Tight Leash Quotes

We’re on a tight leash. We gotta do things by the book so no shooting yourself or trying to blow me up this time.” “I thought we agreed that we weren’t gonna talk about that anymore.

What is that bruise?” Lucien demanded. I pointed with my fork to Tamlin. “Ask him. He did it.” Lucien looked from Tamlin to me and then back again. “Why does Feyre have a bruise on her neck from you?” he asked with no small amount of amusement. “I bit her,” Tamlin said, not pausing as he cut his steak. “We ran into each other in the hall after the Rite.” I straightened in my chair. “She seems to have a death wish,” he went on, cutting his meat. The claws stayed retracted but pushed against the skin above his knuckles. My throat closed up. Oh, he was mad—furious at my foolishness for leaving my room—but somehow managed to keep his anger on a tight, tight leash. “So, if Feyre can’t be bothered to listen to orders, then I can’t be held accountable for the consequences.

I couldn’t do anything because his lips were the perfect collar, keeping me leashed tight and trembling. First,

metaphors can only take you for a short walk on a tight leash.

No one has the patience for old grief. After a while, you’re supposed to keep it to yourself. Shove it under the bed or the back of the closet. Holding on to it is unhealthy, right? But grief’s not an animal on a leash. It stays, regardless of how tight or loose you hold on. It settles in. It walks alongside you.

Though the struggle is always made to sound admirable and poetic, the thumping uncertainty is still there. sure, I know my dream is as real as my hands but I grip tight a short leash with insecurity tied to the end waggling along beside me.

Tempest liked the feeling of strength in Darius’s hand, the heat of his body warming hers, the easy, fluid way he moved with the suggestion of tightly leashed power. Most of all she loved the way his eyes burned possessively over her, the way his chiseled, perfect mouth tempted her.

If eye contact had a leash, his would have been wrapped tightly around my heart.

1)    The woman has intuitive feelings that she is at risk. 2)    At the inception of the relationship, the man accelerated the pace, prematurely placing on the agenda such things as commitment, living together, and marriage. 3)    He resolves conflict with intimidation, bullying, and violence. 4)    He is verbally abusive. 5)    He uses threats and intimidation as instruments of control or abuse. This includes threats to harm physically, to defame, to embarrass, to restrict freedom, to disclose secrets, to cut off support, to abandon, and to commit suicide. 6)    He breaks or strikes things in anger. He uses symbolic violence (tearing a wedding photo, marring a face in a photo, etc.). 7)    He has battered in prior relationships. 8)    He uses alcohol or drugs with adverse affects (memory loss, hostility, cruelty). 9)    He cites alcohol or drugs as an excuse or explanation for hostile or violent conduct (“That was the booze talking, not me; I got so drunk I was crazy”). 10)   His history includes police encounters for behavioral offenses (threats, stalking, assault, battery). 11)   There has been more than one incident of violent behavior (including vandalism, breaking things, throwing things). 12)   He uses money to control the activities, purchase, and behavior of his wife/partner. 13)   He becomes jealous of anyone or anything that takes her time away from the relationship; he keeps her on a “tight leash,” requires her to account for her time. 14)   He refuses to accept rejection. 15)   He expects the relationship to go on forever, perhaps using phrases like “together for life;” “always;” “no matter what.” 16)   He projects extreme emotions onto others (hate, love, jealousy, commitment) even when there is no evidence that would lead a reasonable person to perceive them. 17)   He minimizes incidents of abuse. 18)   He spends a disproportionate amount of time talking about his wife/partner and derives much of his identity from being her husband, lover, etc. 19)   He tries to enlist his wife’s friends or relatives in a campaign to keep or recover the relationship. 20)   He has inappropriately surveilled or followed his wife/partner. 21)   He believes others are out to get him. He believes that those around his wife/partner dislike him and encourage her to leave. 22)   He resists change and is described as inflexible, unwilling to compromise. 23)   He identifies with or compares himself to violent people in films, news stories, fiction, or history. He characterizes the violence of others as justified. 24)   He suffers mood swings or is sullen, angry, or depressed. 25)   He consistently blames others for problems of his own making; he refuses to take responsibility for the results of his actions. 26)   He refers to weapons as instruments of power, control, or revenge. 27)   Weapons are a substantial part of his persona; he has a gun or he talks about, jokes about, reads about, or collects weapons. 28)   He uses “male privilege” as a justification for his conduct (treats her like a servant, makes all the big decisions, acts like the “master of the house”). 29)   He experienced or witnessed violence as a child. 30)   His wife/partner fears he will injure or kill her. She has discussed this with others or has made plans to be carried out in the event of her death (e.g., designating someone to care for children).

