Ruthless Vows Quotes

Write me a story where there is no ending, Kitt. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.

I would love to see you burn with splendor. I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.

Their souls weren’t mirrors but complements, constellations that burned side by side.

For anyone who sought a different realm through a wardrobe door, Who wrote a letter and is still waiting for a reply, Or who dreams of stories and bleeds words.

Sometimes,” Iris began, “I don’t think we know what we’re made of until the worst moment possible happens. Then we must decide who we truly are and what is most important to us. I think we’re often surprised by what we become.

Should I be surprised that I was falling in love with you a second time? Should I be surprised that your words found me here, even in the darkness? That I’ve been carrying your E. letters close to my heart like they are a shield to protect me?

You may not be a goddess, but nor am I a god. Despite our mundane lives, perhaps we make our own magic with words.

I betrayed you,” Roman began, “because I love her.

Soon it would be night; the stars would pierce the sky like nails, and he would light the candles and write by fire because the words came easier in the darkness.

Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels. —C.

How I love to lose to you. How I love to read your words and hear the thoughts that sharpen your mind. And how I would love to be on my knees before you now, surrendering to you and you alone.

And he thought, There is no magic above or below that will ever steal this from me again.

The magic still gathers, and the past is gilded; I see the beauty in what has been but only because I have tasted both sorrow and joy in equal measures.

If my words have bewitched your son, then know that his possess the same magic for me,” she said, reflexively touching her wedding band again.

Oh, I would betray you a hundredfold,” he said, his voice rising. “I would betray you a thousandfold for her.

She was broken by what could have been. By what now would never be.

Let me be your secret, then. Tuck my words into your pocket. Let them be your armor.

It was only a book, but it felt far more than leather and paper and ink. It felt like something to tether her in the coming days, something to protect her as well as encourage her to keep going.

Write me a story where there is no ending, Kitt.

do we live by our past, or do we live by what is to come? Do we choose to waste time looking behind to things that have already happened and cannot be changed, or do we keep our sight forward on what we can see?

I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.

You betrayed me for a woman?” Dacre said. “You are the greatest fool in my forces, as well as my greatest shame.” The words rolled off Roman. He smiled, feeling like he had swallowed a flame. It was lighting up his marrow. Illuminating his veins. “Oh, I would betray you a hundredfold,” he said, his voice rising. “I would betray you a thousandfold for her.

A shiver coursed through him as he looked up at the moon and the stars. He remembered everything.

And how I would love to be on my knees before you now, surrendering to you and you alone.

How utterly sobering it was, then, to realize how seldom daydreams like that aligned with reality.

But all good things eventually came to an end. And all songs had a final verse.

I see the beauty in what has been but only because I have tasted both sorrow and joy in equal measures.

Return to me, Thea Attwood,” he said. Attie spun to look back at him. “In case you didn’t know, I have nine lives too, Tobias Bexley.

And just for one moonrise, let us act as if there are no burdens weighing us down. No responsibilities or tomorrows.

You will regret breaking my bones. You will regret ever taking Iris from my mind. You will release something from my marrow that you will wish you had never touched.

There is always pain in healing,” the lieutenant interrupted. “To fully avoid it is impossible.

There is no magic above or below that will ever steal this from me again.

Agreed. Let us dare to change the tides. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.

They were three strides away from the door when there was a startling bright light, as if a star had fallen. A pressure in his ears, a boom that he felt in his chest. Even then, Forest never let go of her hand.

It reminded me that I cannot hold those I love in a cage, even if it feels like protecting them.

the most precious of things are often taken for granted, and that we tend to let time wheel forward at such a pace that we cannot catch every detail that makes the whole. We miss a multitude of opportunities, and so we ask ourselves, decades later, what could have been.

I look forward to the next chapter. The one you will write in your story, as well as the one we write together.

A song that will remind me that even when I feel lost, the birds still sing, the moon still waxes and wanes, and the seasons still cycle.

Even then, Forest never let go of her hand.

I was only thinking how strange it is. To think how many people we cross paths with in our lives. How someone like me has found someone like you.

Which reminds me of one simple thing: how I love to lose to you. How I love to read your words and hear the thoughts that sharpen your mind. And how I would love to be on my knees before you now, surrendering to you and you alone.

P.S. A typo? No, Winnow. I simply forgot to add a footnote, which should have read as: *outshine: transitive verb a. to shine brighter than b. to excel in splendor or showiness You remember how you said that word to me in the infirmary, post-trenches? You believed I had come to the Bluff to outshine you. And I would speak this word back to you now, but only because I would love to see you burn with splendor. I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.

Should I be surprised that I was falling in love with you a second time? Should I be surprised that your words found me here, even in the darkness?

