a good plan. Even if he fails, he will still make another plan. If he fails again, he will continue to make a plan until he prospers, because he is a powerful man. Nothing will ever stand in his way to success. The world needs powerful men who can help raise powerful children and build powerful countries. This planet in a dire need of kind, wise, fearless and honest men.

She trusted him to break them out, and he trusted her to pick up a gun and fight by his side. They’d break free, and then they’d have an entire lifetime of adventures ahead of them. It was everything she’d ever wanted, except that even in her wildest dreams, she’d failed to imagine a man as cool and sexy and brave as Shane. You’re a bunch of losers, she informed her imaginary boyfriends— imaginary ex-boyfriends, now. It never even occurred to me to have any of you turn into a panther.

By nature and by training this woman was all for conservation of life. She had been brought up in rather a strict and narrow school. In her day although no one, certainly no woman, was expected to save humanity, every female was confidently expected to produce it. More than that, she was earnestly enjoined to guard and protect it. So Mary Ball and her successor Mary Washington, early imbibed not only a sense of the woman's responsibility for the family but a sense of her authority over it....At any rate, in this particular crisi she was merely obeying a law of nature as old as womanhood--to protect the creature she had brought into the world. There was no subtlety in her. She could not see the finer shadings of ths situation, the fact that in holding him back from the frontier she might be putting him into even greater peril. Her course was prompted by instinct and impulse, and she never thought of questioning the right or wrong of it. So, armed with the most primitive of all weapons, she faced her son for a hard fight. But she was pitted here against a temendous paradox. With her whole might she was resisting the demands of war, and yet it had been that very strength that had produced the warrior. Her opponent was remarkably like her--in strength of mind and body, in resolution, in force of will. Now, it is one of the ironies of life that sameness creates opposition. In the conflict that day at Mount Vernon, therefore, the contestants were fighting with identical weapons, even though from different spheres... George Washington must have been a very patient man. And if he had patience, that, too, came from her by that same theory of heredity that makes a firstborn son peculiarly like his mother. So this must be written in to her credity when for the third time she has to be recorded as trying to interrupt his destiny. As a last resort he used a weapon that she herself had put into his hand. Madam," he is said to have remarked with respectful finality, "the God to whom you commended me when first I went to war will be my protector stil.

forward to it, and Cooper, coatless and chilly in the desert evening, was thinking that the radio man was an asshole. He’d chased Vasquez for nine days now. Someone had warned the programmer just before Cooper got to the Boston walk-up, a brick rectangle where the only light had been a window onto an airshaft and the glowing red eyes of power indicators on computers and routers and surge protectors. The desk chair had been against the far wall as if someone had leaped out of it, and steam still rose from an abandoned bowl of ramen. Vasquez had run, and

Come on, I want to take you around to the back, to see St. Anthony's Garden," he said. Delicate bell clangs marked the half hour, and a mockingbird called through the still air as the group entered the garden. The green space was dominated by the tall white statue of a man with arms raised in welcome. "St. Anthony is known as the protector of childless women and finder of lost things," explained Falkner. "This area has had many functions over the years. It was a place for gatherings, markets, meals---even a dueling ground. Père Antoine, one of the cathedral's popular pastors, used the space as a kitchen garden to feed his monks. He also worked with voodoo priestess Marie Laveau to assist the large slave population, especially women and children." "A Roman Catholic priest collaborating with a voodoo priestess?" asked one of the tourists, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. Falkner nodded. "They had more in common than you may think. They both had a desire to heal, sooth, and do good works. They were both very spiritual people. Marie Laveau blended voodoo with Catholicism, especially regarding the saints.

She stared at him, at his face. Simply stared as the scales fell from her eyes. "Oh, my God," she whispered, the exclamation so quiet not even he would hear. She suddenly saw-saw it all-all that she'd simply taken for granted. Men like him protected those they loved, selflessly, unswervingly, even unto death. The realization rocked her. Pieces of the jigsaw of her understanding of him fell into place. He was hanging to consciousness by a thread. She had to be sure-and his shields, his defenses were at their weakest now. Looking down at her hands, pressed over the nearly saturated pad, she hunted for the words, the right tone. Softly said, "My death, even my serious injury, would have freed you from any obligation to marry me. Society would have accepted that outcome, too." He shifted, clearly in pain. She sucked in a breath-feeling his pain as her own-then he clamped the long fingers of his right hand about her wrist, held tight. So tight she felt he was using her as an anchor to consciousness, to the world. His tone, when he spoke, was harsh. "Oh, yes-after I'd expended so much effort keeping you safe all these years, safe even from me, I was suddenly going to stand by and let you be gored by some mangy bull." He snorted, soft, low. Weakly. He drew in a slow, shallow breath, lips thin with pain, but determined, went on, "You think I'd let you get injured when finally after all these long years I at last understand that the reason you've always made me itch is because you are the only woman I actually want to marry? And you think I would stand back and let you be harmed?" A peevish frown crossed his face. "I ask you, is that likely? Is it even vaguely rational?" He went on, his words increasingly slurred, his tongue tripping over some, his voice fading. She listened, strained to catch every word as he slid into semi delirium, into rambling, disjointed sentences that she drank in, held to her heart. He gave her dreams back to her, reshaped and refined. "Not French Imperial-good, sound, English oak. You can use whatever colors you like, but no gilt-I forbid it." Eventually he ventured further than she had. "And I want at least three children-not just an heir and a spare. At least three-if you're agreeable. We'll have to have two boys, of course-my evil ugly sisters will found us to make good on that. But thereafter...as many girls as you like...as long as they look like you. Or perhaps Cordelia-she's the handsomer of the two uglies." He loved his sisters, his evil ugly sisters. Heather listened with tears in her eyes as his mind drifted and his voice gradually faded, weakened. She'd finally got her declaration, not in anything like the words she'd expected, but in a stronger, impossible-to-doubt exposition. He'd been her protector, unswerving, unflinching, always there; from a man like him, focused on a lady like her, such actions were tantamount to a declaration from the rooftops. The love she'd wanted him to admit to had been there all along, demonstrated daily right before her eyes, but she hadn't seen. Hadn't seen because she'd been focusing elsewhere, and because, conditioned as she was to resisting the same style of possessive protectiveness from her brothers, from her cousins, she hadn't appreciated his, hadn't realized that that quality had to be an expression of his feelings for her. Until now. Until now that he'd all but given his life for hers. He loved her-he'd always loved her. She saw that now, looking back down the years. He'd loved her from the time she'd fallen in love with him-the instant they'd laid eyes on each other at Michael and Caro's wedding in Hampshire four years ago. He'd held aloof, held away-held her at bay, too-believing, wrongly, that he wasn't an appropriate husband for her. In that, he'd been wrong, too. She saw it all. And as the tears overflowed and tracked down her cheeks, she knew to her soul how right he was for her. Knew, embraced, and rejoiced.

To heal, men must learn to feel again. They must learn to break the silence, to speak the pain. Often men, to speak the pain, first turn to the women in their lives and are refused a hearing. In many ways women have bought into the patriarchal masculine mystique. Asked to witness a male expressing feelings, to listen to those feelings and respond, they may simply turn away. There was a time when I would often ask the man in my life to tell me his feelings. And yet when he began to speak, I would either interrupt or silence him by crying, sending him the message that his feelings were too heavy for anyone to bear, so it was best if he kept them to himself. As the Sylvia cartoon I have previously mentioned reminds us, women are fearful of hearing men voice feelings. I did not want to hear the pain of my male partner because hearing it required that I surrender my investment in the patriarchal ideal of the male as protector of the wounded. If he was wounded, then how could he protect me? As I matured, as my feminist consciousness developed to include the recognition of patriarchal abuse of men, I could hear male pain. I could see men as comrades and fellow travelers on the journey of life and not as existing merely to provide instrumental support. Since men have yet to organize a feminist men’s movement that would proclaim the rights of men to emotional awareness and expression, we will not know how many men have indeed tried to express feelings, only to have the women in their lives tune out or be turned off. Talking with men, I have been stunned when individual males would confess to sharing intense feelings with a male buddy, only to have that buddy either interrupt to silence the sharing, offer no response, or distance himself. Men of all ages who want to talk about feelings usually learn not to go to other men. And if they are heterosexual, they are far more likely to try sharing with women they have been sexually intimate with. Women talk about the fact that intimate conversation with males often takes place in the brief moments before and after sex. And of course our mass media provide the image again and again of the man who goes to a sex worker to share his feelings because there is no intimacy in that relationship and therefore no real emotional risk.

