Rip Brother Quotes

It's really going to happen. I really won't ever go back to school. Not ever. I'll never be famous or leave anything worthwhile behind. I'll never go to college or have a job. I won't see my brother grow up. I won't travel, never earn money, never drive, never fall in love or leave home or get my own house. It's really, really true. A thought stabs up, growing from my toes and ripping through me, until it stifles everything else and becomes the only thing I'm thinking. It fills me up like a silent scream.

The city was dark except for the building lights that seemed to appear like sores - like bandaids had been ripped off to expose the city's skin.

He looked like you ripped his heart out of his chest, threw it to the ground, and stomped all over it while singing a jaunty tune.” Annwyl shrugged at Morfyd’s bemused expression. “I might have seen that look before on his brother.” “Perhaps when you stabbed our father?” Annwyl laughed. “No. Then he just looked proud.

Or your arms,” Trenton added. “Because if you ever talk to her with anything less than a respectful tone again, I will rip those fuckers off and beat you with ’em. Do we understand each other?

Obi-Wan, staring, wished that he had the strength to rip his eyes out of his head. But even blind, he would see this forever. He would see his friend, his student, his brother, turn and kneel in front of a black-cloaked Lord of the Sith. His head rang with a silent scream.

My brother threw up his hands. "What does a woman need to do, Harry? Rip her clothes off, throw herself on top of you, and shimmy while screaming, 'Do me, baby!'?" he shook his head. "Sometimes you're a frigging idiot.

Goodness, that stuff rips like paper,” she exclaimed, reaching to pull her tank top off. She was halfway through the action when the door opened and Alec walked into the room. “Izzy, are you—” he began. His eyes flew wide, and he backed up fast enough to smack his head into the wall behind him. “What is he doing here?” Isabelle tugged her tank top back down and glared at her brother. “You don’t knock now?” “It—It’s my bedroom!” Alec spluttered. He seemed to be deliberately trying not to look at Izzy and Simon, who were indeed in a very compromising position.

Little brother, I don’t mean to be a downer, but we’re talking about War here. There’s no way to mitigate damages. He won’t let us. I was there with twenty-five Chthonians to fight him and he spanked our hides like we were Lemurian slave women. Two of us had our hearts ripped out and shoved down our throats while he laughed, then he licked the blood clean from his fingers and came at the rest of us. (Savitar)

I’m an asshole, I know. But I’d rip off my own arm before hurting you.

For while this year it may be a Catholic against whom the finger of suspicion is pointed, in other years it has been, and may someday be again, a Jew--or a Quaker--or a Unitarian--or a Baptist. It was Virginia's harassment of Baptist preachers, for example, that helped lead to Jefferson's statute of religious freedom. Today I may be the victim- -but tomorrow it may be you--until the whole fabric of our harmonious society is ripped at a time of great national peril. Finally, I believe in an America where religious intolerance will someday end--where all men and all churches are treated as equal--where every man has the same right to attend or not attend the church of his choice--where there is no Catholic vote, no anti-Catholic vote, no bloc voting of any kind--and where Catholics, Protestants and Jews, at both the lay and pastoral level, will refrain from those attitudes of disdain and division which have so often marred their works in the past, and promote instead the American ideal of brotherhood. That is the kind of America in which I believe. And it represents the kind of Presidency in which I believe--a great office that must neither be humbled by making it the instrument of any one religious group nor tarnished by arbitrarily withholding its occupancy from the members of any one religious group. I believe in a President whose religious views are his own private affair, neither imposed by him upon the nation or imposed by the nation upon him as a condition to holding that office. ... This is the kind of America I believe in--and this is the kind I fought for in the South Pacific, and the kind my brother died for in Europe. No one suggested then that we may have a "divided loyalty," that we did "not believe in liberty," or that we belonged to a disloyal group that threatened the "freedoms for which our forefathers died.

The boy gestured with his chin at Dimity. “She was shot.” He sounded remarkably unconcerned for a brother with any degree of affection for his sibling.“Good lord!” Sophronia climbed in to see to her new friend’s health. The bullet had grazed Dimity’s shoulder. It had ripped her dress and left a partly burned gash behind, but didn’t look all that bad. Sophronia checked to make certain Dimity had no other injuries. Then she sat back on her heels.“Is that all? I’ve had worse scrapes from drinking tea. Why has she come over all crumpled?”Pillover rolled his eyes. “Faints at the sight of blood, our Dimity. Always has. Weak nerves,father says. It doesn’t even have to be her blood.

Oh and if you ever shove my sister like that again I’ll rip one of your arms off.” He said it so calmly, but the darkness in his eyes said he’d absolutely do it. Aw, I love my psycho big brother.

The Piranha didn’t talk like a person. He said things like “If you fuckin’ buy this bond in a fuckin’ trade, you’re fuckin’ fucked.” And “If you don’t pay fuckin’ attention to the fuckin’ two-year, you get your fuckin’ face ripped off.” Noun, verb, adjective: fucker, fuck, fucking. No part of speech was spared. His world was filled with copulating inanimate objects and people getting their faces ripped off.

And then this man—this strong, beautiful, amazing man who’d had his innocence ripped from him at such a tender age yet was a hero to so many—cried in my arms.

Through many countries and over many seas I have come, Brother, to these melancholy rites, to show this final honour to the dead, and speak (to what purpose?) to your silent ashes, since now fate takes you, even you, from me. Oh, Brother, ripped away from me so cruelly, now at least take these last offerings, blessed by the tradition of our parents, gifts to the dead. Accept, by custom, what a brother's tears drown, and, for eternity, Brother, 'Hail and Farewell'.

In The Brothers Karamazov, Dostoevsky commented on Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877–78, when unborn children were ripped from their mothers’ wombs and prisoners were nailed by their ears to a fence overnight before being hanged: “People speak sometimes about the ‘animal’ cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to animals. No animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel. A tiger simply gnaws and tears, that is all he can do. It would never occur to him to nail people by their ears overnight, even if he were able to do it.”89

No," I said automatically, "don't do anything about Dad. You can't fix my relationship with him." "I can block or run interference." "Thanks, Jack, but I don't need blocking, and I really don't need any more interference." He looked annoyed. "Well, why did you waste all that time complaining to me if you didn't want me to do something about it?" "I don't want you to fix my problems. I just wanted you to listen." "Hang it all, Haven, talk to a girlfriend if all you want is a pair of ears. Guys hate it when you give us a problem and then don't let us do something about it. It makes us feel bad. And then the only way to make ourselves feel better is to rip a phone book in two or blow something up. So let's get this straight — I'm not a good listener. I'm a guy." "Yes you are." I stood and smiled. "Want to buy me a drink at an after work bar?" "Now you're talking," my brother said, and we left the office.

[Author's Note:] When I was sixteen, two of my cousins were brutally raped by four strangers and thrown off a bridge in St. Louis, Missouri. My brother was beaten and also forced off the bridge. I wrote about that horrible crime in my first book, my memoir, A Rip in Heaven. Because that crime and the subsequent writing of the book were both formative experience in my life, I became a person who is always, automatically, more interested in stories about victims than perpetrators. I'm interested in characters who suffer inconceivable hardship, in people who manage to triumph over extraordinary trauma. Characters like Lydia and Soledad. I'm less interested in the violent, macho stories of gangsters and law enforcement. Or in any case, I think the world has enough stories like those. Some fiction set in the world of the cartels and narcotraficantes is compelling and important - I read much of it during my early research. Those novels provide readers with an understanding of the origins of the some of the violence to our south. But the depiction of that violence can feed into some of the worst stereotypes about Mexico. So I saw an opening for a novel that would press a little more intimately into those stories, to imagine people on the flip side of that prevailing narrative. Regular people like me. How would I manage if I lived in a place that began to collapse around me? If my children were in danger, how far would I go to save them? I wanted to write about women, whose stories are often overlooked.

What were you doing to that cat, boy?” Myrcella asked again, sternly. To her brother she said, “He’s a ragged boy, isn’t he? Look at him.” She giggled. “A ragged dirty smelly boy,” Tommen agreed. They don’t know me, Arya realized. They don’t even know I’m a girl. Small wonder; she was barefoot and dirty, her hair tangled from the long run through the castle, clad in a jerkin ripped by cat claws and brown roughspun pants hacked off above her scabby knees. You don’t wear skirts and silks when you’re catching cats. Quickly she lowered her head and dropped to one knee. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize her. If they did, she would never hear the end of it. Septa Mordane would be mortified, and Sansa would never speak to her again from the shame.

His feet started in her direction, his body following rather as a dog would its master, with no thought of deviating from the path chosen by her for him— iAm grabbed his arm and yanked him back. “Don’t even fucking think about it.” Trez’s first impulse was to rip himself free, even if he left his own limb behind in his brother’s grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—” “Do not make me grab your hard-on to prove my point,” iAm hissed. Numbly, Trez looked down at the front of himself. Well. What do you know. “I’m not going to…” Fuck her came to mind, but God, he couldn’t use the f-word around that female, even in the hypothetical. “You know, do anything.” “You actually expect me to believe that.” Trez’s eyes flipped over to the doorway she’d disappeared through. Shit. Talk about having no credibility on the subject of abstinence

Josh, I had three fucking orgasms, of course I liked it, but it can’t happen again. You were being all bossy and broody, and you know that makes me want to rip off my panties and yell ‘here, have at it’.