For I would offer you the world reforged if you would be brave enough to stretch out your hand and take it.

If my words have bewitched your son, then know that his possess the same magic for me,

If you had touched me today, Kitt. I don't think I could've hidden it anymore. Who you are to me. Who I am to you.

I don’t want to fight with half a heart, but all of it.

Fight or die trying. Isn’t that what I vowed to do

Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine. A shiver coursed through him as he looked up at the moon and the stars. He remembered everything.

I’ll wait here,” Roman said. “Until you make it safely inside.

He had shielded Sarah with his body, but it hadn’t been enough. The heap of rubble had killed them both, hands entwined.

Mortals are often afraid of the things they don’t understand.

perhaps it was better to think of it as how much magic liked being married to the ordinary.

She slept but she didn’t dream. She swallowed but she couldn’t taste. She wrote three sentences and deleted two, as if she didn’t know how to move forward.

Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows hiding like jewels.

Did you think I would let him tell me when and how to touch you? Did you think that I would let him steal this last moment from me? When I would surrender only to you, take you in my hands, and burn with you before the end comes?

You never saved me, like you claim. In the field of Avalon Bluff. You didn’t save me, but Iris did.

Even then, may I find your soul still sworn to mine.

And the answer is yes, by the way,” he said, kissing the curve of her knee. “I would still have found you, even if you had never written that essay.

The problem is … I want to hear from you at all hours. I want to read your words. I am greedy for them. I am hungry for them.

Write to me and fill my empty spaces.

You remember how you said that word to me in the infirmary, post-trenches? You believed I had come to the Bluff to outshine you. And I would speak this word back to you now, but only because I would love to see you burn with splendor. I would love to see your words catch fire with mine.

Iris had relived them a hundred times, as if they were anchored to the ring. The moment Roman had slipped it onto her finger. How the stars had started to burn overhead, the flowers sweetening the dusk around them. How he had smiled at her through his tears. How he had whispered her name in the dark.

I’ve cracked the window tonight, hoping I might hear something familiar, or even unexpected. A song that will remind me that even when I feel lost, the birds still sing, the moon still waxes and wanes, and the seasons still cycle.

He felt Iris cling to him, and he knew if he didn’t pull away from her that instant, he never would. He would follow her into her flat. He would peel away their damp clothes and lie beside her in bed. He would hold her to his heart and pray the morning never came.

And what a cruel and terrible thing it is, to be a divine with such power and magic, and yet find yourself so small-minded and afraid that you decide to live out your endless days harming others. Instead of letting us choose to love you for the good you could be, you have forced us to serve you by way of pain and terror. That is unforgivable, and a lesson you will have learned too late, when you lose this war against us.

As well as fly into the strong wind of a storm, rather than having to avoid it and head to the shore like other birds would do,” Marisol said, snapping wrinkles from a blanket she found in the crate. “It’s safer for them to fly toward the storm than away from it, as counterintuitive as that may seem to us. But they can soar for thousands of kilometers without ever touching land, and they know their strengths. They lean into them in times of trouble.

As the stars faithfully burned beyond the window, Roman had never been more certain. He could wake in the deepest region of Dacre's realm, as far from the moon and sun as divinity could shackle him. He could wake and not know his name, forgetting every word he had ever written. But he would never forget the scent of Iris's skin, the sound of her voice. The way she looked at him. The confidence of her hands. And he though, There is no magic above or below that will ever steal this from me again.

You are the author of my wounds to begin with.

If that were truth, then it was a wise move save for one ugly inevitability: what sleeps will wake at some point, brimming with vengeance.

I’m becoming a girl made of regrets.

Tú y yo nunca fuimos enemigos, Kitt. No exactamente.

Escríbeme una historia que no tenga fin, Kitt. Escríbeme y llena mis vacíos.

Yes. I’m your wife.

Tus cartas siempre hallarán su camino hasta mí, sin importar la distancia que nos separe.

Quizá no seas una diosa, pero yo tampoco soy un dios. A pesar de nuestras vidas mortales, tal vez podamos crear magia con nuestras palabras.

There were only her hands, her arms, and her mouth, pressed to his hair. And she wept with him.

write, or so I hear. As the author, you will love the words one day, and despise them the next.

You think everyone who is healed with his power forgets who they were?

Iris closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of his palm against hers. The way the wind blew through her hair. The sunlight on her face. And for a moment, it almost felt like she had wings.

I don’t think we know what we’re made of until the worst moment possible happens. Then we must decide who we truly are and what is most important to us. I think we’re often surprised by what we become.

It made him want to collide with her, his lips on her neck, the curve of her ribs. Tasting her mouth. It made him want to draw out all those words he loved from her, but most of all the way she said his name.