Men don’t open up because they are prideful and self-protective. The lonely, isolated man is that way because he won’t make himself known to others. Disclosure of self is the currency of intimacy. It’s what our wives want and what true friendship demands. You don’t have to spill your guts to everybody or anybody, but God will get you to the place where you know you need to do it with somebody. The temptation to keep it all inside is the downside of being wired as a protector. He loves us too much to leave us alone. You will never fulfill your potential as a man of God going it alone.

Our marriage wouldn’t protect me,” she said. “Randa wouldn’t pardon me simply because I married.” “But he would be more lenient,” Giddon said. “Our engagement would offer him an alternative. It would be dangerous for him to try to punish you, and he knows that. If we say we’re to be married, then he can send us away from court; he can send us here, and he’ll be out of your reach, and you out of his. And there will be some pretense of good feeling between you.” And she would be married, and to Giddon. She would be his wife, the lady of his house. She’d be charged with entertaining his wretched guests. Expected to hire and dismiss his servants, based on their skill with a pastry, or some such nonsense. Expected to bear him children, and stay at home to love them. She would go to his bed at night, Giddon’s bed, and lie with a man who considered a scratch to her face an affront to his person. A man who thought himself her protector—her protector when she could outduel him if she used a toothpick to his sword. She breathed it away, breathed away the fury. He was a friend, and loyal to the Council. She wouldn’t speak what she thought. She would speak what Raffin had told her to speak.

Kosson threw me a hurt look, for a moment a child with his enthusiasm dashed. “Yes, but see who we have here!” We edged around the invisible glass surrounding the man. That was how it felt. Slick glass, cold to touch, the edge of time where hours and minutes die to nothing. “See?” Kosson pointed to a white rectangle attached to the man’s chest, to the left. It looked to be a piece of plasteek and bore the legend “CUSTODIAN” in black. “That means he’s the guardian, the protector. The guard archivists have books that tell the meanings of ancient words.” “He looks soft to me.” Weak, white, fear in his eyes. “The

Around the glade this pair of woodland nymphs danced. He swept her in a waltz to a duet that was sometimes off tune, sometimes rent with giggling and laughter as they made their own music. A breathless Erienne fell to a sun-dappled hummock of deep, soft moss, and laughing for the pure thrill of the day, she spread her arms, creating a comely yellow-hued flower on the dark green sward while seeming every bit as fragile as a blossom to the man who watched her. With bliss-bedazzled eyes, she gazed through the treetops overhead where swaying branches, bedecked in the first bright green of spring, caressed the underbellies of the freshlet zephyrs, and the fleecy white clouds raced like frolicking sheep across an azure lea. Small birds played courting games, and the earlier ones tended nests with single-minded perseverance. A sprightly squirrel leapt across the spaces, and a larger one followed, bemused at the sudden coyness of his mate. Christopher came to Erienne and sank to his knees on the thick, soft carpet, then bracing his hands on either side of her, slowly lowered himself until his chest touched her bosom. For a long moment he kissed those blushing lips that opened to him and welcomed him with an eagerness that belied the once-cool maid. Then he lifted her arm and lay beside her, keeping her hand in his as he shared her viewpoint of the day. They whispered sweet inanities, talked of dreams, hopes, and other things, as lovers are wont to do. Erienne turned on her side and taking care to keep her hand in the warm nest, ran her other fingers through his tousled hair. “You need a shearing, milord,” she teased. He rolled his head until he could look up into those amethyst eyes. “And does my lady see me as an innocent lamb ready to be clipped?” At her doubtful gaze, he questioned further. “Or rather a lusting, long-maned beast? A zealous suitor come to seduce you?” Erienne’s eyes brightened, and she nodded quickly to his inquiry. “A love-smitten swain? A silver-armored knight upon a white horse charging down to rescue you?” “Aye, all of that,” she agreed through a giggle. She came to her knees and grasped his shirt front with both hands. “All of that and more.” She bent to place a honeyed kiss upon his lips, then sitting back, spoke huskily. “I see you as my husband, as the father of my child, as my succor against the storm, protector of my home, and lord of yonder manse. But most of all, I see you as the love of my life.” -Erienne & Christopher

But its exclusive character and irreconcileable hostility to the religious cults and ceremonies with which the whole social life of the city-state and the empire were inseparably connected at every turn, brought the Christians into inevitable conflict with the government and with public opinion. To the man in the street, the Christian was an anti-social atheist who would take no part in the public feasts and the games, which played such a large part in city life. To the authorities he was a passive rebel, who would neither take his share of municipal offices nor pay loyal homage to the Emperor. Hence the rise of persecution, and the driving of the Christians into an underground existence, as a proscribed sect. The Church grew under the shadow of the executioner's rods and axes, and every Christian lived in the peril of physical torture and death. The thought of martyrdom coloured the whole outlook of early Christianity. But it was not only a fear, it was also an ideal and a hope. For the martyr was the complete Christian, he was the champion and hero of the new society and its conflict with the old, and even the Christians who failed in the moment of the trial - the lapsi - looked on the martyrs as their saviours and protectors

What'a wrong, Villa? Man, you look like shit!" Ramirez said from the driver's seat. The laughter in his voice only added to her misery. Great, now they were going to turn her into the butt of their jokes. Not bothering to reply, she lifted her hand and extended the middle finger. She was too tired to tell him to fuck off. A loud smack drew her attention. "What the hell was that for?" Ramirez complained, rubbing a hand over the back of his head, a deep frown creasing his forhead. "She does not look like shit."Trent growled, turned toward her, and winked. "She looks like Sleeping Beauty." "Yeah, um, I don't remember Sleeping Beauty looking like she got run over by the prince in the story." Slap. Her lips quirked, and a smile broke free. She knew what trent was doing, and she appreciated him for it. Fatique beat at her muscles. However , she was so horny that if Trent let her hump his leg, she'd find the energy from somewhere. "What the hell, you know I'm the one driving. Cut it out. I'm sorry, Villa. You know I still think you're hot." Slap. Erica swallowed the laughter threatening to choke her. "Now what?" Ramirez protested. "I said she looks hot." "I know, that's why I hit you." Trent sounded annoyed. "Oh man, you're in deep shit, bro. Seriously, I know you like her and all, but are you blind? Poor Villa might be hot but she looks like she hasn't slept in a week." He grinned at her through the mirror.

What are you doing?” I ask, astonished. “It’s called a hug, Toy.” He says it with gentle mockery. He’s hugging me to make me feel better. His arms tighten around me, and I melt into him before I can stop myself. His body is so strong, his grip so firm. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes and breathe in his warm, masculine scent, the faint whiff of cologne and sweat and male musk. Then I circle his waist with my hands and hug him back. I hug my kidnapper. I hug my torturer. I just want to feel better about everything, I want to leave my nightmare behind even if it’s just for a few moments of make-believe, so I pretend that he’s none of those things. I keep my eyes closed tight and pretend that he’s my boyfriend, my lover, my protector. And in a way he is. I have no doubt that if anyone tried to harm me, Joshua would kill them or die trying. He’s the only man in my life. The only man who’s ever given me an orgasm. When we have sex now, it feels like making love, and he always, always makes sure that I come first. Why couldn’t he have been like this when he first took me? I think I’d have been in love with him by now. He begins stroking my hair, gently, fingers trailing through the tresses. “This isn’t so bad,” he murmurs, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or me. And a little bit of me melts. This is probably the first time he’s ever hugged anyone, and, heart-breakingly, the first time he’s ever been hugged. Several minutes slide by, slowly, sweetly