I watched him as he lined up the ships in bottles on his deck, bringing them over from the shelves where they usually sat. He used an old shirt of my mother's that had been ripped into rags and began dusting the shelves. Under his desk there were empty bottles- rows and rows of them we had collected for our future shipbuilding. In the closet were more ships- the ships he had built with his own father, ships he had built alone, and then those we had made together. Some were perfect, but their sails browned; some had sagged or toppled over the years. Then there was the one that had burst into flames in the week before my death. He smashed that one first. My heart seized up. He turned and saw all the others, all the years they marked and the hands that had held them. His dead father's, his dead child's. I watched his as he smashed the rest. He christened the walls and wooden chair with the news of my death, and afterward he stood in the guest room/den surrounded by green glass. The bottle, all of them, lay broken on the floor, the sails and boat bodies strewn among them. He stood in the wreckage. It was then that, without knowing how, I revealed myself. In every piece of glass, in every shard and sliver, I cast my face. My father glanced down and around him, his eyes roving across the room. Wild. It was just for a second, and then I was gone. He was quiet for a moment, and then he laughed- a howl coming up from the bottom of his stomach. He laughed so loud and deep, I shook with it in my heaven. He left the room and went down two doors to my beadroom. The hallway was tiny, my door like all the others, hollow enough to easily punch a fist through. He was about to smash the mirror over my dresser, rip the wallpaper down with his nails, but instead he fell against my bed, sobbing, and balled the lavender sheets up in his hands. 'Daddy?' Buckley said. My brother held the doorknob with his hand. My father turned but was unable to stop his tears. He slid to the floor with his fists, and then he opened up his arms. He had to ask my brother twice, which he had never to do do before, but Buckley came to him. My father wrapped my brother inside the sheets that smelled of me. He remembered the day I'd begged him to paint and paper my room purple. Remembered moving in the old National Geographics to the bottom shelves of my bookcases. (I had wanted to steep myself in wildlife photography.) Remembered when there was just one child in the house for the briefest of time until Lindsey arrived. 'You are so special to me, little man,' my father said, clinging to him. Buckley drew back and stared at my father's creased face, the fine bright spots of tears at the corners of his eyes. He nodded seriously and kissed my father's cheek. Something so divine that no one up in heaven could have made it up; the care a child took with an adult. 'Hold still,' my father would say, while I held the ship in the bottle and he burned away the strings he'd raised the mast with and set the clipper ship free on its blue putty sea. And I would wait for him, recognizing the tension of that moment when the world in the bottle depended, solely, on me.

They turn the water off, so I live without water, they build walls higher, so I live without treetops, they paint the windows black, so I live without sunshine, they lock my cage, so I live without going anywhere, they take each last tear I have, I live without tears, ...they take my heart and rip it open, I live without heart, they take my life and crush it, so I live without a future, they say I am beastly and fiendish, so I have no friends, they stop up each hope, so I have no passage out of hell, they give me pain, so I live with pain, they give me hate, so I live with my hate, they have changed me, and I am not the same man, they give me no shower, so I live with my smell, they separate me from my brothers, so I live without brothers, who understands me when I say this is beautiful? who understands me when I say I have found other freedoms? I cannot fly or make something appear in my hand, I cannot make the heavens open or the earth tremble, I can live with myself, and I am amazed at myself, my love, my beauty, I am taken by my failures, astounded by my fears, I am stubborn and childish, in the midst of this wreckage of life they incurred, I practice being myself, and I have found parts of myself never dreamed of by me, they were goaded out from under rocks in my heart when the walls were built higher, when the water was turned off and the windows painted black. I followed these signs like an old tracker and followed the tracks deep into myself followed the blood-spotted path, deeper into dangerous regions, and found so many parts of myself, who taught me water is not everything, and gave me new eyes to see through walls, and when they spoke, sunlight came out of their mouths, and I was laughing at me with them, we laughed like children and made pacts to always be loyal, who understands me when I say this is beautiful?

One day on a ranging we brought down a fine big elk. We were skinning it when the smell of blood drew a shadowcat out of its lair. I drove it off, but not before it shredded my cloak to ribbons. Do you see? Here, here, and here?” He chuckled. “It shredded my arm and back as well, and I bled worse than the elk. My brothers feared I might die before they got me back to Maester Mullin at the Shadow Tower, so they carried me to a wildling village where we knew an old wisewoman did some healing. She was dead, as it happened, but her daughter saw to me. Cleaned my wounds, sewed me up, and fed me porridge and potions until I was strong enough to ride again. And she sewed up the rents in my cloak as well, with some scarlet silk from Asshai that her grandmother had pulled from the wreck of a cog washed up on the Frozen Shore. It was the greatest treasure she had, and her gift to me.” He swept the cloak back over his shoulders. “But at the Shadow Tower, I was given a new wool cloak from stores, black and black, and trimmed with black, to go with my black breeches and black boots, my black doublet and black mail. The new cloak had no frays nor rips nor tears … and most of all, no red. The men of the Night’s Watch dressed in black, Ser Denys Mallister reminded me sternly, as if I had forgotten. My old cloak was fit for burning now, he said. “I left the next morning … for a place where a kiss was not a crime, and a man could wear any cloak he chose.

He had showed me some of his damage. And he was ashamed of that. Little did he know, I wasn't someone who could judge. So what if he had anger issues? I had ripping myself open issues. And alcohol issues. And daddy issues. And brother issues. And grandmother issues. I was the Long Island iced tea of damage: everything but iced tea included.

Morfyd’s care. As she walked out of the cave she passed Annwyl walking in. The girl had her swords in one hand. The other hand held her ripped shirt and bindings over her ample breasts. Her brows angled down into a dark frown and she wouldn’t even look at Morfyd as she passed. “How did that talk go then?” Morfyd called over her shoulder. “Shut. Up.” Morfyd laughed as she advanced into the glen toward the clearing where she could take off. She rounded a corner and came upon her brother, his chainmail shirt and sword in his big hand, heading toward the hidden entrance of his cave. She watched him as he passed and she noticed the long scratches across his back. “How did that talk go then?” Morfyd called over her shoulder. “Shut. Up.” Morfyd shook her head. If love always made you this pathetic, she wanted nothing to do with it.

I hurt your feelings before. But then, I don’t think you were lacking in self-confidence. You must know that you’re beautiful. Your hair is so golden and you have the bearing of a young Venus. Kristen, it isn’t you. It’s me. I haven’t got any emotion left. I haven’t got what you need, what you want. Damn it, don’t you understand? I want you. I’m made out of flesh and blood and whatever else it is that God puts into men. I want you. Now. Hell, I could have wanted you right after I ripped another man away from you. I’m no better than he is, not really. Don’t you understand?

Incessantly, it seemed, life plagued her with responsibilities, made her fall in love, ripped away any consolation she might find. Sisters and parents, brothers and horses… All staked their claim on her, each conspiring to weigh down her soul… Every day brought unwanted connections, losses, and complications that broke her heart.

I don’t know that any of us get back to the life we thought we had after tragedy strikes. Someone or something rips it away, and we’re left drifting.” His eyes watch mine with an intensity that makes my stomach clench. “Are you still drifting, Ellie?” I shake my head. “No, I don’t think I am.” “Why not?” “Because you won’t let me.

She turned to the three men in her life. “I don’t want any of you trying to protect me tonight.” Marcus, Nick, and Eli frowned. “I mean it. I’ll be nothing but a distraction if all you’re thinking about is my safety. Besides, if you really want me safe, the way to do it is to rip apart any jackal you see—you concentrate on what’s in front of you. Got me?” Her brothers nodded with an unhappy sigh. Marcus rubbed his nose against hers. “I got you, sweetheart. But that works both ways.” He almost smiled at her rebellious expression. He and his wolf liked that was she so protective. “Don’t worry about me. You just worry about this.” He lightly tapped her ass. “It’s mine, and I want it safe.

What do you want me to do? Rip open my chest and give you my heart? You already have it, babe. You've always had it and I've just been too blind to see it.

Hank is ripped from my side, his brother grabbing onto his shirt and holding him down to the ground, leaning over him. “I’m not a selfish fuck like you. I’m not suicidal,

Loki was now captured, and with no thought of mercy he was taken to a cave. They [the Æsir] took three flat stones and, setting them on their edges, broke a hole through each of them. Then they caught Loki’s sons, Vali and Nari or Narfi. The Æsir changed Vali into a wolf, and he ripped apart his brother Narfi. Next the Æsir took his guts, and with them they bound Loki on to the top of the three stones – one under his shoulders, a second under his loins and the third under his knees. The fetters became iron. ‘Then Skadi took a poisonous snake and fastened it above Loki so that its poison drips on to his face. But Sigyn, his wife, placed herself beside him from where she holds a bowl to catch the drops of venom. When the bowl becomes full, she leaves to pour out the poison, and at that moment the poison drips on to Loki’s face. He convulses so violently that the whole earth shakes – it is what is known as an earthquake. He will lie bound there until Ragnarok.

The growl that permeated the room was loud enough to rattle the mirror on the wall next to Qhuinn’s head—as well as the silver brush set on the bureau and the crystals on the sconces by the door. At first he was sure it was Phury…except then the Brother’s brows came down hard and the male looked over his shoulder. Layla was out of bed and closing in on the pair of them—and holy fucking shit, the look in her eyes was enough to melt paint off a car door: In spite of the fact that she was not well, her fangs were bared, and her fingers were curled into claws…and the icy draft that preceded her made the back of Qhuinn’s neck prickle in warning. That growl was nothing that should have come out of a male…much less a delicate female of Chosen status. And if anything, her nasty tone of voice was worse: “Let. Him. Go.” She was looking up at Phury as if she were fully prepared to rip the Brother’s arms out of their sockets and beat him with the stumps if he didn’t do exactly what she said. Pronto

The amazing efficacy of patriarchy is that it is a covert operation. It is entre nos, just between us - man and woman, sister and brother, father and daughter, queer and not so queer. It takes place behind closed doors, inside la hacienda and back there in the slave quarters. It is so seamlessly woven into the fiber of our lives that to pull at that dangling thread of inequity is to rip open an entire life.

A shadow fills the space where he stood, familiar and utterly changed at the same time. “E-Elias?” “I’m here.” He hauls me to my feet. He is lean as a rail, and his eyes appear to almost glow in the thickening smoke. “Your brother is here. Tas is here. We’re alive. We’re all right. And that was beautifully done.” He nods to the soldier, who has ripped the dagger out of his thigh and is now crawling away. “He’ll be limping for months.” I

You may not realize this, brother, but Izzy is loyal to me. So don’t make me unleash her on you.” “And now you’re making fun of me,” Izzy complained. “No. It’s a serious threat,” Celyn admitted. “Used by many in the family. Especially Briec. He loves threatening those who annoy him—” “Which is everyone,” Brannie stated while grabbing the last loaf of bread and tearing it into three pieces. “—with his beautiful eldest daughter who will rip the scales from your back and tear the still-beating heart from your chest before spitting on your corpse.” Izzy put her hand to her chest, her voice trembling as she fought tears. “That is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.