She could melt into a crowd of mortals like she had been born among them, with flesh doomed to bleed and decay, with a spirit like a candle flame, flickering and incandescent. Burning brilliant in the darkness.

I don’t know what else fuels me to keep rising at dawn and continuing forward other than this: there is a song a story hiding in my scars. One that whispers to me, even though I have yet to fully capture the words.

Sometimes,” Iris began, “I don’t think we know what we’re made of until the worst moment possible happens. Then we must decide who we truly are and what is most important to us. I think we’re often surprised by what we become.” They

How could he mourn something that he couldn’t remember? Roman wondered if there was a word to describe such a feeling, for the way it gathered on his shoulders like snow. Cold and soft and infinite, melting as a soon as he touched it.

A lo largo de los años he descubierto que aquello más valioso es lo que se suele dar a menudo por sentado, y que tendemos a dejar que el tiempo avance a tal velocidad que no podemos percibir cada uno de los detalles que conforman el todo.

Keep writing. You will find the words you need to share. They are already within you, even in the shadows, hiding like jewels. —C.” I look forward to the next chapter. The one you will write in your story, as well as the one we write together.

¿Vivimos por nuestro pasado o vivimos para nuestro futuro, para lo que vendrá? ¿Escogemos perder el tiempo echando la vista atrás, observando aquello que ya ha ocurrido y no podemos cambiar, o mantenemos la vista al frente, en lo que podemos ver?

Indeed, she thought she had recovered from most of the trauma she had experienced, letting it hollow her out. But perhaps it had only been buried. Perhaps she had shoved it down to dark forgotten places and it had grown roots while she had been sleeping.

Did I ever tell you I went to school in America?" "What? No." "It's true,for a year. Eighth grade. It was terrible." "Eighth grade is terrible for everyone," I say. "Well,it was worse for me. My parents had just seperated,and my mum moved back to California.I hadn't been since I was an infant,but I went with her,and I was put in this horrid public school-" "Oh,no. Public school." He nudges me with his shoulder. "The other kids were ruthless. They made fun of everything about me-my height,my accent, the way I dressed.I vowed I'd never go back." "But American girls love English accents." I blurt this without thinking, and then pray he doesn't notice my blush. St. Clair picks up a pebble and tosses it into the river. "Not in middle school, they don't.Especially when it's attached to a bloke who comes up to their kneecaps." I laugh. "So when the year was over,my parents found a new school for me. I wanted to go back to London,where my mates were, but my father insisted on Paris so he could keep an eye on me. And that's how I would up at the School of America.

You are capable of far more than you know. Why do you think I look at you now and marvel? Why do you think I draw close to your kind? I have sung many of you to eternal rest after death, and I have found that the music of a mortal life burns brighter than any magic my songs could stoke.

The memories surged, threatening to drown her. Iris had relived them a hundred times, as if they were anchored to the ring. The moment Roman had slipped it onto her finger. How the stars had started to burn overhead, the flowers sweetening the dusk around them. How he had smiled at her through his tears. How he had whispered her name in the dark.

I know we are no longer rivals, but if we are keeping tally like the old days, you have far outshined* me with your wit and your courage. Which reminds me of one simple thing: how I love to lose to you. How I love to read your words and hear the thoughts that sharpen your mind. And how I would love to be on my knees before you now, surrendering to you and you alone.

In the West, we are perilously getting down to our last man. Liberal democracy, among us, is achieving the goal that Fukuyama predicted for it: It is eliminating the alpha males from our midst, and at a dizzyingly accelerating rate. But in Muslim societies, the alpha male is still alive and well. While we in America are drugging our alpha boys with Ritalin, the Muslims are doing everything in their power to encourage their alpha boys to be tough, aggressive, and ruthless…. We are proud if our sons get into a good college; they are proud if their sons die as martyrs. To rid your society of high-testosterone alpha males may bring peace and quiet; but if you have an enemy that is building up an army of alpha boys to hate you fanatically and who have vowed to destroy you, you will be committing suicide….

Van Buren, like many American master-politicians since, was quite capable of combining party ruthlessness with high-mindedness. He was a political schizophrenic, admitting he abused power occasionally and vowing never to do it again (he did of course). ... American political history has since thrown up repeated exemplars of what might be called the Van Buren Syndrome --- men who could combine true zeal for the public interest with fanatical devotion to the party principle.

Dacre claims he healed me that day in the Bluff. He claims that I could live forever at his side, if only I remain faithful to him. And yet my memories suggest otherwise, and what I’m feeling in my body is a testament that I’m not fully mended. He healed me just enough to be of use to him, as if covering my wounds with a bandage, holding things together. To make me numb and to forget what brought me here. But now that I remember who I was before … it seems his magic has lost a few threads of its power. He has deceived me, as well as so many others, by making us believe we are whole and mended when he has intentionally left pieces of us broken so we remain close to his side. Submissive and obedient to what he wants.