Eena worried to Ian in her thoughts. (You’re not going to let him walk away thinking what I think he’s thinking, are you?) (You won't change his mind. The evidence is a little suggestive. You should have just stayed behind me.) (Oh, this is all my fault?) (Well, you were the one swimming in your underwear.) (And you’re the one who took your shirt off!) (You think the alternative would have been better?) She shuttered at the thought of the Braetic stumbling across her in her underclothes. “Cale,” Eena said in another attempt to convince the stranger. Somehow she managed to sidestep Ian’s effort to halt her, and she approached the man. “I am not messing around with my protector. I am, and always have been, true and faithful to Derian. It’s just……a lot of weird things have happened lately.” The Braetic looked willing to consider a good excuse. “Such as?” “Well,” she started, casting a furtive glance at Ian. He was shaking his head, conveying strong disapproval. She ignored him. “Okay, well…..I’ve been fighting these immortals who are bent on using me to break free from an imprisoning gem where they were sentenced to stayed locked up for eternity. They nearly annihilated a world of Viiduns—that’s how awful they are! But one of these immortals has control over my necklace, and her brother keeps transporting me and my protector all over Moccobatra in search of pieces to a star-shaped platform they intend to use to free their bodies which have been trapped for over three-thousand years now. We were sent here at an inopportune—and highly embarrassing—moment to find the final piece to the platform. It’s been a nightmare just trying to stay alive!” “Wow,” Cale breathed, not looking half as concerned as Eena thought he ought to. “So these immortals are using you and trying to kill you at the same time?” She shook her head. “No, no, only the dragons are trying to kill me…or they were trying to kill me until Naga put a stop to them.” Eena heard Ian’s hand smack against his forehead. She saw humor sweep over the Braetic’s face. It made her angry. “Dragons too, huh?” Cale snickered. “It’s the truth!” she insisted. (Eena, just forget it. You’re only making it worse.) She ignored her protector’s advice again. “Cale, I’m telling you the honest-to-goodness truth. Do you know the story of Wanyaka Cave? The red-gemmed prison and the two spirit sisters?” Completely out of patience, Ian broke into the conversation, rudely speaking over his queen. “We’ll be on our way now, sir. We apologize for trespassing.” With a big grin on his face, the Braetic offered a friendly alternative. “Why don’t the pair of you accompany me home. I’m sure my wife can round up some suitable clothing for you. Those immortals must have a ripe sense of humor, leaving you alone in the woods without any decent attire.” He caught a chuckle in his throat. “That is unless it was the dragons who took the shirt off your back.” “Dragons are immortals!” Eena snapped, as if any fool ought to know it. Ian flashed her a harsh look. “We would greatly appreciate the help, sir.” “Oh, it’ll cost you something,” Cale informed them, “but we can discuss that on our way.

Hear me out. Stannis is no friend of yours, nor of mine. Even his brothers can scarcely stomach him. The man is iron, hard and unyielding. He’ll give us a new Hand and a new council, for a certainty. No doubt he’ll thank you for handing him the crown, but he won’t love you for it. And his ascent will mean war. Stannis cannot rest easy on the throne until Cersei and her bastards are dead. Do you think Lord Tywin will sit idly while his daughter’s head is measured for a spike? Casterly Rock will rise, and not alone. Robert found it in him to pardon men who served King Aerys, so long as they did him fealty. Stannis is less forgiving. He will not have forgotten the siege of Storm’s End, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dare not. Every man who fought beneath the dragon banner or rose with Balon Greyjoy will have good cause to fear. Seat Stannis on the Iron Throne and I promise you, the realm will bleed. “Now look at the other side of the coin. Joffrey is but twelve, and Robert gave you the regency, my lord. You are the Hand of the King and Protector of the Realm. The power is yours, Lord Stark. All you need do is reach out and take it. Make your peace with the Lannisters. Release the Imp. Wed Joffrey to your Sansa. Wed your younger girl to Prince Tommen, and your heir to Myrcella. It will be four years before Joffrey comes of age. By then he will look to you as a second father, and if not, well … four years is a good long while, my lord. Long enough to dispose of Lord Stannis. Then, should Joffrey prove troublesome, we can reveal his little secret and put Lord Renly on the throne.

Dearest Alexia, the message read. Oh, please absolve me of this guilt I already feel squishing on my very soul! Lady Maccon huffed, trying not to laugh. My troubled heart weeps! Oh dear, Ivy was getting flowery. My bones ache with the sin that I am about to commit. Oh, why must I have bones? I have lost myself to this transplanting love. You could not possibly understand how this feels! Yet try to comprehend, dearest Alexia, I am like a delicate bloom. Marriage without love is all very well for people like you, but I should wilt and wither. I need a man possessed of a poet’s soul! I am simply not so stoic as you. I cannot stand to be apart from him one moment longer! The caboose of my love has derailed, and I must sacrifice all for the man I adore! Please do not judge me harshly! It was all for love! ~ Ivy.

I turned and there he stood, wearing a loose T-shirt and sweatpants. A modest shapechanger, how refreshing. You wouldn’t even know that he had changed, save for the glistening sheen of dampness on his skin. He looked me over slowly, judging, taking my measure. I could blush demurely or I could do the same to him. I chose not to blush. A couple of inches taller than me, the Beast Lord gave an impression of coiled power. Easy, balanced stance. Blond hair, cut too short to grab. At first glance he looked to be in his early to mid-twenties, but his build betrayed him. His shoulders strained his T-shirt. His back was broad and corded with muscle, showing the power and strength a man developed in his early thirties. “What kind of a woman greets the Beast Lord with ‘here, kitty, kitty’?” he asked. “One of a kind.” I murmured the obvious reply. Eventually I had to look him in the eye. Better sooner than later. The Beast Lord had a strong square jaw. His nose was narrow with a misshapen bridge, as though it had been broken more than once and hadn’t healed right. Considering the regenerative powers of the shapechangers, someone must’ve pounded his face with a sledgehammer. Our stares met. Little golden sparks danced in his gray eyes. His gaze made me want to bow my head and look away. He regarded me as if I was an interesting new snack. “I’m the lord of the Free Beasts,” he said. “I figured.” Perhaps he expected me to curtsy. He leaned forward a little, puzzling over me as if I were an odd-looking insect. “Why would a knight-protector hire a no-name merc to investigate the death of his diviner?” I gave him my best cryptic smile.

Cromwell. The door was flung open. In stalked the Protector, disgusted once more with the inability of human weaklings to come to the point, to get action, to see what he wanted and let him have it. Was it not, he berated them, every Christian’s duty to receive the Jews into England, the only nation where religion was taught in its full purity, and “not to exclude them from the light and leave them among false teachers, Papists and idolaters”? This argument silenced objectors among the clergy. Then he poured his contempt upon the City men. “Can ye really be afraid that this mean and despised people should be able to prevail in trade over the merchants of England, the noblest and most esteemed merchants of the whole world?” “Thus he went on,” says an observer, “till he had silenced them too.… I never heard a man speak so well in his life.” But

Type II trauma also often occurs within a closed context - such as a family, a religious group, a workplace, a chain of command, or a battle group - usually perpetrated by someone related or known to the victim. As such, it often involves fundamental betrayal of the relationship between the victim and the perpetrator and within the community (Freyd, 1994). It may also involve the betrayal of a particular role and the responsibility associated with the relationship (i.e., parent-child, family member-child, therapist-client, teacher-student, clergy-child/adult congregant, supervisor-employee, military officer-enlisted man or woman). Relational dynamics of this sort have the effect of further complicating the victim's survival adaptations, especially when a superficially caring, loving or seductive relationship is cultivated with the victim (e.g., by an adult mentor such as a priest, coach, or teacher; by an adult who offers a child special favors for compliance; by a superior who acts as a protector or who can offer special favors and career advancement). In a process labelled "selection and grooming", potential abusers seek out as potential victims those who appear insecure, are needy and without resources, and are isolated from others or are obviously neglected by caregivers or those who are in crisis or distress for which they are seeking assistance. This status is then used against the victim to seduce, coerce, and exploit. Such a scenario can lead to trauma bonding between victim and perpetrator (i.e., the development of an attachment bond based on the traumatic relationship and the physical and social contact), creating additional distress and confusion for the victim who takes on the responsibility and guilt for what transpired, often with the encouragement or insinuation of the perpetrator(s) to do so.