Tonight, no one will rage and cry: "My Kingdom for a horse!" No ghost will come to haunt the battlements of a castle in the kingdom of Denmark where, apparently something is rotten. Nor will anyone wring her hands and murmur: "Leave, I do not despise you." Three still young women will not retreat to a dacha whispering the name of Moscow, their beloved, their lost hope. No sister will await the return of her brother to avenge the death of their father, no son will be forced to avenge an affront to his father, no mother will kill her three children to take revenge on their father. And no husband will see his doll-like wife leave him out of contempt. No one will turn into a rhinoceros. Maids will not plot to assassinate their mistress, after denouncing her lover and having him jailed. No one will fret about "the rain in Spain!" No one will emerge from a garbage pail to tell an absurd story. Italian families will not leave for the seashore. No soldier will return from World War II and bang on his father's bedroom dor protesting the presence of a new wife in his mother's bed. No evanescent blode will drown. No Spanish nobleman will seduce a thousand and three women, nor will an entire family of Spanish women writhe beneath the heel of the fierce Bernarda Alba. You won't see a brute of a man rip his sweat-drenched T-shirt, shouting: "Stella! Stella!" and his sister-in-law will not be doomed the minute she steps off the streetcar named Desire. Nor will you see a stepmother pine away for her new husband's youngest son. The plague will not descend upon the city of Thebes, and the Trojan War will not take place. No king will be betrayed by his ungrateful daughters. There will be no duels, no poisonings, no wracking coughs. No one will die, or, if someone must die, it will become a comic scene. No, there will be none of the usual theatrics. What you will see tonight is a very simple woman, a woman who will simply talk...

When your body is clear there is control. When your body is clear you can choose whom to let in. There is love everywhere. Please cradle my rabbit heart. Please navigate yourself around me well. I know too much. I can recognize darkness because he is my brother, my maker. I can drink lightness because it is the only way to survive. I can shut off my heart but that leads to evil, so I express her and revel in the nuance of blood currents, and the sacred demons. I fear and quake with my eyes darting fight or flight love or die. The lightning comes from below this time and rips out of my throat for the world to see. They all see my rabbit and I have trained her to hunt. In her perfect glory she is shy and extroverted, chaste and perverted, my sweet near-death more alive than ever. Take her. Take me while I am ripe and open, rub berries on my lips and bear fat in my hair. Tattoo me with a needle and impale me with your warmth. Heal me, fuck me, and work my heart till she beats strong and unafraid. Haunches bared, teeth sharpened, wide-eyed and aware. Hurry. I want to feel safe.

Three blind hummingbirds hang in the air like jewels of iridescent scarlet and cobalt; then, one by one, they fade, all color leeched from them, and fall lifeless into the mists, to be eaten by rats. Despair feels uncomfortable. In her world there are so many windows. Each opening shows her an existence that's fallen to her - some only for moments, others for lifetimes. Able at this moment neither to savor them, nor to understand her own disquiet, she stares away from all the windows as she walks. Silent rats run unmindfully over her feet, invisible in the mist. She misses him. It is over three hundred years since last she and her brother were alone together. Like a flood, the memories come, and she is drowning in them. Against her will her chest heaves, and she begins to weep: deep, helpless, racking sobs... No. Despair places the cold metal barb of her hook onto the surface of her eye. And then she pushes, piercing cornea and lens, and ripping free the aqueous humor and vitreous humor to run like tears down her cheek, into her hand... The pain distracts her, a little. But still, she remembers...

And why can't I have an ignore button like my phone? As I hit it, his calls disappear from the screen and the ringing stops. But the tingles are still at my fingertips, as if he sent them through the phone to grab me. Shoving it in my purse-the pockets on skinny jeans must just be for show 'cause nothing else is fitting in there-I smile at Mark. Ah, Mark. The blue-eyed, blond-haired, all-American quarterback. Who knew he had a crush on me all these years? Not Emma McIntosh, that's for dang sure. And not Chloe. Which is weird, because Chloe was a collector of this kind of information. Maybe it's not true. Maybe Mark's only interested in me because Galen was-who wouldn't want to date the girl who dated the hottest guy in school? But that's just fine with me. Mark is...well, Mark isn't as fantabulous as I always imagined he would be. Still, he's good-looking, a star quarterback, and he's not trying to hook me up with his brother. So why am I not excited? The question must be all over my face because Mark's got his eyebrow raised. Not in a judgmental arch, more like an arch of expectation. If he's waiting for an explanation, his puny human lungs can't hold their breath long enough for an answer. Aside from not being his business, I can't exactly explain the details of my relationship with Galen-fake or otherwise. The truth is, I don't know where we can go from here. He ripped holes in my pride like buckshot. And did I mention he broke my heart? He's not just a crush. Not just a physical attraction, someone who can make me forget my own name by pretending to kiss me. Not just a teacher or a snobby fish with Royal blood. Sure, he's all of those things. But he's more than that. He's who I want. Possibly forever.

He did not know how much time passed. He got up, ripped the canvas off the frame, threw it into a corner, and put on a new one. He mixed some paints, sat down, and began work. One starts with a hopeless struggle to follow nature, and everything goes wrong; one ends by calmly creating from one’s palette, and nature agrees with it and follows. On croit que j’imagine—ce n’est pas vrai—je me souviens. It was just as Pietersen had told him in Brussels; he had been too close to his models. He had not been able to get a perspective. He had been pouring himself into the mould of nature; now he poured nature into the mould of himself. He painted the whole thing in the colour of a good, dusty, unpeeled potato. There was the dirty, linen table cloth, the smoky wall, the lamp hanging down from the rough rafters, Stien serving her father with steamed potatoes, the mother pouring the black coffee, the brother lifting a cup to his lips, and on all their faces the calm, patient acceptance of the eternal order of things. The sun rose and a bit of light peered into the storeroom window. Vincent got up from his stool. He felt perfectly calm and peaceful. The twelve days’ excitement was gone. He looked at his work. It reeked of bacon, smoke, and potato steam. He smiled. He had painted his Angelus. He had captured that which does not pass in that which passes. The Brabant peasant would never die.

Had I guns (as I had goods) to work my Christian harm. I had run him up from the quarter deck to trade with his own yard-arm; I had nailed his ears to my capstan-head, and ripped them off with a saw, And soused them in the bilgewater, and served them to him raw; I had flung him blind in a rudderless boat to rot in the rocking dark, I had towed him aft of his own craft, a bait for his brother shark; I had lapped him round with cocoa husk, and drenched him with the oil, And lashed him fast to his own mast to blaze above my spoil; I had stripped his hide for my hammock-side, and tasseled his beard in the mesh, And spitted his crew on the live bamboo that grows through the gangrened flesh.

But in the years to come, as Muslim prestige and learning sank, and Hindu confidence, wealth, education and power increased, Hindus and Muslims would grow gradually apart, as British policies of divide and rule found willing collaborators among the chauvinists of both faiths. The rip in the closely woven fabric of Delhi’s composite culture, opened in 1857, slowly widened into a great gash, and at Partition in 1947 finally broke in two. As the Indian Muslim elite emigrated en masse to Pakistan, the time would soon come when it would be almost impossible to imagine that Hindu sepoys could ever have rallied to the Red Fort and the standard of a Muslim emperor, joining with their Muslim brothers in an attempt to revive the Mughal Empire.

I’d seen what evil could do. Evil never gave itself for anyone. It takes what it doesn’t own. Holds your head under the water. Rips your head off your neck and dangles it from the city wall. Evil dominates. Controls. Eradicates. Evil is a sniveling punk, and if you let it inside you then you spew hatred, which is just another name for the poison we drink hoping it’ll hurt someone else.” I glanced around the courtroom at Allie, Catalina, Gabby, Suzy, and finally at the cameras. “But not love. Love rushes in where others won’t. Where the bullets are flying. It stands between. Pours out. Empties itself. It scours the wasteland, returns the pieces that were lost, and it never counts the cost.” Despite a packed house, the room was silent. After a minute, I continued, “Love walks into hell, where I sit in chains, where the verdict is guilty, grabs you by the heart, and says to the warden, ‘Me for him.’” I turned and glanced at my brother. “Sir, we live in an angry, evil world. Where stuff doesn’t always make sense. Where hope seems like something we did when we were kids and the love we cling to slips through our fingers like cold water, but”—I tapped my chest—“nothing that happens here today changes the fact that love heals the shattered places.” I shook my head once. “It’s the only thing that can—” The faces in the courtroom held steady on mine. “It’s the only thing worth fighting for,” I finished, then turned to Bobby. I’d like to think my eyes smiled. “So, no, sir, I don’t hate my brother.

[N]ow that growing your own (food, dope, hair, younameit) is hip," wrote the author of an essay widely reprinted in alternative newspapers, "it's time to resurrect the Dope of the Depression - Homebrew." Homemade beer inspired "good vibrations" and a "pleasant high." Unlike the rest of "plastic, mass-produced shit" of modern America, homebrew represented "an exercise of craft" and empowered the "politically oriented" to retaliate against "Augustus [sic] Busch and the other fascists pigs who [were] ripping off the Common Man." "If you're looking for a cheap drunk," added the beer adviser, "go back to Gussie Busch. But if you dig the good vibes from using something you make yourself, plus an improvement in quality over the commercial shit," brew on, brothers and sisters, brew on.

As she walked out of the cave she passed Annwyl walking in. The girl had her swords in one hand. The other hand held her ripped shirt and bindings over her ample breasts. Her brows angled down into a dark frown and she wouldn’t even look at Morfyd as she passed. “How did that talk go then?” Morfyd called over her shoulder. “Shut. Up.” Morfyd laughed as she advanced into the glen toward the clearing where she could take off. She rounded a corner and came upon her brother, his chainmail shirt and sword in his big hand, heading toward the hidden entrance of his cave. She watched him as he passed and she noticed the long scratches across his back. “How did that talk go then?” Morfyd called over her shoulder. “Shut. Up.” Morfyd shook her head. If love always made you this pathetic, she wanted nothing to do with it.