The dog leash was still tied tight around the oak tree in the back, stretched worn and limp across the green grass as if trying to escape to freedom; and he buried his wife without a tombstone. Where before, she sat most times in his home, licking her wounds.

THE SHEEPDOGS Most humans truly are like sheep Wanting nothing more than peace to keep To graze, grow fat and raise their young, Sweet taste of clover on the tongue. Their lives serene upon Life’s farm, They sense no threat nor fear no harm. On verdant meadows, they forage free With naught to fear, with naught to flee. They pay their sheepdogs little heed For there is no threat; there is no need. To the flock, sheepdog’s are mysteries, Roaming watchful round the peripheries. These fang-toothed creatures bark, they roar With the fetid reek of the carnivore, Too like the wolf of legends told, To be amongst our docile fold. Who needs sheepdogs? What good are they? They have no use, not in this day. Lock them away, out of our sight We have no need of their fierce might. But sudden in their midst a beast Has come to kill, has come to feast The wolves attack; they give no warning Upon that calm September morning They slash and kill with frenzied glee Their passive helpless enemy Who had no clue the wolves were there Far roaming from their Eastern lair. Then from the carnage, from the rout, Comes the cry, “Turn the sheepdogs out!” Thus is our nature but too our plight To keep our dogs on leashes tight And live a life of illusive bliss Hearing not the beast, his growl, his hiss. Until he has us by the throat, We pay no heed; we take no note. Not until he strikes us at our core Will we unleash the Dogs of War Only having felt the wolf pack’s wrath Do we loose the sheepdogs on its path. And the wolves will learn what we’ve shown before; We love our sheep, we Dogs of War. Russ Vaughn 2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment 101st Airborne Division Vietnam 65-66

Anyway,” the agent said abruptly. “I just . . . wanted you to know that I’m sorry for everything. I want to help you and the rest of the Order in any way I can, so if there is anything you need, you know where I am.” “Chase,” Dante said as the male turned to leave the room. “Apology accepted, man. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry too. I haven’t been fair to you either. Despite our differences, know that I respect you. The Agency lost a good one the day they cut you loose.” Chase’s smile was crooked as he acknowledged the praise with a short nod. Dante cleared his throat. “And about that offer of help . . .” “Name it.” “Tess was walking a dog when the Rogues attacked her tonight. Ugly little mutt, not good for much more than a foot-warmer, but it’s special to her. Actually, it was a gift from me, more or less. Anyway, the dog was running loose on its leash when I saw it a block or so away from Ben Sullivan’s place.” “You want me to go retrieve a wayward canine, is that where this is heading?” “Well, you did say anything, didn’t you?” “So I did.” Chase chuckled. “All right. I will.” Dante dug his keys to his Porsche out of his pocket and tossed them to the other vampire. As Chase turned to be on his way again, Dante added, “The little beast answers to the name Harvard, by the way.” “Harvard,” Chase drawled, shaking his head and throwing a smirk in Dante’s direction. “I don’t suppose that’s a coincidence.” Dante shrugged. “Good to see that Ivy League pedigree of yours comes in handy for something.” “Jesus Christ, warrior. You really were busting my ass since the minute I came on board, weren’t you?” “Hey, by all comparisons, I was kind. Do yourself a favor and don’t look too closely at Niko’s shooting target, unless you’re very secure about your manhood.” “Assholes,” Chase muttered, but there was only humor in his tone. “Sit tight, and I’ll be back in a few with your mutt. Anything else you’re gonna hit me up for now that I opened my big yap about wanting to get square with you?” “Actually, there might be something else,” Dante replied, his thoughts going sober when he considered Tess and any kind of future that might be deserving of her. “But we can talk about that when you get back, yeah?” Chase nodded, catching on to the turn in mood. “Yeah. Sure we can.