But this was worse than personal. This was about Louise, alias Anemone, cut up on a surgical platter, about Elizabeth Elliott stabbed to death and too poor to be resleeved, Irene Elliott, weeping for a body that a corporate rep wore on alternate months, Victor Elliott, whiplashed between loss and retrieval of someone who was and yet was not the same woman. This was about a young black man facing his family in a broken-down, middle-aged white body; it was about Virginia Vidaura walking disdainfully into storage with her head held high and a last cigarette polluting lungs she was about to lose, no doubt to some other corporate vampire. It was about Jimmy de Soto, clawing his own eye out in the mud and fire at Innenin, and the millions like him throughout the Protectorate, painfully gathered assemblages of individual human potential, pissed away into the dung heap of history. For all these, and more, someone was going to pay.

The independence movements in the colonies and protectorates came into being, not through return to indigenous values on the part of those concerned, but through the absorption of occidental ideas and ideologies, liberal or revolutionary as the case might be. The process of modernization - a euphemism for Westernization - far from being halted by this withdrawal, was in fact accelerated. The enthusiasm of the new rulers for everything 'modern' was not restrained, as had been the enthusiasm of their former masters, by any element of self-doubt. The irony implicit in this whole situation was tragically apparent in the Vietnam war, when the people of that country fought, not to preserve their own traditions or to gain the right to be truly themselves, but under the banner of a shoddy occidental ideology and for the privilege of imitating their former masters in terms of nationalism and socialism. The west was at war with its own mirror image in a vicious dance of death.

I told him he must carry it thus. It was evident the sagacious little creature, having lost its mother, had adopted him for a father. I succeeded, at last, in quietly releasing him, and took the little orphan, which was no bigger than a cat, in my arms, pitying its helplessness. The mother appeared as tall as Fritz. I was reluctant to add another mouth to the number we had to feed; but Fritz earnestly begged to keep it, offering to divide his share of cocoa-nut milk with it till we had our cows. I consented, on condition that he took care of it, and taught it to be obedient to him. Turk, in the mean time, was feasting on the remains of the unfortunate mother. Fritz would have driven him off, but I saw we had not food sufficient to satisfy this voracious animal, and we might ourselves be in danger from his appetite. We left him, therefore, with his prey, the little orphan sitting on the shoulder of his protector, while I carried the canes. Turk soon overtook us, and was received very coldly; we reproached him with his cruelty, but he was quite unconcerned, and continued to walk after Fritz. The little monkey seemed uneasy at the sight of him, and crept into Fritz's bosom, much to his inconvenience. But a thought struck him; he tied the monkey with a cord to Turk's back, leading the dog by another cord, as he was very rebellious at first; but our threats and caresses at last induced him to submit to his burden. We proceeded slowly, and I could not help anticipating the mirth of my little ones, when they saw us approach like a pair of show-men. I advised Fritz not to correct the dogs for attacking and killing unknown animals. Heaven bestows the dog on man, as well as the horse, for a friend and protector. Fritz thought we were very fortunate, then, in having two such faithful dogs; he only regretted that our horses had died on the passage, and only left us the ass. "Let us not disdain the ass," said I; "I wish we had him here; he is of a very fine breed, and would be as useful as a horse to us." In such conversations, we arrived at the banks of our river before we were aware. Flora barked to announce our approach, and Turk answered so loudly, that the terrified little monkey leaped from his back to the shoulder of its protector, and would not come down. Turk ran off to meet his companion, and our dear family soon appeared on the opposite shore, shouting with joy at our happy return. We crossed at the same place as we had done in the morning, and embraced each other. Then began such a noise of exclamations. "A monkey! a real, live monkey! Ah! how delightful! How glad we are! How did you catch him?

He had no desire to form attachments to people. That would have required more trust and intimacy than he could summon. But he did care for all the Hathaway brood, even Leo. And then there was Win, for whom Kev would have died a thousand times over. He would never degrade Win with his touch, or dare to assume a place in her life other than as a protector. She was too fine, too rare. As she grew into womanhood, every man in the county was enthralled by her beauty. Outsiders tended to view Win as an ice maiden, neat and unruffled and cerebral. But outsiders knew nothing of the sly wit and warmth that lurked beneath her perfect surface. Outsiders hadn't seen Win teaching Poppy the steps to a quadrille until they had both collapsed to the floor in giggles. Or frog-hunting with Beatrix, her apron filled with leaping amphibians. Or the droll way she read a Dickens novel with an array of voices and sounds, until the entire family howled at her cleverness. Kev loved her. Not in the way that novelists and poets described. Nothing so tame. He loved her beyond earth, heaven, or hell. Every moment out of her company was agony; every moment with her was the only peace he had ever known. Every touch of her hands left an imprint that ate down his soul. He would have killed himself before admitting it to anyone. The truth was buried deep within his heart.

Speech in the Sportpalast Berlin, January 30, 1942 They say, “you sail on your KdF ships; we cannot allow them to land here; that would corrupt our laborers.” Now, why would that corrupt their laborers? I cannot see why. The German laborer has worked more than ever before; why should he not have a rest? Is it not a joke when today the man in the White House says, “we have a program for the world, and this program for the world will give man freedom and the right to work.” Mr. Roosevelt-open your eyes! We have already done this in Germany a long time ago. Or when he says that the sick ought to be taken care of. Please leave the garden of our party program-this is National Socialist teaching and not yours, Sir! This is heresy for a democrat. Or when he says, “we want laborers to have a vacation.” It is a little late to want this, since we have already put this into practice. And we would be much further along now if Mr. Roosevelt had not interfered. Or when he says, “we want to increase prosperity for the masses of laborers, too.” All these things are in our program! He might have seen them through, if he had not started the war. After all, we did all this before the war. No, these capitalist hyenas do not have the slightest intention of doing this. They see us as a suspicious example. And now, in order to lure their own people, they have to get in on our party program and fish out a few sentences, these poor bunglers. And even that they do imperfectly. We had a world unanimously against us here. Of course, not only on the right, but also on the left. Those on the left feared: “What are we going to do, if this experiment succeeds and he actually makes it and eliminates the housing problem? What if he manages to introduce an educational system based on which a talented boy, no matter who his parents are, can attain God knows what position? And, he is capable of doing it, he is already making a Reich protector out of a former farmhand. What if he really introduces an old-age pension scheme covering the whole Volk? What if he truly secures a right to vacations for the whole Volk, since he is already building ships? And he is bringing all this up to an ordered and secured standard of living. What are we going to do? We live by the absence of this. We live by this and, therefore, we must fight National Socialism.” What the others have accomplished-that, our comrades were best able to see in Russia. We have been in power for nine years now. Bolshevism has been there since 1917, that is, almost twenty-five years. Everyone can judge for himself by comparing this Russia with Germany. The things we did in these nine years. What does the German Volk look like, and what have they accomplished over there? I do not even want to mention the capitalist states. They do not take care of their unemployed, because no American millionaire will ever come into the area where they live, and no unemployed man will ever go to the area where the millionaires live. While hunger marches to Washington and to the White House are organized, they are usually dispersed en route by the police by means of rubber truncheons and tear gas. Such things do not exist in authoritarian Germany. We deal with such problems without such things-rubber truncheons and tear gas.