In Freya’s aura, I forgot every single thing weighing on my mind—money, a job, money, food, money, my mother, oh, and money of course, because there was never enough, and it was an ever-present shadow darkening moments that should be bright. Like the sun ripping a cold, solitary planet into orbit, Freya demanded my presence. Here. Now. Just a few dazzling minutes in her gravitational pull and that pervasive darkness dissolved, leaving only her. Beautiful. Bright. Dazzling. I was hooked.

I knew Chaz was a good guy, if misguided and gullible. He’d swallowed Buck’s side of what happened between us, had argued with Erin that maybe I was drunk that night and didn’t remember everything clearly. He was probably one of those boys to whom rapists were ugly men who jumped out of bushes, assaulting random girls. Rapists weren’t your nice-guy coworker, or your frat brother, or your best friend. Maybe it never occurred to him that his best friend was capable of ripping a girl’s self-confidence away in the span of five minutes.

My dearest brother,” Marjorie replied with a sorrowful smile. “I am only sorry your heart has been broken.” “Cassius was right to refuse me,” Merrick replied even as the words ripped the fresh wound along the seams again. “He was only protecting himself. His reputation.” The words stuck in his throat. Had Merrick thought about the repercussions, he would’ve chosen a different route last night. He would not have done it so publicly perhaps, for Cassius’s sake, no matter what they’d whispered to each other their last night together. “I do not care who knows. It is only the harm it could do that holds me back. If I could, I would walk proudly by your side.” But what then? It was a jumbled mess no matter the outcome. Marjorie shook her head. “Cassius was protecting you. That much was evident.” The words only warmed Merrick for a brief instant. He knew Cassius cared for him. But now he understood that the idea of them being together was only a fool’s wish, no matter how many times he recited the words of Cas’s poem from memory and wished them true with all his might

JFK asked his brother, Attorney General Robert Kennedy, to break up organized crime. Nobody high-up in government has tangled the Mafia. J. E. Hoover, the hired hands of FBI and CIA, ran the assassination teams. They have been used since World War II. JFK was attempting to end the oil-tax depletion rip-offs, to get tax money from oil companies. JFK instituted the nuclear test ban treaty, often called “the kiss of death,” to oppose the Pentagon. JFK called off the Invasion of Cuba. He allowed Castro to live, antagonized narcotics and gambling, oil and sugar interests, formerly in Cuba. JFK asked his brother, Attorney General Robert Kennedy, to break up the CIA, the “hidden government behind my back.” Allen Dulles was fired. Dulles, the attorney for international multinationals, was angry. JFK planned to withdraw troops from Vietnam after the 1964 elections. Nov. 24, 1963, two days after JFK’s burial, the Pentagon escalated the Vietnam war … with no known provocations, after JFK was gone. There was no chance Kennedy could survive antagonizing the CIA, oil companies, Pentagon, organized crime. He was not their man. The assassination of JFK employed people from the Texas-Southwest. It was not a Southern plot. Upstarts could not have controlled the northern CIA, FBI, Kennedy family connections. This was a more detailed, sophisticated conspiracy that was to set the pattern for future murders to take place. The murder was funded by Permindex, with headquarters in Montreal and Switzerland. Their stated purpose was to encourage trade between nations in the Western world. Their actual purpose was fourfold: 1) To fund and direct assassinations of European, Mid-East and world leaders considered threats to the western world, and to Petroleum Interests of their backers. 2) Provide couriers, agents for transporting and depositing funds through Swiss Banks for Vegas, Miami and the international gambling syndicate. 3) Coordinate the espionage activities of White Russian Solidarists and Division V of the FBI, headed by William Sullivan. 4) Build, acquire and operate hotels and gambling casinos. See: Nomenclature of an Assassination Cabal, by William Torbitt.

Merry Christmas,Ja-" To which he immediately cut her off with a very testy, "Bloody hell it is." Though he did halt his progress to offer her a brief smile, adding, "Good to see you,Molly," then in the very same breath, "Where's that worthless brother of mine?" She was surprised enough to ask, "Ah,which brother would that be?" when she knew very well he would never refer to Edward or Jason, whom the two younger brothers termed the elders, in that way.But then,Jason shared everything with her about his family, so she knew them as well as he did. So his derogatory answer didn't really add to her surprise. "The infant." She winced at his tone,though, as well as his expression, which had reverted to deadly menace at mention of the "infant." Big,blond, and handsome, James Malory was,just like his elder brothers, and rarely did anyone actually see him looking angry. When James was annoyed with someone, he usually very calmly ripped the person to shreds with his devilish wit, and by his inscrutable expression, the victim had absolutely no warning such pointed barbs would be headed his or her way. The infant, or rather, Anthony, had heard James's voice and, unfortunately, stuck his head around the parlor door to determine James's mood, which wasn't hard to misinterpret with the baleful glare that came his way. Which was probably why the parlor door immediately slammed shut. "Oh,dear," Molly said as James stormed off. Through the years she'd become accustomed to the Malorys' behavior, but a times it still alarmed her. What ensued was a tug of war in the reverse, so to speak, with James shoving his considerable weight against the parlor door, and Anthony on the other side doing his best to keep it from opening. Anthony managed for a bit. He wasn't as hefty as his brother, but he was taller and well muscled. But he must have known he couldn't hold out indefinitely, especially when James started to slam his shoulder against the door,which got it nearly half open before Anthony could manage to slam it shut again. But what Anthony did to solve his dilemma produced Molly's second "Oh,dear." When James threw his weight against the door for the third time, it opened ahead of him and he unfortunately couldn't halt his progress into the room. A rather loud crash followed. A few moments later James was up again suting pine needles off his shoulders. Reggie and Molly,alarmed by the noise, soon followed the men into the room. Anthony had picked up his daughter Jamie who had been looking at the tree with her nursemaid and was now holding her like a shield in front of him while the tree lay ingloriously on its side. Anthony knew his brother wouldn't risk harming one of the children for any reason, and the ploy worked. "Infants hiding behind infants, how apropos," James sneered. "Is,aint it?" Anthony grinned and kissed the top of his daughter's head. "Least it works." James was not amused, and ordered, barked, actually. "Put my niece down." "Wouldn't think of it, old man-least not until I find out why you want to murder me." Anthony's wife, Roslynn, bent over one of the twins, didn't turn about to say, "Excuse me? There will be no murdering in front of the children.

Go get her,' Amren hissed. 'Right now.' 'No,' I said, and hated the word. They gaped at me, and I wanted to roar at the sight of the blood coating them, at my unconscious and suffering brothers on the carpet before them. But I managed to say to my cousin, 'Weren't you listening to what Feyre said to him? She promised to destroy him- from within.' Mor's face paled, her magic flaring on Azriel's chest. 'She's going into that house to take him down. To take them all down.' I nodded. 'She is now a spy- with a direct line t me. What the King of Hybern does, where he goes, what his plans are, she will know. And report back.' Far between us, faint and soft, hidden so none might find it... between us lay a whisper of colour, and joy, of light and shadow- a whisper of her. Our bond. 'She's your mate,' Amren bit at me. 'Not your spy. Go get her.' 'She is my mate. And my spy,' I said too quietly. 'And she is the High Lady of the Night Court.' 'What?' Mor whispered. I caressed a mental finger down that bond now hidden deep, deep within us, and said, 'If they had removed her other glove, they would have seen a second tattoo on her right arm. The twin to the other. Inked last night, when we crept out, found a priestess, and I swore her in as my High Lady.' 'Not- not consort,' Amren blurted, blinking. I hadn't seen her surprised in... centuries. 'Not consort, not wife. Feyre is High Lady of the Night Court.' My equal in every way; she would wear my crown, sit on a throne beside mine. Never sidelined, never deigned to breeding and parties and child-rearing. My queen. As if in answer, a glimmer of love shuddered down the bond. I clamped down on the relief that threatened to shatter any calm I feigned having. 'You mean to tell me,' Mor breathed, 'that my High Lady is now surrounded by enemies?' A lethal sort of calm crept over her tear-stained face. 'I mean to tell you,' I said, watching the blood clot on Cassian's wings with Amren's tending. Beneath Mor's own hands. Azriel's bleeding at least eased. Enough to keep them alive until the healer got here. 'I mean to tell you,' I said again, my power building and rubbing itself against my skin, my bones, desperate to be unleashed upon the world, 'that your High Lady made a sacrifice for her court- and we will move when the time is right.' Perhaps Lucien being Elain's mate would help- somehow, I'd find a way. And then I'd assist my mate in ripping the Spring Court, Ianthe, those mortal queens, and the King of Hybern to shreds. Slowly. 'Until then?' Amren demanded. 'What of the Cauldron- of the book?' 'Until then,' I said, staring toward the door as if I might see her walk through it, laughing and vibrant and beautiful, 'we got to war.

Taggart finally broke the pattern. "Can you at least explain why?" Jane growled. God, she hated being outnumbered. This was like riding herd on her little brothers, only worse because "I'll beat you if you do" wasn't an acceptable answer. "First rule of shooting a show on Elfhome." She grabbed Hal and made him face each of the two newbies so there was no way they could miss the mask of dark purple bruises across Hal's face. "Avoid getting 'The Face' damaged. Viewers don't like raccoon boys. Hal is out of production until the bruising can be covered with makeup. We've got fifty days and a grocery list of face-chewing monsters to film. We have to think about damage control." "Second rule!" She let Hal go and held up two fingers. "Get as much footage as possible of the monster before you kill it. People don't like looking at dead monsters if you don't give them lots of time seeing it alive. Right now we have got something dark moving at night in water. No one has ever seen this before, so we can't use stock footage to pad. We blow the whistle and it will come out of the water and try to rip your face off – violating rule one – and then we'll have to kill it and thus break rule two." "Sounds reasonable," Taggart said. "Would we really have to kill it?" Nigel's tone suggested he equated it to torturing kittens. "If it's trying its damnest to eat you? Yes!" Jane cried.