My first impression of him was that he was free spirited, clever, funny. That proved to be completely inaccurate. We left the party together and walked around for hours, lied to each other about our happy lives, ate pizza at midnight, took the Staten Island Ferry back and forth and watched the sun rise. I gave him my phone number at the dorm. By the time he finally called me, two weeks later, I’d become obsessed with him. He kept me on a long, tight leash for months—expensive meals, the occasional opera or ballet. He took my virginity at a ski lodge in Vermont on Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t a pleasurable experience, but I trusted he knew more about sex than I did, so when he rolled off and said, “That was amazing,” I believed him. He was thirty-three, worked for Fuji Bank at the World Trade Center, wore tailored suits, sent cars to pick me up at my dorm, then the sorority house sophomore year, wined and dined me, and asked for head with no shame in the back of cabs he charged to the company account. I took this as proof of his masculine value. My “sisters” all agreed; he was “suave.” And I was impressed by how much he liked talking about his emotions, something I’d never seen a man do. “My mom’s a pothead now, and that’s why I have this deep sadness.” He took frequent trips to Tokyo for work and to San Francisco to visit his twin sister. I suspected she discouraged him from dating me.

Then Anomander turned to Gripp Galas. ‘Old friend, long have you served me, with valour and with honour. As my most trusted servant I have set my weight upon you, and not once heard from you a word of complaint. You have dressed my wounds on the field of battle. You have mended the damage of my clumsy youth. Did you truly believe that now, on this fraught day, I would once more draw tight this leash? We are all weakened by distress, and indeed it seems every tender emotion lies exposed and trembling to a forest of knives. Gripp Galas, old friend, your service to me ends here and it ends now. You have won the heart of a woman who in all things is nothing less than breathtaking. If love needs permission, I give it. If your future with Lady Hish can be served by any sacrifice within my ability, I give it.’ He set his gaze upon Hish Tulla. ‘Nothing need be asked and nothing need be surrendered by you, my lady. On this, of all days, I will see love made right.’ He swung into the saddle. ‘Go well, my friends. We are done here.

It was hesitant at first, gentle. His fingers held tight at the base of her skull and she could feel the restraint in him, the leashed energy vibrating in the space between their bodies. He needed to shave and the stubble on his chin was prickly against hers. He smelled like he always had – aftershave, Calvin Klein cologne he bought at the grocery store, and something wild and frightening, like smoke; something that was unmistakably Ben to her – and it assaulted her brain, turning keys in padlocks and laying bare her self-control.

It was too much. She reached between them, grasping his hand and finally, finally, pushing him against her. She leaned over him, meeting his eyes, seeing the dark pleasure in him, the tightly leashed need. His fingers slid through her soft curls, parting her secret folds, twisting, circling, guided by her hand at his wrist. His thumb stroked long and slow in a wicked loop that made her question her own sanity. He watched her as she struggled under the weight of the pleasure, teasing her with his words as much as his fingers. "There, love? Is that where it feels good?" She was lost to his wicked, encouraging words and his wicked, encouraging fingers, and she whispered her response, moving against him. And then he was touching her just as she wanted, circling her perfectly, stroking with exactly the right amount of pressure. It was as though he knew her body better than she did. It was as though her body belonged to him. And perhaps it did. One of his beautiful long fingers slid deep inside of her, the heel of his palm rocking against a point of acute, almost unbearable pleasure, and she called out his name, rocking against his touch, knowing that something incredible was about to happen. "Michael," she whispered his name, wanting more. Wanting everything. She was filled with desire and greed and she wanted him to never ever stop touching that most secret part of her.