Luit never came out of the anesthesia. He paid dearly for having stood up to two other males, frustrating them by his steep ascent. Those two had been plotting against him in order to take back the power they had lost. The shocking way they did so opened my eyes to how deadly seriously chimpanzees take their politics. Two-against-one maneuvering is what lends chimpanzee power struggles both their richness and their danger. Coalitions are key. No male can rule by himself, at least not for long, because the group as a whole can overthrow anybody. Chimpanzees are so clever about banding together that a leader needs allies to fortify his position as well as the greater community’s acceptance. Staying on top is a balancing act between forcefully asserting dominance, keeping supporters happy, and avoiding mass revolt. If this sounds familiar, it’s because human politics works exactly the same. Before Luit’s death, the Arnhem colony was ruled jointly by Nikkie, a young upstart, and Yeroen, an over-the-hill conniver. Barely adult at seventeen, Nikkie was a brawny character with a dopey expression. He was very determined, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He was supported by Yeroen, who was physically not up to the task of being a leader anymore, yet who wielded enormous influence behind the scenes. Yeroen had a habit of watching disputes unfold from a distance, stepping in only when emotions were flaring to calmly support one side or the other, thus forcing everybody to pay attention to his decisions. Yeroen shrewdly exploited the rivalries among younger and stronger males. Without going into the complex history of this group, it was clear that Yeroen hated Luit, who had wrested power from him years before. Luit had defeated Yeroen in a struggle that had taken three hot summer months of daily tensions involving the entire colony. The next year, Yeroen had gotten even by helping Nikkie dethrone Luit. Ever since, Nikkie had been the alpha male with Yeroen as his right-hand man. The two became inseparable. Luit was unafraid of either one of them alone. In one-on-one encounters in the night cages, Luit dominated every other male in the colony, taking away their food or chasing them around. No single one of them could possibly have kept him in his place. This meant that Yeroen and Nikkie ruled as a team, and only as a team. They did so for four long years. But their coalition eventually began to unravel, and as is not uncommon among men, the divisive issue was sex. Being the kingmaker, Yeroen had enjoyed extraordinary sexual privileges. Nikkie would not let any other males get near the most attractive females, but for Yeroen he had always made an exception. This was part of the deal: Nikkie had the power, and Yeroen got a slice of the sexual pie. This happy arrangement ended only when Nikkie tried to renegotiate its terms. In the four years of his rule, he had grown increasingly self-confident. Had he forgotten who had helped him get to the top? When the young leader began to throw his weight around, interfering with the sexual adventures not only of other males but also of Yeroen himself, things got ugly. Infighting within the ruling coalition went on for months, until one day Yeroen and Nikkie failed to reconcile after a spat. With Nikkie following him around, screaming and begging for their customary embrace, the old fox finally walked away without looking back. He’d had it. Luit filled the power vacuum overnight. The most magnificent chimpanzee male I have known, both in body and spirit, quickly grew in stature as the alpha male. Luit was popular with females, a mighty arbiter of disputes, protector of the downtrodden, and effective at disrupting bonding among rivals in the divide-and-rule tactic typical of both chimp and man. As soon as Luit saw other males together he would either join them or perform a charging display to disband them.

Without taking use of ox or man, Or of creature as Mary desired, Without spinning thread of silk or of satin, Without sowing, without harrowing, without reaping, Without rowing, without games, without fishing, Without going to the hunting hill, Without trimming arrows on the Lord's Day, Without cleaning byre, without threshing corn, Without kiln, without mill on the Lord's Day. Whosoever would keep the Lord's Day, Even would it be to him and lasting, From setting of sun on Saturday Till rising of sun on Monday.17 Beltaine remained the central festival in the cycle of the agricultural pastoral year, the season of light, the time of growth. It was then that the sheep and cattle would be driven up to the summer pastures, the “shielings” in Scotland, the “hafods” in Wales. This was a virtual migration since these might be six or eight or even twelve or fourteen miles away, and it often meant crossing land that was rough and rugged or full of swamps, even sometimes having to swim across channels or rivers. The procession included the men carrying spades, ropes, and other things that might be needed to repair their summer huts, while the women carried the bedding, meal, and dairy utensils. As they went, there were songs to be sung on the journey, a dedicatory hymn to the Trinity and to the most familiar of the saints, Michael, Bride, and Columba, respectively the protector, the woman who knew about dairies, the guardian of their cattle—and, of course, to Mary herself, who on this occasion they address as mother of the White Lamb: Valiant Michael of the white steeds, Who subdued the Dragon of blood, For love of God, for pains of Mary's Son, Spread

She , Soul-Seer, Healer of hearts Soother of Hurts Keeper of Mystical Keys Her eyes gazing at the ethers The Moon her wise counsel The Sun her radiant protector The Stars her Angels The grounding earth her energies The still waters her depth Her tongue the fire of the holy spirit Her will symmetrically aligned As with laws of ancient lands She that foretold secrets Unlocking Mysteries of untold Sagas Taking measure of legends from Kings and queens High Priestess , Warrior, Gypsy Queen She that sits enthroned waiting She, no Man’s slave , Kings have bowed to her Queens harken her advise No ordinary Mortal will do for her Only her immortal beloved half They were both forged in blood , dust and bone Their Hearts sealed as one by their sire For Immortals are not born but created Made in God’s eternal Twinflame fire ~ JC © 2020

Even higher hopes were held for education as a product and protector of equality, especially in the light of the educational privileges of the elites. William Manning, the Billerica tavernkeeper, went to the heart of the matter: “Larning is of the greatest importance to the seport of a free government,” he wrote, “& to prevent this the few are always crying up the advantages of costly collages, national aca-dimyes & grammer schooles, in ordir to make places for men to live without work, & so strengthen their party. But are always opposed to cheep schools & woman schooles, the ondly or prinsaple means by which larning is spred amongue the Many.” This view, which was too strong for even the Jeffersonian press to print, anticipated the egalitarian thrust of the 1830s.

see the Nimble Thief and the Man with Two Lives and the Blind Man, but I don’t see the others. Where’s the Dreadful Bear and the Knight Protector? The Horse Lord and the Bowman? And the ladies? Where are they—the Queen of the World and the Mother of the Race That Died?

I see the Nimble Thief and the Man with Two Lives and the Blind Man, but I don’t see the others. Where’s the Dreadful Bear and the Knight Protector? The Horse Lord and the Bowman? And the ladies? Where are they—the Queen of the World and the Mother of the Race That Died?

When Bond was born he personified an aspect of male identity that was prevalent after the war that of the protector. Man saw their role as being the one to protect their families from external threats. An ability to resort to violence when necessary was part of this. Meaning that emotionally men had to harden and reduce their empathy. The role of protector is an aspect of male identity that is now less necessary. The great majority of men go through their lives without ever having to fight and those who use violence against others are no longer admired or tolerated. It is the lack of love, particularly in childhood, that can lead to the toxic behaviour and violence that we need to protect ourselves against. Craig’s Bond gradually learned that his armour hurt and isolated him as much as it protected. He came at the end of five film arc to open himself up, leave himself vulnerable and accept the consequences. This was necessary he finally understood, even though it will lead to his death.

We chose each other long before the stars decided it. I’m glad they finally agree, but it doesn’t change anything really. I already wanted you as deeply as the others, I want you in every way a woman can want a man. And I wouldn’t change the path we’ve walked to get here, because it’s been our story. And I love every word from the raw and hurtful to the pure and beautiful. You’re my Harpy, my guardian, my protector. I’ll love you always in every way I can, in every moment we’re offered from here on out.

spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?" Hebrews 1:14 Angels are the unseen attendants of the saints of God; they bear us up in their hands, lest we dash our foot against a stone. Loyalty to their Lord leads them to take a deep interest in the children of his love; they rejoice over the return of the prodigal to his father's house below, and they welcome the advent of the believer to the King's palace above. In olden times the sons of God were favoured with their visible appearance, and at this day, although unseen by us, heaven is still opened, and the angels of God ascend and descend upon the Son of man, that they may visit the heirs of salvation. Seraphim still fly with live coals from off the altar to touch the lips of men greatly beloved. If our eyes could be opened, we should see horses of fire and chariots of fire about the servants of the Lord; for we have come to an innumerable company of angels, who are all watchers and protectors of the seed-royal. Spenser's line is no poetic fiction, where he sings-- "How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant Against foul fiends to aid us militant!" To what dignity are the chosen elevated when the brilliant courtiers of heaven become their willing servitors! Into what communion are we raised since we have intercourse with spotless celestials! How well are we defended since all the twenty- thousand chariots of God are armed for our deliverance! To whom do we owe all this? Let the Lord Jesus Christ be forever endeared to us, for through him we are made to sit in heavenly places far above principalities and powers.