I rolled my eyes at the newcomer. "Hello, Carter." I'd known the angel was lurking in the kitchen, just as Peter had felt me coming down the hall. "Where's your better half tonight? I just saw him. I thought he was coming too." Carter strolled in and gave me one of his mocking smiles, gray eyes alight with secrets and mirth. He wore his usual transient ware, ripped jeans and a faded T-shirt. ... "Am I my brother's keeper?" Classic Carter answer. I looked to Hugh, who was, in a manner of speaking, our boss's keeper. Or at least a sort of administrative assistant. "He had to take off for a meeting," said the imp, stacking twenties. "Some kind of team building thing in L.A." I tried to imagine Jerome participating in a ropes course. "What kind of team building do demons do exactly?

Our father Blue Bones was much the same and we brothers cowered before his fury when TRACKED-IN SAND was detected on the carpets of the VAUXHALL CRESTA and then there were such threats of whippings with razor strops, electric flex, greenhide belts, God save us, he had that mouth, cruel as a cut across his skin. As a boy I could never understand why nice clean sand would cause such terror in my dad’s bloodshot eyes, but I had never seen an hourglass and did not know that I would die. None shall be spared, and when my father’s hour was come then the eternal sand-filled wind blew inside his guts and ripped him raw, God forgive him for his sins. He could never know peace in life or even death, never understood what it might be to become a grain of sand, falling whispering with the grace of multitudes, through the fingers of the Lord.

Hope, though; now there’s a real pest. Hope doesn’t just nibble your cheese and chew holes in your skirting boards. Hope keeps you plodding on when it really is time to call it quits. Hope drags you to sixteen auditions in a single day, when there’s a nice job in your brother-in-law’s tannery just waiting for you. Hope keeps you going in Old Stairs or Paradise, even though there’s no money and nothing to eat and the landlord just took your chair and your chamber pot. Personally, I can see no great merit in simply being alive if you’re miserable and in pain, but Hope won’t let you go. She’s a tease, like bad children teasing a dumb animal, and I’ve made a point of avoiding her whenever I can. Still, sometimes she runs you down and there’s nowhere left for you to go. You can turn and fight her and lose, or let her scoop you up and turn your brain to mush. Hope against hope. We had human chains shifting those blocks with levers and rollers, through the narrow alleys where carts couldn’t go. We had shifts digging the ditch by lamplight, in the rain. And in every working party there was at least one man who cheerfully announced that it wasn’t going to work, the whole idea was stupid, the enemy’ll find a way round this in two shakes, just you see; and even he didn’t really believe it, because of Hope. Hope turns a hundred men and women ripping the skin off their hands on a coarse hemp rope into a street party. Someone tells a joke, or clowns around, or starts singing a favourite song from one of the shows, and Hope bursts through, like sappers, and next thing you know she’s everywhere, like smoke, or floodwater, or rats. We’re going to beat Ogus, she whispers in every ear, and this time it’ll be different.

She remembers blood. A fine mist which goes deep into her lungs, over her skin and through the air. She remembers a desert at dusk. The sky indigo blue and the fire bright, so bright that she can see everything. Near the fire, in the night, all she knows is chaos wrapped in crimson. All is death and nightmare with a single solitary dancer who smiles cruelly as he moves. He is power and darkness. He is man and beast, silver coin eyes and that face, those claws and the agony of loss. Time stretches wide; seconds like vast eons swallow up her world. Vince is dead, his mother, his brother and her small son ripped apart and gushing as he/it moves. She is screaming, a howl of agony beyond words, primal and wordless. Still he moves, faster than air, faster than she could ever be. Blood drips from her face as she grunts, running with her lungs on fire and her last remaining hope wrapped in her arms.

Freddy and his brother Tesoro have not seen each other in five years, and they sit at the kitchen table in Freddy's house and have a jalapeno contest. A large bowl of big green and orange jalapeno peppers sit between the two brothers. A saltshaker and two small glasses of beer accompany this feast. When Tesoro nods his head, the two men begin to eat the raw jalapenos. The contest is to see which man can eat more peppers. It is a ritual from their father, but the two brothers tried it only once, years ago. Both quit after two peppers and laughed it off. This time, things are different. They are older and have to prove a point. Freddy eats his first one more slowly than Tesoro, who takes to bites to finish his and is now on his second. Neither says anything, though a close study of each man's face would tell you the sudden burst of jalapeno energy does not waste time in changing the eater's perception of reality. Freddy works on his second as Tesoro rips into his fourth. Freddy is already sweating from his head and is surprised to see that Tesoro's fat face has not shanged its steady, consuming look. Tesoro's long, black hair is neatly combed, and not one bead of sweat has popped out. He is the first to sip from the beer before hitting his fifth jalapeno. Freddy leans back as the table begins to sway in his damp vision. He coughs, and a sharp pain rips through his chest. Tesoro attempts to laugh at his brother, but Freddy sees it is something else. As Freddy finishes his third jalapeno, Tesoro begins to breathe faster upon swallowing his sixth. The contest momentarily stops as both brothers shift in their seats and the sweat pours down their faces. Freddy clutches his stomach as he reaches for his fourth delight. Tesor has not taken his seventh, and it is clear to Freddy that his brother is suffering big-time. There is a bright blue bird sitting on Tesoro's head, and Tesoro is struggling to laugh because Freddy has a huge red spider crawling on top of his head. Freddy wipes the sweat from his eyes and finishes his fourth pepper. Tesoro sips more beer, sprinkles salt on the tip of his jalapeno, and bites it down to the stem. Freddy, who has not touched his beer, stares in amazement as two Tesoros sit in front of him. They both rise hastily, their beer guts pushing the table against Freddy, who leans back as the two Tesoros waver in the kitchen light. Freddy hears a tremendous fart erupt from his brother, who sits down again. Freddy holds his fifth jalapeno and can't breathe. Tesoro's face is purple, but the blue bird has been replaced by a burning flame of light that weaves over Tesoro's shiny head. Freddy is convinced that he is having a heart attack as he watches his brother fight for breath. Freddy bites into his fifth as Tesoro flips his eighth jalapeno into his mouth, stem and all. This is it. Freddy goes into convulsions and drops to the floor as he tries to reach for his glass of beer. He shakes on the dirty floor as the huge animal that is Tesoro pitches forward and throws up millions of jalapeno seeds all over the table. The last thing Freddy sees before he passes out is his brother's body levitating above the table as an angel, dressed in green jalapeno robes, floats into the room, extends a hand to Tesoro, and floats away with him. When Freddy wakes up minutes later, he gets up and makes it to the bathroom before his body lets go through his pants. As he reaches the bathroom door, he turns and gazes upon the jalapeno plants growing healthy and large on the kitchen table, thick peppers hanging under their leaves, their branches immersed in the largest pile of jalapeno seeds Freddy has ever seen.

I prop my guitar up against the nightstand. Then I turn toward the bed and fall into it face first. The mattress is soft but firm, like a sheet of steel wrapped in a cloud. I roll around, moaning loud and long. “Oh, that’s good. Really, really good. What a grand bed!” Sarah clears her throat. “Well. We should probably get to sleep, then. Big day tomorrow.” The pillow smells sweet, like candy. I can only imagine it’s from her. I wonder if I pressed my nose to the crook of her neck, would her skin smell as delicious? I brush away the thought as I watch her stiffly gather a pillow and blanket from the other side of the bed, dragging them to . . . the nook. “What are you doing?” She looks up, her doe eyes widening. “Getting ready for bed.” “You’re going to sleep there?” “Of course. The sofa’s very uncomfortable.” “Why can’t we share the bed?” She chokes . . . stutters. “I . . . I can’t sleep with you. I don’t even know you.” I throw my arms out wide. “What do you want to know? Ask me anything—I’m an open book.” “That’s not what I mean.” “You’re being ridiculous! It’s a huge bed. You could let one rip and I wouldn’t hear it.” And the blush is back. With a vengeance. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” “You don’t fart?” I scoff. “Really? Are you not human?” She curses under her breath, but I’d love to hear it out loud. I bet uninhibited Sarah Von Titebottum would be a stunning sight. And very entertaining. She shakes her head, pinning me with her eyes. “There’s something wrong with you.” “No.” I explain calmly, “I’m just free. Honest with myself and others. You should try it sometime.” She folds her arms, all tight, trembling indignation. It’s adorable. “I’m sleeping in the nook, Your Highness. And that’s that.” I sit up, pinning her gaze right back at her. “Henry.” “What?” “My name is not Highness, it’s fucking Henry, and I’d prefer you use it.” And she snaps. “Fine! Fucking Henry—happy?” I smile. “Yes. Yes, I am.” I flop back on the magnificent bed. “Sleep tight, Titebottum.” I think she growls at me, but it’s muffled by the sound of rustling bed linens and pillows. And then . . . there’s silence. Beautiful, blessed silence. I wiggle around, getting comfy. I turn on my side and fluff the pillow. I squeeze my eyes tight . . . but it’s hopeless. “Fucking hell!” I sit up. And Sarah springs to her feet. “What? What’s wrong?” It’s the guilt. I’ve barged into this poor girl’s room, confiscated her bed, and have forced her to sleep in a cranny in the wall. I may not be the man my father was or the gentleman my brother is, but I’m not that much of a prick. I stand up, rip my shirt over my head. and march toward the window seat. I feel Sarah’s eyes graze my bare chest, arms. and stomach, but she circles around me, keeping her distance. “You take the bloody bed,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep in the bloody nook.” “You don’t have to do that.” I push my hand through my hair. “Yes, I do.” Then I stand up straight and proper, an impersonation of Hugh Grant in one of his classic royal roles. “Please, Lady Sarah.” She blinks, her little mouth pursed. “Okay.” Then she climbs onto the bed, under the covers. And I squeeze onto the window bench, knees bent, my elbow jammed against the icy windowpane, and my neck bent at an odd angle that I’m going to be feeling tomorrow. The light is turned down to a very low dim, and for several moments all I hear is Sarah’s soft breaths. But then, in the near darkness, her delicate voice floats out on a sigh. “All right, we can sleep in the bed together.” Music to my ears. I don’t make her tell me twice—I’ve fulfilled my noble quota for the evening. I stumble from the nook and crash onto the bed. That’s better.