But before you do that, inform your master that we have arrived.” “His master,” said a biting voice from a rear doorway, “is aware of that.” Elizabeth swung around at the scathing tone of Ian’s voice, and her fantasy of seeing him fall to his knees in remorse the moment he set eyes on her collapsed the instant she saw his face; it was as hard and forbidding as a granite sculpture. He did not bother to come forward but instead remained where he was, his shoulder propped negligently against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, watching her through narrowed eyes. Until then Elizabeth had thought she remembered exactly what he looked like, but she hadn’t. Not really. His suede jacket clung to wide shoulders that were broader and more muscular than she’d remembered, and his thick hair was almost black. His face was one of leashed sensuality and arrogant handsomeness with its sculpted mouth and striking eyes, but now she noticed the cynicism in those golden eyes and the ruthless set of his jaw-things she’d obviously been too young and naïve to see before. Everything about him exuded brute strength, and that in turn made her feel even more helpless as she searched his features for some sign that this aloof, forbidding man had actually held and kissed her with seductive tenderness. “Have you had an edifying look at me, Countess?” he snapped, and before she could recover from the shock of that rude greeting his next words rendered her nearly speechless. “You are a remarkable young woman, Lady Cameron-you must possess the instincts of a bloodhound to track me here. Now that you’ve succeeded, there is the door. Use it.” Elizabeth’s momentary shock gave way to a sudden, almost uncontrollable burst of wrath. “I beg your pardon?” she said tightly. “You heard me.” “I was invited here.” “Of course you were,” Ian mocked, realizing in a flash of surprise that the letter he’d had from her uncle must not have been a prank, and that Julius Cameron had obviously decided to regard Ian’s lack of reply as willingness, which was nothing less than absurd and obnoxious. In the last months, since news of his wealth and his possible connection to the Duke of Stanhope had been made public, he’d become accustomed to being pursued by the same socialites who had once cut him. Normally he found it annoying; from Elizabeth Cameron he found it revolting.

Without question, the absolute worst advice I was ever given was to never allow my characters to take full control of the story. I was told to “keep them on a tight leash,” and always “insist they do my bidding.” I have since learned otherwise. The characters know themselves–and the story–better than I, and it’s only when I set them free that the narrative comes to full life.

The control I normally have such a tight leash on is gone. Completely fucking gone

Due to the fact that Genesis had felt slightly in awe of Cherise, he'd tiptoed around the bedroom and controlled his sexual urges as he'd placed them upon a very tight leash and ignored his internal desires.

Despite how tightly wound Hudson had been the first time they met, he was a pretty chill dog. She’d started a list in her journal of all of his positive qualities that at first had been limited to his good looks… the golden fur, the subtle black shading along his muzzle, the big ears that telegraphed more information about his emotional state than his tail. But each day together brought new insights about the mystery at the end of the leash, like the fact that he didn’t pull during walks. He never jumped up on her no matter how excited he got. He always dropped fetched balls at her feet. He didn’t guard his food bowl, toys, or his bed. And best of all, he was always DTT. Down to train. Hudson loved training. It was like he’d been thirsty to prove to someone how clever he was, so no matter what she attempted with him, he happily played along.

No one has the patience for old grief. After a while, you’re supposed to keep it to yourself. Shove it under the bed or the back of the closet. Holding on to it is unhealthy, right? But grief’s not an animal on a leash. It stays, regardless of how tight or loose you hold on. It settles in. It walks alongside you.

You look... refreshed,' Lucien observed with a glance at Tamlin. I shrugged. 'Sleep well?' 'Like a babe.' I smiled at him and took another bite of food, and felt Lucien's eyes travel inexorably to my neck. 'What is that bruise?' Lucien demanded. I pointed with my fork at Tamlin. 'Ask him. He did it.' Lucien looked from Tamlin to me and then back again. 'Why does Feyre have a bruise on her neck from you?' he asked with no small amount of amusement. 'I bit her,' Tamlin said, not pausing as he cut his steak. 'We ran into each other in the hall after the Rite.' I straightened in my chair. 'She seems to have a death wise,' he went on, cutting his meat. The claws stayed retracted but pushed against the skin above his knuckles. My throat closed up. Oh, he was mad- furious at my foolishness for leaving my room- but somehow managed to keep his anger on a tight, tight leash. 'So, if Feyre can't be bothered to listen to orders, then I can't be held accountable for the consequences.' 'Accountable?' I sputtered, placing my hands flat on the table. 'You cornered me in the hall like a wolf with a rabbit!' Lucien propped an arm on the table and covered his mouth with his hand, his russet eye bright. 'While I might not have been myself, Lucien and I both told you to stay in your room,' Tamlin said, so calmly that I wanted to rip out my hair. I couldn't help it. Didn't even try to fight the red-hot temper that razed my senses. 'Faerie pig!' I yelled, and Lucien howled, almost tipping back in his chair. At the sight of Tamlin's growing smile, I left. It took me a couple of hours to stop painting little portraits of Tamlin and Lucien with pigs' features. But as I finished the last one- Two faerie pigs wallowing in their own filth, I would call it- I smiled into the clear, bright light of my private painting room. The Tamlin I knew had returned. And it made me... happy.