I drink in the pure, unshakeable essence of Kade. Our protector and leader, the man who secured our family’s freedom from those who tore us apart. As long as we have him by our side, I know we’ll always be safe. I can’t protect those I love from the demons of this world alone.

I learned from the best. But like I told you, you forgot who you came back to. I know who I am, Tobias, and it’s time you remember who you are—a man who built a worthy army but fought too many battles alone. We have you. Have had you,” I say softly. “It’s time you trust me, trust us.” My words strike where intended as realization sets in. “You’re a protector, my King. It’s who you are, who you were born to be, and I can’t seem to stay mad at you for it. But I am a protector too, my love, and it’s time you see that.

I watched him climb to the platform and take a seat in the short row of benches along the wall, wishing that I had been wiser in my choice of heroes. I wished I had known about Calder. A man broken twice over, still willing to hand his life over to the greater good. A man drowning in bitterness and resentment, still a steadfast protector to the very source of his anguish. A man who lost everything and turned it into something, who had done what I was trying to do now. I was staring down the path of impossibility, knowing he had already walked it … and that was what a real hero was.

Musonius Rufus, some forty-odd years before Marcus was born, had been approached by a Syrian king. “Do not imagine,” he had told the man, that it is more appropriate for anyone to study philosophy than for you, nor for any other reason than because you are a king. For the first duty of a king is to be able to protect and benefit his people, and a protector and benefactor must know what is good for a man and what is bad, what is helpful and what harmful, what advantageous and what disadvantageous, inasmuch as it is plain that those who ally themselves with evil come to harm, while those who cleave to good enjoy protection, and those who are deemed worthy of help and advantage enjoy benefits, while those who involve themselves in things disadvantageous and harmful suffer punishment.

Four, livid purple bruises had formed on my inner biceps. On each arm. Four imprints of the pads of an angry man’s fingers. Slowly, I turned and looked over my shoulder. A deep purple bruise had risen in stark relief against the white of my skin on my shoulder blade. I closed my eyes. He’d marked me. Buck. My protector.

Who can deny it? The Church existed before the Bible; she made the Bible; she selected its books, and she preserved it. She handed it down; through her we know what is the Word of God, and what the word of man; and hence to try at this time of day, as many do, to overthrow the Church by means of this very Bible, and to put it above the Church, and to revile her for destroying it and corrupting it - what is this but to strike the mother that reared them; to curse the hand that fed them; to turn against their best friend and benefactor; and to repay with ingratitude and slander their very guide and protector who has led them to drink of the water out of the Saviour's fountains.

He's my rescuer, my teacher, my protector, my everything. In all the years I festered in captivity, grieving over losing Nanna, I never thought I would meet a man who would serve me retribution.

He certainly would. Charlotte was a handful. The man lucky enough to win her favor would be in for the ride of his life; of that, there was no doubt.

HIM: Let me take you around the world and show you things that you have never seen. ME: I am not impressed with the world. I have seen it. Show me a man who can be faithful. That is something I have never seen.

She might simply have done what Tekla did, and created versions of herself modified for certain traits associated with athleticism. Instead, having become fascinated by the odd detail in her genetic report, she had embarked on a program to reawaken the Neanderthal DNA that, or so she imagined, had been slumbering in her and her ancestors’ nuclei for tens of thousands of years. It was a somewhat insane idea, and in any case she didn’t have enough Neanderthal in her to make it feasible, but she did produce a race of people with vaguely Neanderthal-like features, and in later centuries the processes of Caricaturization, Isolation, and Enhancement—which had affected all the races to some extent—had wrought especially pronounced changes on this subrace. Gene sequences taken from the toe of an actual Neanderthal skeleton, found on Old Earth and sequenced before Zero, were put to use. Old Earth paleontology journals had been data-mined for stats on bone length and muscle attachment so that those could be hard-coded into the Neoander wetware. The man sitting at the end of the table was the artificial product of breeding and of genetic engineering, but, had he been sent back in time to prehistoric Europe, he would have been indistinguishable, at least in his outward appearance, from genuine Neanderthals. The creation of the new race had happened incrementally, over centuries. By the time Neoanders existed it was too late to bother with the trifling ethical question of whether it was really a good thing to have created them. During their slow differentiation from the other races they had developed a history and a culture of their own, of which they were as proud as any other ethnic group. Not surprisingly, much of that history was about their relationship with Teklans, which was, as foreordained, largely combative. At its most simple-minded and stupidly reductionist bones, the Teklan side of the story was that Neoanders were dangerous ape-men brought into existence by a crazy Eve as a curse upon the other six races. The Neoander side had it that Teklans were what Hitler would have produced if he’d had genetic engineering labs, and that it was a damned good thing that Eve Aïda had had the foresight to produce a countervailing force of earthy, warm, but immensely strong and dangerous protectors. Much of this combative relationship had become irrelevant as the tactical landscape had become dominated by katapults and ambots, and physical strength had become less important to the outcome of fights. But the old primordial animus remained, and explained why Beled’s immediate response, upon entering a room that contained a Neoander, was to make himself ready for hand-to-hand combat. Doc chose to ignore this. If he even notices, Kath Two thought, but she was pretty sure Doc noticed everything. “Beled, Kath, I do not believe you have met Langobard.” It was a fairly common Aïdan name. “Bard for short,” Langobard offered. “Langobard, may I present Beled Tomov and Kath Amalthova Two.

Lancer Formidable fighters who ride their monsters into battle. Eventually, these monsters can become terrifying titans; the most legendary of which are large enough to rival the size of castles. Hunter Use traps and utility-type spells alongside their monsters. Adept at taking down enemies using stealth and traps. Mage Using the elemental affinities of their summoned monsters, Mages cast powerful offensive spells. Protector These summoners adapt the elemental affinities of their monsters to strengthen and bolster the defenses of themselves and their allies. Ranger Masters of ranged combat, Rangers utilize their monsters to enhance and empower their ranged attacks. Beastmaster These rare and unique summoners practice the dangerous art of bioalchemy. They combine elements of their monsters in their own bodies, creating a synthesis between monster and man.

Carwyn owed his allegiance to no man, woman, or immortal. Except one fucking woman who was determined to drive him mad. Someone had recently described Brigid Connor as “a badger trapped in a barn” and it wasn’t an inaccurate comparison. She was stubborn, destructive, and single-minded. It made her a fierce protector, an absolute firecracker in bed, and one of the best vampires he’d known in a thousand years. Of course he’d married her.

I get different things from each man. Comfort and gentleness from Glen. Fight and strength from Matt. But from Kenta—I get steadiness. Calm. Support. Both Glen and Matt like to shield me from things that are painful, and I understand why. They’ve seen so much pain. And right down to their cores, they’re protectors. But Kenta wants to see me work through obstacles. He really believes I can do anything. He makes me believe I can do anything. So, yeah. I need Kenta, right now.