What the hell was that?” Joss turned on him the moment Gabriel cleared the last of the china. “What the hell was what?” Gray pulled a flask from his breast pocket and offered it to his brother. Joss waved it away. “You know damn well what I mean. Something’s going on between you and Miss Turner, I know it.” Gray uncapped the flask and took a sip. “What makes you say that?” He circled the table, discreetly examining the angle of the tablecloth and the perspective from the captain’s chair. Surely Joss couldn’t have seen what had taken place under the table. Even if his brother had noticed, he could demand all the answers he wished. Gray had no desire-or words-to explain it. For the first time since he’d left England, Gray gave thanks for the thin, impractical leather of those dandified Hessians. The feel of her lithe, shapely leg against his…She’d accepted the contact so readily, blushed so attractively. Beneath that table, they’d formed some sort of alliance. And then she had extended a clear verbal invitation. If he went to her berth right now, she would be expecting him. At last, he could solve the mystery of what held together that damned striped frock. Or…he could simply rip it from her body. Gray shoved the image aside before his groin could react further.

I’ve downed two shots and a tumbler of whiskey by the time Racer and Tucker show up. The House of Reardon, our go-to bar, isn’t very far from where we all live, kind of in the middle, but given my race to get some alcohol into my system, I’m a few drinks in already. “I brought reinforcements,” Racer says as he tosses a box of Swiss Rolls in front of me. I can always count on Racer to bring Little Debbie snacks, our sacred lover. “Your text made it seem like you needed to suckle at Debbie’s teet tonight.” “I do.” I rip open the box, tear open a wrapper, and pop an entire roll in my mouth in seconds. “I guess so,” Racer says, a little astonished. “Tucker close?” “Right here,” Tucker says, pulling up a chair next to me at the bar. He pats my shoulder and tosses a box of Zebra Cakes in front of me. My boys know me well. “Zebra Cakes? Dude, I brought Swiss Rolls. Zebra Cakes are piss when it comes to times like this.” “It’s all I had left. Emma’s been eating all my Nutty Bars.” “Why even buy Zebra Cakes? You know that frosting turns into a paste.” From the corner of my eye, I see Tucker run his hand over his face. “Emma got them. When she shops, she literally doesn’t consider which ones she buys; it’s just a sweep of her arm over the shelf. Can’t complain about that.” “I guess you can’t.

Three years later he had another opportunity to see the little girl. Helmert had been tearing through the keep, bellowing like a mad bull as he searched for his sister. “Josephine , I swear I’ll rip yer head off when I find ye!” ’Twas eerily similar to Graeme’s first visit. Remembering his first encounter with the tree sprite, Graeme went in search of Josephine. The first place he looked was the auld oak tree, but she was not there. After a careful search out of doors, he went inside. She was not in the larder or the kitchen. It took more than half an hour before he finally located her in her father’s study, hiding under the large desk. Graeme crouched low so he could see her better. It didn’t appear she had grown much in three years, though she had lost the cherubic face. This time she wore a dark green dress and matching slippers. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been quite terrified of her brother. Now, she looked quite angry. “I’ll nae tell, Josephine,” he whispered, offering her a kind smile. A scrunched brow said she didn’t believe him. “Pray tell, what did ye hide this time?” he asked, hoping his amused tone would help lighten the mood. Reluctantly, she finally confessed. “His strop.” Graeme raised a confused brow. “Why would ye hide his strop?” The little girl looked at him as though he were quite daft. “So he will not beat me with it.

INTERNATIONAL LAW WAS CREATED DURING THE BUSH ADMINISTRATION BECAUSE a group of Mexicans—and one African American—gang-raped and murdered two teenaged girls in Houston, Texas.1 The crime made history in another way: It led to the most death sentences handed out for a single crime in Texas since 1949.2 Do you even know about this case? The only reason the media eventually admitted that the lead rapist, Jose Ernesto Medellin, was an illegal alien from Mexico was to try to overturn his conviction on the grounds that he had not been informed of his right, as a Mexican citizen, to confer with the Mexican consulate. Journalists have an irritating tendency to skimp on detail when reporting crimes by immigrants, a practice that will not be followed here. One summer night in June 1993, fourteen-year-old Jennifer Ertman and Elizabeth Peña, who had just turned sixteen, were returning from a pool party, and decided to take a shortcut through a park to make their 11:30 p.m. curfew. They encountered a group of Hispanic men, who were in the process of discussing “gang etiquette,” such as not complaining if other members talked about having sex with your mother.3 The girls ran away, but Medellin grabbed Jennifer and began ripping her clothes off. Hearing her screams, Elizabeth came back to help her friend. For more than an hour, the five Hispanics and one black man raped the teens, vaginally, anally, and orally—“every way you can assault a human being,” as the prosecutor put it.4 The girls were beaten, kicked, and stomped, their teeth knocked out and their ribs broken. One of the Hispanic men told Medellin’s fourteen-year-old brother to “get some,” so he raped one of the girls, too. But when it was time to kill the girls, Medellin said his brother was “too small to watch” and dragged the girls into the woods.5 There, the girls were forced to kneel on the ground and a belt or shoelace was looped around their necks. Then a man on each side pulled on the cord as hard as he could. The men strangling Jennifer pulled so hard they broke the belt. Medellin later complained that “the bitch wouldn’t die.” When it was done, he repeatedly stomped on the girls’ necks, to make sure they were dead.6 At trial, Medellin’s sister-in-law testified that shortly after the gruesome murders, Medellin was laughing about it, saying they’d “had some fun with some girls” and boasting that he had “virgin blood” on his underpants.7 It’s difficult to understand a culture where such an orgy of cruelty is bragged about at all, but especially in front of women.

I worry about you too,” I said softly as I caressed her head resting against my chest. “You look tired.” Lark didn’t speak for a minute. When she finally looked at me, I saw a lot of different emotions swirling in those bright green eyes. “I feel like shit. I’m tired and dizzy. I can’t eat ninety percent of the food I used to eat. I feel awful, but I’m afraid to complain.” “Why?” “Maddy just had her baby and she was so tough about the whole thing. I’m surprised she didn’t give birth in the middle of the grocery store then go back to picking up things for dinner. Next to her, I’m a weakling. Also, Farah is going to be all brave and awesome too. I don’t want to be the whiner.” “First of all, Maddy’s got that natural breeder look about her. Some chicks are like that and you can’t let the exception be your rule. Besides, you’re having twins. You have more baby cooking to do than she did, so screw comparisons.” “I just don’t want people to think less of me.” “By people, do you mean Aaron?” “We barely met and got married and now I’m getting fat and I’m tired all the time. I don’t want him to lose interest.” “Oh, Lark, you’re so fucking stupid sometimes.” “Yeah, I know,” she said, grinning. “We have that in common.” “So true.” “Mom said that I’m like her and she had a guy like Aaron and she suffocated him and he ditched her. I know Mom sucks, but what if she’s right and I wear down Aaron and he stops loving me?” “Any man who would want Mom must be shit. Aaron isn’t shit.” “I know, but I get scared of messing up everything I have.” Kissing her forehead, I stood up and walked to the bedroom door. “Hey, Mister Clean, get over here.” Laughing, Lark followed me into the hallway where Aaron appeared, clearly loving his new nickname. “Listen up, Yul Brynner,” I said, sending Lark into giggles. “My sister is cooking up two kids that you stuck inside her. She needs more damn love than you’re giving. If you don’t do a better job of babying her, I’m going to have to replace you. Hmm, I just saw this guy Jake that I knew from high school. He’s ripped and works at the gym. The gym, Aaron.” My brother-in-law stared unaffected until I finished then he gazed down at his wife. Lark must have known what was coming because she started giggling. “My sweet muse,” he murmured and she laughed harder, “do you need more love than I’m giving?” Aaron swept Lark into his arms and cradled her like a kid. “Poor thing. I’ll just need to pay more attention.” As he kissed all over her, Lark stopped giggling and began moaning affirmations. “Good thing you obeyed because I think Jake might be gay.” After giving me a wink, Aaron gestured for me to go away. I was the one to obey this time. Leaving them to cuddle and more in the bedroom, I watched television and finished the popcorn. Professor joined me, but Pollack was wary. I think it was because I was always barking at her. In my defense, she started it.

Marlowe ripped a piece of flesh from the promoter’s cheek and popped it into his bloody mouth. Abramson was sobbing violently and begging for mercy as Marlowe continued to slice off bits of meat from his paunchy jowls with his long claws and explained, “Let me introduce a few more members of my family who are all werewolves that have lived undercover for a hundred years.” The sound of sucking and slurping continued as Marlowe’s brothers and sisters continued to devour all the spectators,

Come see the kitchen,” Haven told me, tugging me toward a tiled area with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. “Would you like something to drink?” “Yes, thanks.” She opened the refrigerator. “Mango iced tea, or raspberry basil?” “Mango, please.” I sat on a stool at the island. Jack ripped his attention away from the magazine long enough to protest, “Haven, you know I can’t stand that stuff. Just give me the regular kind.” “I don’t have the regular kind,” his sister retorted, pulling out a pitcher of citrus-colored tea. “You can try some of the mango.” “What’s wrong with tea-flavored tea?” “Quit complaining, Jack. Hardy tried this a few times and he likes it.” “Honey, Hardy would like it if you picked up grass clippings from the yard and brewed them. He’s pussy-whipped.” Haven bit back a smile. “I dare you to say that to his face.” “Can’t,” came the laconic reply. “He’s pussy-whipped, but he could still kick the crap out of me.” My eyes widened as I wondered what kind of man could manage to kick the crap out of Jack Travis. “My fiancé used to be a welder on a drilling rig and he’s tough as hell,” Haven informed me, her eyes twinkling. “Which is a good thing. Otherwise my three older brothers would have run him off by now.” “We’ve done everything short of giving him a medal for taking you on,” Jack retorted.