Madeline had her mood under control, like a rabid dog on a tight leash.

I apologise for my behaviour lately. I haven't ... been myself." Or she'd just been a part of herself that she usually kept on a tight, tight leash, he thought. But he said, "I understand." And from the way her eyes softened, he knew that was all he'd ever needed to say.

He snapped back to the present, once again utterly distracted by the woman before him. “We should head back. I’ve got things to do.” “Things? Ooh. That sounds utterly decadent. What kind of things are you planning? I’m very partial to nipple play just so you know.” The bag with its leftover treats provided a shield to hide the tenting of his trousers, but nothing could quell the heat in his blood. Why did she do things on purpose to tease him? Why are we not taking her up on her offer? Why wouldn’t his liger go take a fucking nap like other bloody felines? A glower didn’t deter her from linking her arm through his as they left. A tight-lipped countenance didn’t stem her adorable chattering as they walked. A firm leash on his emotions didn’t prevent the spurt of pleasure at her touch. A denial of their involvement didn’t stop his growl of jealousy when some yuppies they passed on the sidewalk swiveled to give her a second look. Were the teeth he bared necessary? Yes. Was the sigh as he entered the lobby and a dozen lionesses went “ooh” avoidable? No. Nor could he avoid the snickers that followed Luna singing, “Bow-chica-wow-wow,” especially since Meena joined in and began the impromptu dance that involved a lot of hip shaking and breast jiggling. Throw her over our shoulder and take her to our room. We must claim her before another does. What happened to his usually staid and laid back inner feline? The right woman happened. But what was right for his wild side wasn’t what the more serious man side wanted. She is chaos. Yes. And wondrous for it. She is physically perfect. And tempting him to take a bite. She’ll never let you have a moment of peace. His life would have purpose. She would love me with the passion and embrace of a hurricane. But could he survive the storm? Or should he try and outrun it? She would catch us. She is strong. A true huntress. Rawr. Possible life-changing inner conversations were best conducted out of sight, especially since it made him less mindful of his surroundings allowing his cousin Luna to sidle alongside and mutter, “I see the look in your eye.” “What look?” “The one that sees something yummy it wants to eat.” Was he truly that obvious? “I’m not hungry. I just had breakfast.” Luna elbowed him as she snickered. “Way to pretend ignorance. I know that you know what I know is happening.” “Say that fast five times.” She did. Luna wasn’t just quick on her feet. “So when are you claiming her?” the nosy woman asked. “Never.” He ignored his feline collapsing in a heap. “Leo. I am shocked at you. Aren’t you the one who advocates honesty?” “Only if it won’t cause irreparable harm. Then even giant white lies are allowed. Anything to hold back the insidious forces of chaos.

Tugging at his collar to loosen it, he pushed at the half-open door and entered the room. Miss Hathaway stood near the doorway, waiting with tightly leashed impatience, while Merripen remained a dark presence in the corner. As Cam approached and looked into her upturned face, the panic dissolved in a curious rush of heat. Her blue eyes were smudged with faint lavender shadows, and her soft-looking lips were pressed into a tight seam. Her hair had been pulled back and pinned, dark and shining against her head. That scraped-back hair, the modest restrictive clothing, advertised her as a woman of inhibitions. A proper spinster. But nothing could have concealed her radiant will. She was … delicious. He wanted to unwrap her like a long-awaited gift. He wanted her vulnerable and naked beneath him, that soft mouth swollen from hard, deep kisses, her pale body flushed with desire.