The attachment which General Jackson felt for the men that had been trained under him, and his pride in them, were fully reciprocated; as one of them expressed it: "Wherever the voice of our brace and beloved general is heard, we are ready to follow. I have read of the devotion of soldiers to their commanders, but history contains no parallel case of devotion and affection equal to that of the Stonewall Brigade for Major-General Jackson, We do not look upon him merely as our commander do not regard him as a severe disciplinarian, as a politician, as a man seeking popularity but as a Christian; a brave man who appreciates the condition of a common soldier; as a fatherly protector; as one who endures all hardships in common with his followers; who never commands others to face danger without putting himself in the van. The confidence and esteem of the soldiers are made known in exulting shouts wherever he makes his appearance.

have to. That’s who I… that’s who I’ve always believed myself to be.” “It is who you⁠—” I can’t finish a sentence because he keeps interrupting me. “No, it’s not. I keep… I keep freezing. When it matters. I keep freezing. Instead of acting. A few weeks ago when Maria’s crew was under attack, I froze. When we saw Elizabeth yesterday on the motorcycle, I froze. Even this morning, when we found that asshole with his pants down, I froze yet again. I knew he was a kidnapper and that he was a danger to Elizabeth and to you. But instead of acting when I should have, I froze. You had to kill him instead. That never—never—would have happened last year.” I want to burst out with another denial, but I make myself think about his words, what he’s expressing. I have to process it so I can give his naked confession the response he deserves. Still massaging his lower back, I finally say slowly, “I understand what you’re saying, and I understand why you think it means something is wrong with you. But I honestly don’t believe the reaction time of your trigger finger defines whether you’re a good or bad man. There’s so much more to you than being a protector, Mack.” He’s shaking again, more urgently this time. His eyes are still squeezed shut. “What else is there?” “What else? Are you serious? You’ve got the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever known. You encourage people. Make them laugh. Make them happy. Make them want to be brave, want to do the right thing. You’ve been like… like a beacon fire, lighting the way for us. And keeping all of us warm. You’ve always taken care of people in so many ways that have nothing to do with handling weapons. Even if you never get back to the reaction time you used to have, you can do so much good in the world. And you can have a really good life. You don’t have to be the same man you were to be good or be happy. You don’t. And maybe you should offer the same grace to yourself that you’ve always offered everyone else.

The ruler of each clan was called a chief, who was really the chief man of his family. Each clan was divided into branches who had chieftains over them. The members of the clan claimed consanguinity to the chief. The idea never entered into the mind of a Highlander that the chief was anything more than the head of the clan. The relation he sustained was subordinate to the will of the people. Sometimes his sway was unlimited, but necessarily paternal. The tribesmen were strongly attached to the person of their chief. He stood in the light of a protector, who must defend them and right their wrongs. They rallied to his support, and in defense they had a contempt for danger. The sway of the chief was of such a nature as to cultivate an imperishable love of independence, which was probably strengthened by an exceptional hardiness of character.

Passivity is one of the main enemies of biblical masculinity and it’s most obvious where it’s needed most. It’s a pattern of waiting on the sidelines until you’re specifically asked to step in. Even worse than that, it can be a pattern of trying to duck out of responsibilities or to run away from challenges. Men who think conflict should be avoided, or who refuse to engage with those who would harm the body of Christ or their family, not only model passivity but fail in their responsibilities as protectors. Running to the battle means routinely taking a step toward the challenge — not away from it. Instead of running and hiding, it means running into the burning building or into any other situation that requires courage and/or strength. It means having a burden of awareness and consistently asking yourself, “Is there any testosterone needed in this situation?” That doesn’t mean being a fool who just rushes in, but simply being a leader with the instinct to go where the need is. So show leadership, protection and provision in your family, work, church, and community by consistently moving toward the action. Demonstrate your availability by consistently asking those you encounter, “Do you need anything?” Watch for needs and challenges in whatever situation you’re in and cultivate a habit of running to the battle. Keep your head Whether it was a bear attacking his sheep, Goliath looming in the distance, Saul hurling a spear at him or any other crisis David faced, he moved toward the action with calm resolve. He didn’t panic. He was a man of action and engagement. When there is a crisis, leaders don’t panic. Crisis reveals character and capacity. This is the point when true leaders are distinguished from others. So keep your head. Be anxious for nothing (Phil 4:6-7). Time is wasted while you panic. Just step forward. Be unflappable and resilient.

You must promise me, Julian, that you will submit to no man. You are your father’s son. Sometimes predator, sometimes protector. Only you will know when to be one and when the other.

The lord protectorate presses harder, but this time when my knee thrusts up it lands a hit in his man-treasures, sending him backward

There is often much good in the type of boss, especially common in big cities, who fulfills towards the people of his district in rough and ready fashion the position of friend and protector. He uses his influence to get jobs for young men who need them. He goes into court for a wild young fellow who has gotten into trouble. He helps out with cash or credit the widow who is in straits, or the breadwinner who is crippled or for some other cause temporarily out of work. He organizes clambakes and chowder parties and picnics, and is consulted by the local labor leaders when a cut in wages is threatened. For some of his constituents he does proper favors, and for others wholly improper favors; but he preserves human relations with all. He may be a very bad and very corrupt man, a man whose action in blackmailing and protecting vice is of far-reaching damage to his constituents. But these constituents are for the most part men and women who struggle hard against poverty and with whom the problem of living is very real and very close. They would prefer clean and honest government, if this clean and honest government is accompanied by human sympathy, human understanding. But an appeal made to them for virtue in the abstract, an appeal made by good men who do not really understand their needs, will often pass quite unheeded, if on the other side stands the boss, the friend and benefactor, who may have been guilty of much wrong-doing in things that they are hardly aware concern them, but who appeals to them, not only for the sake of favors to come, but in the name of gratitude and loyalty, and above all of understanding and fellow-feeling.

For a man like Preacher to see his little wife struggle and have pain was obviously torture. He was much more comfortable in the role of protector. Mel knew immediately that he wasn’t going to be much help. When

Okay. This guy came to the bar and flirted with you, then he pummels some guy for hitting you.” Doug counts off each attribute on his fingers. “Then he chases after you to make sure you’re okay. But you blow him off because he’s a cop.” Doug shook his head. “I’m sorry, but what exactly is the problem?” Furi’s head was spinning at his screwed-up emotions. “I told you how Patrick started hitting me after I gave him what he asked for in bed. Whenever we’d fuck a certain way, he’d love it, but would always freak out later. I can see the same shit in Syn. As soon as men like that fuck, they lose their shit and immediately feel like they have to reclaim their lost manhood, on my face. Mark my words. Syn would snap just like Pat did.” “How the hell do you know that?” “Call it my gay man’s intuition.” Doug laughed and refilled their glasses. “I think you’re making an unfair generalization. Every man is not a psycho asshole like your husband and his brother. There are plenty of good guys out there. This cop seems like he’s more of a protector than an abuser, babe.” “I guarantee he’s closeted and will go crazy on me the second I let my guard down and hook up with him.” Furi let his head fall to the side as he stared at his friend. “There’s no way that a goddamn Detective is going to be all out and proud. You think he’ll take me to the policeman’s ball? Hell no, he’d make me be his dirty secret, and eventually his punching bag.

I love kicking a man when he’s down.

Mick was always the right kind of dirty. Windblown, fresh off his bike, wrapped in tattoo and leather. Muscles all the hell over the place. The man was a serious piece of eye candy. Thinking about him losing the leather warmed the chill that had gripped her since the attack.

I want to be the first man you fuck, Finn. I want you to know what it will feel like for whatever man is lucky enough to take you someday.” Finn

I want you inside me while I’m inside him.” Finn’s eyes widened and his lips parted. The younger man’s erection was back in full force. “Callan,

I need you,” he finally said and I heard the tremor in his voice. For any other man I had no doubt the words would have been easy ones to say, but for Mav, I suspected they cost him so much more. I

I straightened in my chair and took a sip of tea to buy time. I knew Memphis had wanted our relationship to remain a secret, but the idea of lying to my fathers just wasn’t an option anymore. “It’s Memphis Wheland.” Pops was quiet for a long time and it was finally my dad who said, “Isn’t that the man who saved Brennan’s life?” I

Call out to him!” the man snarled as he pinned Janie’s wrists to the bed. I

Sweat dripped down Dane’s forehead as he carefully pushed back into Jax and felt his inner walls ripple around him. Jax’s ass was an amazing sight on its own but to see his cock sliding in and out of the powerful man beneath him and hearing Jax’s little grunts every time he did it had Dane trying to stave off his orgasm.

He kept up his slow, deep rhythm as he traced his fingers down Jax’s back and over his ass. He spread Jax’s cheeks so he could watch himself disappear in and out of the other man.