Is there a problem? I mean, I wasn't expecting you, or anyone, tonight." Drew held out a hand to help her from the car, snatching it back when she got out on her own. "There is a problem." "What?" He tensed. "Did M.J. come back? Is he giving you trouble?" "I can handle my brother." Tyler moved closer. Drew stepped back, his eyes suddenly wary. Sighing she grabbed the front of his t-shirt, the fingers of her other hand threading through his thick, dark hair. Soft. She remembered the feel like it was yesterday. Her hope had been that he would as eager as she was. The attraction was still there, it was time to do something about it. Apparently he wasn't going to make this easy. So she did what she had all those years ago when he wouldn't make the first move—she kissed him first. Prime rib to a starving man. Ten years without even a taste, Drew couldn't help but devour her. The kiss was primal, out of control. Mouths seeking the angle after angle, tongues duelings. And the way Tyler tasted. Sweet and spicy and utterly delicious. In his dreams, he imagined this differently. Slower. He would show her how a man kissed as opposed to the boy he had been. One touch of her lips on his and all those grand plans flew out the window along with any common sense he ever possessed. Tyler was in his arms. Familiar yet new. He needed her and he was never letting go. Drew's hands went under the hem of her shirt slowly sliding up her smooth, hot skin. He could feel the erotic combination of vulnerability and strength in the subtle muscles of her back. She had filled out, they both had. He wanted to spend days discovering all the differences then start all over again, just in case he missed something the first time. The kiss was neverending though the desperation, instead of lessening, scaled higher. He could lift her into his arms, carry her into the house, rip every scrap of clothing from her delicious body and fuck for hours. Fuck. Well, fuck. The word wasn't exactly a bucket of cold water, the desperate heat running through his veins needed more than that. But it did lift the haze. If he didn't stop this right now, there would be no turning back. "Tyler." The word sounded foreign, all guttural. His voice was hoarse with passion and his body was calling every swear word known to man. Why are you stopping? Beautiful woman. Willing. Her hands all over you. Right now she was reaching between his legs. The first caress was almost his undoing. It felt so good, so right. No could touch him like Tyler. The sexual haze enveloped him again. Don't fight it, his body urged. Feel her lips on your jaw, your neck. God. Her teeth biting your earlobe. That alone brought him close to going over the top. Damn his good intentions. Talking was way overrated. Pulling her in until their bodies were flush and he could feel every long, luscious inch of her—plastered against him. Drew was going in for another kiss when her words did what his own reasoning couldn't. It wasn't a bucket of cold water, it was a fire hose—turned on full blast. "Fuck me, Drew. Right here, up against my car. Let's get this thing done, once and for all.

chest. Everything looked strange and slow. Vernon bent over him. He felt him give his chest a big shove, and he felt his arms being raised. All at once the pressure seemed to break, and he coughed violently. Vernon rolled him to his side. He coughed, coughed again, felt a blinding icy headache take hold. Reality returned with a vengeance. Tom struggled to sit up. Vernon put his arms under his shoulders and supported him. “What happened?” “This foolish brother of yours, this Vernito, jumped into that river and pulled you out from under those logs. I have never seen such craziness in my life.” “He did?” Tom turned and looked at Vernon. He was soaked, and his forehead was cut. Blood and water ran together into his beard. Vernon grasped him, and he stood up. His head cleared a little more, and the pounding headache began to subside. He look down into the roaring chute of water ripping into the frenzied pool jammed full of broken tree trunks and branches. He looked at Vernon again. It finally sank in. “You,” he said incredulously. Vernon shrugged. “You saved my life.” “Well, you saved mine,” he said, almost defensively. “You decapitated a snake for me. All I did was jump.” Don Alfonso said, “By the Virgin Mary, I still cannot

My thoughts drifted to Abby and everything she would miss. No more opening packages of salad mix because she couldn’t cook worth a damn. She wouldn’t flail her limbs to music and call it dancing again. She wouldn’t make me cringe when she tried to hit the high note of a song. Never again would she hold my brother, kiss him, and tell him how much she loved him. Never again would he find joy in a sunrise because it would only remind him of her smile. She would never marry Alexander and they would never have children to share their love with. Her future was stolen from her, without remorse. My family and all I loved were in that room, being ripped away from me.

one way to find out. I drew my Colt and spurred my horse forward, my guiding Cisco and the mare between the wagons, buckboards and riders blocking my path to the saloon. Bryce didn’t see me coming. He took a long pull on the cigar and then contentedly exhaled the smoke through pursed lips. I was close now and could have shot him easily. But I knew that wouldn’t satisfy me. I wanted to look into his eyes, to see the shock and the pain in them as he felt my slug rip through him, so I held my fire.  It was a costly mistake. For in the next moment Bryce must have heard my horse coming and turned toward me. He instantly recognized me and in one continuous move whirled around and dived through the saloon swing-doors. I didn’t bother to dismount. Dropping the mare’s reins, so I wasn’t hampered by her, I spurred my horse onto the red-brick sidewalk and without stopping, ducked my head and rode into the saloon. A dozen shots greeted me. I heard Cisco grunt and knew he’d been hit. By then I had spotted the Guthrie brothers firing around the sides of upturned tables, and opened fire on them. I saw the oldest brother, Doke, grab his arm up by his shoulder and spin around, while my other shots forced Gibby and Bryce to pull back behind their tables. By now the panicked customers had scattered in different directions and both barkeeps had ducked below the bar. But they weren’t safe there. A wild shot smashed the mirror above the back-bar and shards of glass showered over them.

Mistletoe.” Aunt Trudy pointed at the ceiling above Kate and Zac. “Lay one on her, Zac.” Beau’s heart gave a hard squeeze as his brother made a big deal of sweeping Kate into his arms, dipping her backward, and laying a loud smooch on her cheek. He heard Aunt Trudy applauding and Jack giggling, but he couldn’t tear his eyes off of Zac and Kate. He wanted to rip his brother’s hands off of her. He reminded himself that it meant nothing. That Zac was still in love with Lucy. Kate’s laughter was still ringing out when Zac brought her upright, embracing her in those gorilla arms of his. Beau gave him a shove. “All right, that’s enough,” he said in a tone that didn’t quite reach playful. Zac cuffed him on the back of the head, his eyes twinkling.

Wait," Charlotte said. "I'd like to say something, if I may, Papa." He nodded, and Charlotte stood. Her siblings were still looking very grave. She hoped they were in the proper frame of mind to hear what she had to say, especially Branwell. "I have been thinking a great deal about ... My stories." She nodded significantly to them, willing them to understand that she was not talking about writing so much as about crossing over. "Papa was very wise when he called my writing a childish habit, and I think he understands that, for me, its a dangerous one as well." The small square of paper that had caused such consternation lay in front of her on the table. Now she took it up and held it out, looking at each if her siblings in turn. "Emily. Anne. Branwell." She ripped the paper in half. Emily gasped. " I am renouncing my invented worlds and all who live there. If any of you are in the grip if a similar childish habit"- she raised an eyebrow at her brother - "I challenge you to do the same.

When Harry woke up on Sunday morning, it took him a moment to remember why he felt so miserable and worried. Then the memory of the previous night rolled over him. He sat up and ripped back the curtains of his own four-poster, intending to talk to Ron, to force Ron to believe him — only to find that Ron’s bed was empty; he had obviously gone down to breakfast. Harry dressed and went down the spiral staircase into the common room. The moment he appeared, the people who had already finished breakfast broke into applause again. The prospect of going down into the Great Hall and facing the rest of the Gryffindors, all treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting; it was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to be cornered by the Creevey brothers, who were both beckoning

If possible, I loved her even more. She didn’t even think of herself. Defend my brother? The thought was near laughable that a five-foot human girl would want to defend the honor of the mighty Guardian angel Alexander. But I knew just how she felt. I, too, wanted to defend his honor. He had given Abby a beautiful gift, and he would rather rip his own heart out than put her through this.

He grins at me. I wish he wouldn’t. Sometimes his smile rips the air from my lungs. It’s not an exaggeration. It’s messy, violent and abrupt and I wish it wouldn’t happen because, fuck it, I like breathing.

Shortly before Valentine’s Day in 1948, the two miscreants—posing as brother and sister-in-law—traveled to Royersford, Pennsylvania, to meet Ray’s latest mark, Esther M. Henne, a forty-one-year-old teacher at the Pennhurst Asylum for “feeble-minded” children.

Besides opening for such punk and roots attractions as the Blasters and the Plugz, they were billed with rockabilly performers like Rip Masters, James Intveld, and the Rebel Rockers, and with such other East L.A. invaders as Los Illegals and the Brat. They also made their first trip out of town as a rock group, traveling to Austin, Texas, for shows with Joe “King” Carrasco and Rank & File, the L.A./ Texas combine that would soon release their debut album on Slash; the latter, a country-skewed “cowpunk” group, featured brothers Chip and Tony Kinman of the early L.A. punk band the Dils and Alejandro Escovedo, formerly the guitarist for the San Francisco punk act the Nuns.

At the end of the virus psychosis, the population will be so ripped off that it will be left naked, but it will be relieved that it doesn’t have to wear a mask any more. - On Pandemics

There’s a black hole in my head, deep inside, slowly swallowing my hopes. My heart hits my chest hard as if it will break my ribs and rip apart my skin. I lock eyes with my son, who glares vehemently at me. I knew this would be my last moment realizing the nothingness is now my existence. Then suddenly, the world slowly disappears in front of me. Closing my eyes, I breathe short pants, feeling numb as tears gather behind my eyes.

After being treated so poorly, having everything ripped out from under me, do you really think I’d turn around and do that to someone else?

Probably because Kelsey is right. I love him so much, more than I thought. My heart is drawn toward him. My heart aches for him. But my heart is also wary. He’s playing tug-of-war with my heart, ripping and tearing it in every direction, stirring up anxiety and uncertainty.

I’m too old for this shit,” Tag groaned. “Theo, dude, she will tear your dick off.” “The heart wants what the heart wants, I guess,” Theo tossed back with a smirk on his face. Tag stared at his brother. “Then your heart needs to have a long discussion with your dick because again—she will rip it off. It’s why I hired her. Please, can we stuff the sexual tension down where it should be? Like deep down. I don’t want to hear about anyone’s fucking feelings or dark desires or childhood anxieties. Shove it down like a man and yes, I mean you, Erin.