Please reconsider.” Mitch’s words were soft, yet firm, as if he was fighting back a demand he couldn’t quite leash. “I don’t want you staying here.” She fixed her attention on the lobby door. The vacancy sign winked mockingly. She clutched the credit card more tightly. “I can’t.” He turned, shifting in his seat, his long legs hitting the console. “Why?” She bit the inside of her cheek. Why was this so hard? It should be easy to walk away. For all intents and purposes, he was a stranger: leaving should be simple. Her gaze dipped down to the door handle. The hard lump of guilt sat like a rock in her stomach. What kind of a person was she that she’d had an easier time walking away from her wedding than getting out of this car? Next to her, Mitch waited; the air was tense with everything unsaid. He was different from Steve in that way. If she’d had this conversation with Steve, he would have answered his own question already. She traced her index finger along the cool metal door handle. If he bothered to even ask the question in the first place. She took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “People have been taking care of me for so long, I can’t remember what it’s like to make my own decisions.

The New England wilderness March 1, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees She had no choice but to go to him. She set Daniel down. Perhaps they would spare Daniel. Perhaps only she was to be burned. She forced herself to keep her chin up, her eyes steady and her steps even. How could she be afraid of going where her five-year-old brother had gone first? O Tommy, she thought, rest in the Lord. Perhaps you are with Mother now. Perhaps I will see you in a moment. She did not want to die. Her footsteps crunched on the snow. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The Indian handed Mercy a slab of cornmeal bread, and then beckoned to Daniel, who cried, “Oh, good, I’m so hungry!” and came running, his happy little face tilted in a smile at the Indian who fed him. “Mercy said we’d eat later,” Daniel confided in the Indian. The English trembled in their relief and the French laughed. The Indian knelt beside Daniel, tossing aside Tommy’s jacket and dressing Daniel in warm clean clothing from another child. Nobody in Deerfield owned many clothes, and if she permitted herself to think about it, Mercy would know whose trousers and shirt these were, but she did not want to think about what dead child did not need clothes, so she said to the Indian, “Who are you? What’s your name?” He understood. Putting the palm of his hand against his chest, he said, “Tannhahorens.” She could just barely separate the syllables. It sounded more like a duck quacking than a real word. “Tannhahorens,” he said again, and she repeated it after him. She wondered what it meant. Indian names had to make a picture. She smiled carefully at the man she had thought was going to burn her alive as an example and said, “I’ll be right back, Tannhahorens.” She took a few steps away, and when he did nothing, she ran to her family. Her uncle swept her into his arms. How wonderful his scratchy beard felt! How strong and comforting his hug! “My brave girl,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Mercy, they won’t let me help you.” In a voice as childish and puzzled as Daniel’s, he added, “They won’t let me help your aunt Mary, or Will and Little Mary either. I tried to help your brothers and got whipped for it.” He stammered: Uncle Nathaniel, whose reading choices from the Bible were always about war, and whose voice made every battle exciting. He needed her comfort as much as she needed his. “Uncle Nathaniel,” she said, “if I had done better, Tommy and Marah--” “Hush,” said her uncle. “The Lord set a task before you and you obeyed. Daniel is your task. Say your prayers as you march.” In a tight little pack behind Uncle Nathaniel stood her three living brothers. How small and cold they looked. Sam lifted his chin to encourage his sister and said, “At least we’re together. Do the best you can, Mercy. So will we.” They stared at each other, the two closest in age, and Mercy thought how proud their mother would be of Sam. “Mercy,” cried her brother John, panicking, “you have to go! Go fast,” he said urgently. “Your Indian is pointing at you.” Tannhahorens was watching her but not signaling. He isn’t angry, thought Mercy. I don’t have to be afraid, but I do have to return. “Find out your Indian’s name,” she said to her brothers. “It helps. Call him by name.” She took the time to hug and kiss each brother. How narrow their little shoulders; how thin the cloth that must keep them from freezing. She had to go before she wept. Indians did not care for crying. “Be strong, Uncle Nathaniel,” she said, touching the strange collar around his neck. “Don’t tug it,” he said wryly. “It’s lined with porcupine quill tips. If I don’t move at the right speed, the Indians give my leash a twitch and the needles jab my throat.” The boys laughed, pantomiming a hard jerk on the cord, and Mercy said, “You’re all just as mean as you ever were!” “And alive,” said Sam. When they hugged once more, she felt a tremor in him, deep and horrified, but under control.

FYI—the only way I’d ever have you on any sort of leash is if it could be wrapped tightly around your neck.

I’m keeping a tight leash on the magic, though, because the last thing I want is for the two of us to wind up floating off the planet while we’re messing around.