Man, you really didn’t know, did you?” Shane shook his head. “Michael was in love with you.” Gabe

Nobody hits you while I've got breath in my body." Shock sent her heart crashing against her ribs. Jonas had fought William not because of what happened at Eton but because he wouldn't see her hurt. He'd been her champion, not avenger of his own wrongs. An astonishing surge of emotion that extended far beyond mere gratitude left her reeling. Roberta had been her protector when she'd been a little girl but since then, she'd fought every battle alone. "Thank you," she whispered, the words utterly inadequate. Briefly forgetting their audience, she lifted his fist and pressed a reverent kiss to his broken knuckles. "But you can't kill him." With her kiss, the inhuman chill slowly drained from Jonas's expression. Thank heaven. Once more he looked like the man she knew. He sucked in a choked breath and she felt his coiled tension ease. "As you wish.

Do not harm her, Anita. She is under our protection.” “I swear to you that I will not lay a finger on her tonight. I just want to tell her something.” He released my arm, slowly, like he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I stepped next to Monica, until our bodies almost touched. I whispered into her face, “If anything happens to Catherine, I will see you dead.” She smirked at me, confident in her protectors. “They will bring me back as one of them.” I felt my head shake, a little to the right, a little to the left, a slow precise movement. “I will cut out your heart.” I was still smiling, I couldn’t seem to stop. “Then I will burn it and scatter the ashes in the river. Do you understand me?” She swallowed audibly. Her health-club tan looked a little green. She nodded, staring at me like I was the bogey man. I think she believed I’d do it. Peachy keen. I hate to waste a really good threat.

every son should have a chance to know his father, not as a child knows his protector, but as a man knows another man.

We can hit him and he won't even know it's coming." Jax didn't say anything. He didn't shift often, hated shifting if he were being honest. But what bothered him most was putting Caroline in danger, actually more danger. Mika may not know the full extent of her relationship with him, but if their plan didn't work, then Caroline's involvement would be fully exposed. He wasn't sure he wanted to chance that. The risk was too great. Hell, he was already putting her and everyone else around him in danger just by being a part of their lives. Mika needed to die. He should have killed him when he had the chance, but that was the past. He hadn't, and he was now paying for that moment of mercy he'd given his brother. "She'll be fine, man," Slade added as he carried a stack of wood, careful of where he stepped. "And I'm sure you were all for Jill going in there knowing she could run into Mika again?" Jax glared up at Slade. "She's my mate," Slade replied, his eyes narrowing. "Anytime my mate and danger are mentioned in the same breath, I'm not happy. What's your excuse?" "Ehhh, ahhhh." Steve cringed, looking between Slade and Jax. "So, ah, Jax, who do you think you'll shift into? Man, how cool would that be? I'd shift into one of the One Direction dudes. All the women love them." "One Direction?" Adam glanced at Steve. "Who in the fuck is that?

She corrected herself. So many hungry men and women. Any person who could ride, fight, and hunt was welcome to join today’s protectorate of the kingdom, and King Nash didn’t require that person to be a man. Or, more particularly, Prince Brigan didn’t. It was called the King’s Army, but really it was Brigan’s. People said that at twenty-seven Nash was kingly, but that when it came to bashing heads the younger brother was the one with the touch.

My protector held my hands firmly while lecturing me with concerned conviction, “Young, you must do your best to understand that Germany is not Daltonbury Hall or the Bahriji; it is a dangerous place for a young man to be out alone, even though the war is over. You must, and I stress, you must have me with you at all times. Do you understand?” making me promise that I would never reenact what I did.

Each of the many sides to this man fascinated her. He was a criminal, a badass biker that intimidated people pretty much for a living, yet he was also a protector, a serious flirt, and now apparently he was angling to be her confidant.

Vinod’s father, Sharad Pandurang Panchal, or Sharad Kaka (Uncle), as he’s popularly called, is a fitter at a factory near his home. There are a number of shops in that neighbourhood, part of a fairly large and well-stocked market, and Sharad Kaka is used to frequenting those shops, and not the mall. Consider Sharad Kaka’s journey in the mall. As he enters, there’s a uniformed guard waiting to frisk him. Once he’s in, there’s another man in uniform at the bottom of the escalator. At the entrance to the store, there’s yet another security guard inspecting Sharad Kaka’s bags, and ‘confiscating’ them while he shops. At the exit, there’s another uniform to check his bill. For just one simple visit to a store, Sharad Kaka encounters four uniformed people. It is enough to deter him from shopping in the mall. ‘I feel guilty, as though I’ve done something wrong, ‘ he says, when asked about his reluctance to shop at the mall. In his mind, far from protecting him, the uniformed guards seem to threaten him, as though they’re there to check him and snoop on him. He doesn’t view them as his protectors, but his challengers. ‘You never know,’ he explains, ‘when you could get into trouble with one of these guys.’ Uniformed people, explained the man, almost always meant trouble for simple folk like him.

Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it’s just a bad dream,” he whispered. “Maybe,” she said as she stroked his hair, but she knew it wasn’t. Tears streamed down her face as she realized that the man she had fallen so deeply in love with had been raped by his own mother.   ***

The only man I hadn’t ever used condoms with had been Trace and since he’d steadfastly refused to bottom for me, I’d had no idea what to expect when I slid into Seth without the latex barrier separating us.

He wanted another man. It

He’d fucked a man. And he’d loved it. Logan

Jesus,” Logan moaned as he looked over his shoulder and saw Dom’s face buried between his cheeks. The man was tonguing him, the hot little appendage stroking and sucking on him. It was an erotic sight to watch, but his body was too overcome with how good it felt and Logan dropped his forehead on the bed. Over and over Dom played with him and moans kept escaping from Logan’s lips as he clenched his fists into the bedding. And when Dom’s tongue pushed inside him, Logan did scream and he reached for his cock in desperation. “It’s too good!” he shouted as he pumped his hips desperately into his hands.

Wrong to think that I could stay away from the young man who was forever tied to my past…a past I wanted nothing more than to forget. Did

Dom was stuck somewhere between the realization that it was the best sex he’d ever had with anyone and that he was quickly falling in love with the man on top of him.

I realized the childhood love I’d had for this man had never disappeared and it never would. It had morphed into something deeper and scarier and that conclusion was more terrifying than the change my body was about to go through. Because Ronan wasn’t about to just take my virginity; he was going to take everything else too. My

Dante’s fingers began working my pants loose, but he stopped once he got the zipper down. His eyes met mine and I saw the unspoken question there. While I appreciated that he was giving me a chance to stop all this, I didn’t give a shit that I was about to have a man’s hand on my cock rather than a woman’s. I’d stopped thinking about it that way the second he’d kissed me. Because it would be Dante’s hand on me. I nodded, too on edge to be sure I could have even managed a simple “yes.” Dante’s

His name was Marcus Parks and he was one of the wealthiest men in Chicago…and one of the most well-known. The man was a prolific philanthropist and moved in powerful social circles that included politicians and all sorts of pseudo celebrities. He was also married with four young children. The

The biggest irony was the man’s esteemed reputation as an advocate for children. Dante hadn’t had time to do in-depth research, but everything we’d seen showed the man had no secrets in any of his numerous closets…only we knew better. The

And when I saw Aleks standing next to a man I already knew as Parks because of the pictures Dante and I had seen of him in the society pages, I knew how we’d ended up fucked. Because Aleks had told them we were coming.   *

Not only had I bottomed for the man, I’d actually crawled into bed with him…to sleep! My

I stayed right next to him as we began heading for the exit…right past Jeff’s desk. Jeff saw us coming and I saw his cheeks once again flush with color. Yeah, I’m on to you, fucker. “You heading out?” Jeff asked as he climbed to his feet. “Yeah,” was all Magnus said and I was surprised when he didn’t stop by the man’s desk. “Um,

Willow!” Jamie screamed again and then all hell broke loose and I was powerless to stop it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the group home’s security guard returning from his cigarette break. As soon as he drew his gun I yelled, “Don’t! Her gun is a fake!” but it was too late and the man pulled the trigger just as Willow turned in his direction. The sound of the gun was deafening and I watched in horror as the impact sent her flying backwards.

Even when I was old enough to tell my father what would happen if he ever laid a hand on me again, I didn’t leave him. Not because I loved him. No, those feelings had died a million deaths every time his fists had connected with my body. I’d stayed because I’d been the strong one. I’d stayed because the man was still my father, even if he’d stopped playing the role. Because