Just a few months ago, the comedian Tom Arnold tweeted: “Imagine being Rand Paul’s neighbor and having to deal with @RandPaul lying cowardly circular whiny bullcrap about lawn clippings. No wonder he ripped his toupee off.” Within seconds, Representative Ilhan Omar had retweeted it, obviously gleeful that the attack had taken place. Nice, right? And they say Donald Trump is the one who’s vulgar, but they won’t say anything about Omar allegedly marrying her brother to enter the country illegally. Or, having an affair with a married paid staffer, or as someone hilariously commented on my Instagram feed, “She puts the infidel in infidelity.” Whether it’s true or not, she’s not exactly the moral authority the media makes her out to be.

No. Seeing you will hurt too much. It would remind me of how you pulled my heart out of my chest and ripped it into tiny pieces. You’re supposed to fix hearts, not destroy them.

Our hearts were glowing. Streaming RED. As he pulled the trigger... Headshots. Ripped apart. Unrecognizable. Faces that had been kissed. Pulverized. Brothers and sisters. Without a pulse... We were finished, utterly destroyed. And they were satisfied that they had shattered our pride.

A redhead lied in a hospital like a vegetable, eyes pure white and limbs unmoving. An ex-basketball player gripped her hand as he sobbed uncontrollably, despite knowing full well she couldn’t feel a thing. He waited for the monster to take him too as the clock chimed. A man they’d grown to know as their babysitter lied still on the ground, limbs twisted up like a pretzel. A beautiful girl with a brilliant mind had her eyes rolled back into her skull, her body bent in various ways. A man who got lost along the way sat against the wall, waiting for the drugs to finish him off. A friend with hair longer than anyone else’s joined him, cause he wouldn’t let him be alone. A curly haired boy soon meets the same fate as his brother; bats rip into his body until nothing is left. A boy with a heart too big for his body lies still until he bleeds out; he’d rather take himself off the board then let the villain have his way. A boy, once so sweet and gentle, got overwhelmed with his rage and joined the other side. A town got corrupted, and everything began to die.

They had lived, had they not, like brother and sister all summer, playing Quidditch, teasing Ron, and having a laugh about Bill and Phlegm? He had known Ginny for years now. . . . It was natural that he should feel protective . . . natural that he should want to look out for her . . . want to rip Dean limb from limb for kissing her . . . No . . . he would have to control that particular brotherly feeling. . . . Ron gave a great grunting snore. She’s Ron’s sister, Harry told himself firmly. Ron’s sister. She’s out-of-bounds.

The warm strength of Brother Rip’s hand on hers was like nothing she had ever felt—as if he had a divine touch.

To escape the Prison, I made myself mortal. Immortal as you are, but... mortal compared to- to what I was. And what I was... I did not feel the way you do. The way I do now. Some things- loyalty and wrath and curiosity- but not the full spectrum.' Again, that faraway look. 'I was perfect, according to some. I did not regret, did not mourn- and pain... I did not experience it. And yet... yet I wound up here, because I was not quite like the others. Even as- as what I was, I was different. Too curious. Too questioning. The day the rip appeared in the sky... it was curiosity that drove me. My brothers and sisters fled. Upon the orders of our ruler, we had just laid waste to twin cities, smote them wholly into rubble on the plain, and yet they fled from that rip in the world. But I wanted to look. I wanted. I was not built or bred to feel such selfish things as want. I'd seen what happened to those of my kind who strayed, who learned to place their needs first. Who developed... feeling. But I went through the tear in the sky. And here I am.' 'And you gave all that up to get out of the Prison?' Mor asked softly. 'I yielded my grace- my perfect immortality. I knew that once I did... I would feel pain. And regret. I would want, and I would burn with it. I would... fall. But I was- the time locked away down there... I didn't care. I had not felt the wind on my face, had not smelled the rain... I did not even remember what they felt like. I did not remember sunlight.' It was to Azriel that her attention drifted- the shadowsinger's darkness pulled away to reveal eyes full of understanding. Locked away. 'So I bound myself into this body. I shoved my burning grace deep into me. I gave up everything I was. The cell door just... unlocked. And so I walked out.

And so Nesryn did as well. Of how Maeve had somehow found a way into this world, fleeing or bored with her husband, Orcus. Erawan’s elder brother. Of how Erawan, Orcus, and Mantyx had torn apart worlds to find her, Orcus’s missing wife, and only halted here because the Fae had risen to challenge them. Fae led by Maeve, whom the Valg kings did not know or recognize, in the form she had taken. The life she had crafted for herself. The minds of all the Fae who had existed that she had ripped into, convincing them that there had been three queens, not two. Including the minds of Mab and Mora, the two sister-queens who had ruled Doranelle. Including Brannon himself.

Shut the fuck up,” he growled, his hand going to the back of my neck. Then he did it. He ruined me. His lips crashed against mine, his huge body, shoving me against the cab, pinning me to it as he pried my lips open with his tongue. His hot, delicious, tongue. My mouth fell open, letting him in, and I was kissing him back with the same urgency. I couldn’t control it. A sound ripped from him, causing my insides to quiver. It was rough, uncontrolled, dark…

There,” said Tessa, halting the trek. “Sheriff’s department!” she shouted at the shack up ahead. “Please come out with your hands where we can see them!” Silence. Tessa repeated her demand. Henry would have responded. Bile rose in the back of Cate’s throat, and she wondered if they were on a fruitless search. After a few more moments of silence, they approached. Tessa entered with her weapon at ready as Isla and Logan checked the perimeter of the building. Tessa was back a few moments later, her face grim. “All clear. I’ve found the third brother. He’s dead.” “No Henry?” Cate blurted out. Tessa shook her head. The four of them entered the little building, and Cate took in the air mattresses and backpacks. “What were they thinking? How long did they believe they could last here?” She followed Tessa into an adjacent room and caught her breath. The third brother lay on a mattress, sleeping bags covering him, his eyes closed as if he were asleep. Medical debris covered the floor. Ripped-open packaging,

I am the threat,” Burke replied. “Touch Tom again, speak a soft word in his ear, so much as look at him in a way I find overly familiar…and I will rip out your goddamn throat.” Hartington gave him a measured look. “You know I am a decorated naval captain, right? Scratch that…you know I am the son and brother of a duke…” Burke wasn’t intimidated. “What you are is a bastard, Hart. Same as me. The rules are different for us. We’re not really part of their society. The only way we survive is by staking our claims and holding to them with everything we have. So, bastard to bastard, hear me when I tell you that Tom Renley is mine. And in a fight to keep him, I have absolutely nothing to lose.

Staring at my brother’s grave, I travel through rips in time between us all, and the tie that bound us—brought us all back together. Our bond first and always before our purpose, reason, and agenda. It’s the very thing that made us that feels as though it’s breaking us now.

You love her, Jack?” I looked at my brother. I wanted to deny it. I didn’t want him to know how vulnerable I felt. How raw and ripped open. I opened my mouth to tell him no, to lie to him the way I’d tried to lie to Ma, but I couldn’t say the word. “Yes. I love her. I want her,” I said, slidin’ down the wall to the floor. I held my head in my hands and he sat next to me. “Alright then. No deranged jumped-up psychopathic motherfucker is gonna hurt my sister ever again.

When he pulls away, the loss rips me apart as I hold in a sob, and he turns from me to sit on the edge of the lounger, his shoulders sagging forward, stretching the wings along his muscular back. The sight of the bond he made with his brothers draws tight. It’s there, the answer, the reason for our beginning and the reason for our end—a bond made from love. A timeless bond a different love could never break. A bond that exists with his brothers and his reason for being. He can never choose me. He will never choose me. I can never ask him to.

I lied—to cover what I’d done. So none could know. To escape the Prison, I made myself mortal. Immortal as you are, but … mortal compared to—to what I was. And what I was … I did not feel, the way you do. The way I do now. Some things—loyalty and wrath and curiosity—but not the full spectrum.” Again, that faraway look. “I was perfect, according to some. I did not regret, did not mourn—and pain … I did not experience it. And yet … yet I wound up here, because I was not quite like the others. Even as—as what I was, I was different. Too curious. Too questioning. The day the rip appeared in the sky … it was curiosity that drove me. My brothers and sisters fled. Upon the orders of our ruler, we had just laid waste to twin cities, smote them wholly into rubble on the plain, and yet they fled from that rip in the world. But I wanted to look. I wanted. I was not built or bred to feel such selfish things as want. I’d seen what happened to those of my kind who strayed, who learned to place their needs first. Who developed … feeling. But I went through the tear in the sky. And here I am.” “And you gave all that up to get out of the Prison?” Mor asked softly. “I yielded my grace—my perfect immortality. I knew that once I did … I would feel pain. And regret. I would want, and I would burn with it. I would … fall. But I was—the time locked away down there … I didn’t care. I had not felt the wind on my face, had not smelled the rain … I did not even remember what they felt like. I did not remember sunlight.

The wolf is your brother, I take it, he said to Ithan. “Yes.” Ithan’s throat bobbed. His soul is not in Hel. He is … His attention snapped again to Bryce. Ripped away skin and bone to the being beneath. You slew one of my creations. My beloved pet, kept for so long on your side of the Crossing. Bryce managed to ask, breath clouding in front of her, “You mean the Reapers? Or the Shepherd?” A shepherd of souls—for a prince who peddled them. “The Under-King said you abandoned it after the First Wars.” Abandoned, or intentionally planted? Great. Fantastic. “I had no interest in being its lunch,” Bryce said.

I turned to Konstantin. He raised his hands. “My brother. The Bear of Kamchatka.” I looked at Alessandro. “Did you know?” He nodded. “I didn’t think he’d show up.” Monster Arabella took a running start and slammed into the Russian Bear. The ground shook. They rolled down the hill, ripping, biting, clawing. Linus got up and walked over to us. His hair was smoking a little bit and his skin was very flushed. “Well,” he said. “That’s something you don’t see every day.