They’re all okay, then?” I grin like an idiot. What is wrong with me? She rises from her chair, fluid and vaguely shimmering. Her grace is legendary. I’m agile and strong, but I’d rather move like sunbeams on water, like Selena. “In good health and arguing incessantly with Desma and Aetos. Those two are under the impression the Sintans abducted you.” She’s asking a question. I owe her an answer. “They did. Sort of.” Her sculpted lips purse. “Help me understand a ‘sort of’ abduction,” Selena says, pouring me a cup of water. Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that. My throat is parched, so I drink before answering. “He’s Beta Sinta. He said he’d have you all arrested if I didn’t come.” “And you believed him?” It’s a loaded question coming from Selena. I nod. After nearly a month with him, I also know he would have done it because he felt he had to, not because he wanted to. “He needs a powerful Magoi to help him and his precious Alpha sister, Egeria.” Egeria is no Alpha. She sounds more like a buttercup. Beta Sinta on the other hand, he’s Alpha material. Fierce on the battlefield, bloody, focused, ruthless…fair? “Plus, he had a magic rope.” Selena laughs, and the sound is like wind chimes on a spring breeze. “You? Caught by a magic rope?” I flush. “Don’t remind me.” She clears her throat, taming more laughter, and asks, “Will you help him?” Selena may not know who I am, but I’m certain she knows what I am—the Kingmaker—even if we’ve never discussed it. “My abilities can be valuable in diplomatic situations,” I say carefully. “He came here to save you. He looked like he cared.” I shrug, glancing down. “I’m a weapon he doesn’t want to lose.” “I think there’s more.” My eyes snap back up. “Don’t infer something that isn’t there. We’re both monsters.” Her dark-blue gaze flicks over me, unnerving. “Monsters still mate.” I choke on my own spit and then cough. A faint smile curves her lips. “Why didn’t you just escape?” “The rope.” That stupid, infuriating enchanted rope that led me to make a binding vow to stay with Beta Sinta until his—or my, if it comes first—dying day. She looks incredulous. “You couldn’t find a way out?” “It was a bloody good rope!

Write me a story, Kitt,” she whispered, kissing his brow, the hollow of his cheek. His lips and his throat, until she felt like love was an axe that had cleaved her chest open. Her very heart was beating in the air. “Write me a story where you keep me up late every night with your typing, and I hide messages in your pockets for you to find while you’re at work. Write me a story where we first met on a street corner, and I spilled coffee on your expensive trench coat, or when we crossed paths at our favorite bookshop, and I recommended poetry, and you recommended myths. Or that time when the deli got our sandwich orders wrong, or when we ended up sitting next to each other at the ball game, or I dared to take the train west just to see how far I could go, and you just so happened to be there too.” She swallowed the ache in her throat, leaning back to meet his gaze. Gently, as if he were a dream, she touched his hair. She smoothed the dark tendrils from his brow. “Write me a story where there is no ending, Kitt. Write to me and fill my empty spaces.” Ronan held her gaze, desperation gleaming in his eyes. An expression flickered over his face, one she had never seen before. It looked like both pleasure and pain, like he was drowning in her and her words. They were iron and salt, a blade and a remedy, and he was taking a final gasp of air.

Patience's breath caught. Her lids fell. Wordlessly, she lifted her face, offering her lips. He took them, took her- as their lips fused, Patience felt his hands slide lower, deliberately tracing the ripe hemispheres of her bottom. He filled his hands, then kneaded- heat spread, prickling over her skin, leaving it fevered. Cupping her firm flesh, he molded her to him, easing her deeper into the V of his braced thighs. She felt the evidence of his desire, felt the hard, heavy, throbbing reality pressed against her soft belly. He held her there, senses fully awake, fully aware, for one achingly intense instant, then his tongue slowly surged, thrusting deep into the softness of her mouth. Patience would have gasped, but she couldn't. The evocative caress, his unhurried possession of her mouth, sent heat rolling through her. It pooled, hot and heavy, in her loins. As the kiss drew her in, drew her deeper, a heady languor spread, weighting her limbs, slowing her senses. But not muting them. She was achingly aware. Aware of the hardness that surrounded her, of the steely flex of hard muscle about her. Of her tightly furled nipples pressed hard to the wall of his chest; of the softness of her thighs held intimately against him. Of the relentless, driving passion he ruthlessly held back. That last was a temptation, but one so potently, preeminently dangerous not even she dared prod it. Not yet. There were other things she'd yet to learn.