I was careful to keep the nerd that lives inside me on a tight leash most of the time, I guess because people tended to pass me sideways glances whenever I talked in depth about anything other than football.

Like how comedians have to bomb. If you don't learn how to bomb, then then audience has you on such a tight leash, you're stuck saying only the things you think they'll like.' Margo was frozen looking out her window, her phone pressed to her head. She had not associated freedom with being hated before. It made perfect sense.

It was down to us to own our inner monsters and keep them on a tight leash or face the consequences.

I wanted to kiss them. Lick them. When they appeared in my office, fire roared through me. The primal part of my soul I kept on a tight leash went feral. Mine.

I can see the moment when he douses the fire in his soul. The human side of him keeps the monster one a tight leash. He takes care of my wounds in silence while I run my fingers through his thick hair and over his horns. I can't stop touching him. I wish I could crawl under his skin and let his fire warm my weary bones.

I can see the moment when he douses the fire in his soul. The human side of him keeps the monster on a tight leash. He takes care of my wounds in silence while I run my fingers through his thick hair and over his horns. I can't stop touching him. I wish I could crawl under his skin and let his fire warm my weary bones.

laws of the city. It was easy enough to come out to the countryside and spread my wings. But when I let my dragon loose, I never knew what to expect. He was wild, untamed. It was much easier to keep him tightly leashed, to never allow him the opportunity for destruction and devastation I knew he was capable of. Then I’d looked at Mariah as I stood there, debating.

You look... refreshed,' Lucien observed with a glance at Tamlin. I shrugged. 'Sleep well?' 'Like a babe.' I smiled at him and took another bite of food, and felt Lucien's eyes travel inexorably to my neck. 'What is that bruise?' Lucien demanded. I pointed with my fork at Tamlin. 'Ask him. He did it.' Lucien looked from Tamlin to me and then back again. 'Why does Feyre have a bruise on her neck from you?' he asked with no small amount of amusement. 'I bit her,' Tamlin said, not pausing as he cut his steak. 'We ran into each other in the hall after the Rite.' I straightened in my chair. 'She seems to have a death wish,' he went on, cutting his meat. The claws stayed retracted but pushed against the skin above his knuckles. My throat closed up. Oh, he was mad- furious at my foolishness for leaving my room- but somehow managed to keep his anger on a tight, tight leash. 'So, if Feyre can't be bothered to listen to orders, then I can't be held accountable for the consequences.' 'Accountable?' I sputtered, placing my hands flat on the table. 'You cornered me in the hall like a wolf with a rabbit!' Lucien propped an arm on the table and covered his mouth with his hand, his russet eye bright. 'While I might not have been myself, Lucien and I both told you to stay in your room,' Tamlin said, so calmly that I wanted to rip out my hair. I couldn't help it. Didn't even try to fight the red-hot temper that razed my senses. 'Faerie pig!' I yelled, and Lucien howled, almost tipping back in his chair. At the sight of Tamlin's growing smile, I left. It took me a couple of hours to stop painting little portraits of Tamlin and Lucien with pigs' features. But as I finished the last one- Two faerie pigs wallowing in their own filth, I would call it- I smiled into the clear, bright light of my private painting room. The Tamlin I knew had returned. And it made me... happy.

1) The woman has intuitive feelings that she is at risk. 2)    At the inception of the relationship, the man accelerated the pace, prematurely placing on the agenda such things as commitment, living together, and marriage. 3) He resolves conflict with intimidation, bullying, and violence. 4) He is verbally abusive. 5)    He uses threats and intimidation as instruments of control or abuse. This includes threats to harm physically, to defame, to embarrass, to restrict freedom, to disclose secrets, to cut off support, to abandon, and to commit suicide. 6)    He breaks or strikes things in anger. He uses symbolic violence (tearing a wedding photo, marring a face in a photo, etc.). 7) He has battered in prior relationships. 8)    He uses alcohol or drugs with adverse affects (memory loss, hostility, cruelty). 9)    He cites alcohol or drugs as an excuse or explanation for hostile or violent conduct (“That was the booze talking, not me; I got so drunk I was crazy”). 10)   His history includes police encounters for behavioral offenses (threats, stalking, assault, battery). 11)   There has been more than one incident of violent behavior (including vandalism, breaking things, throwing things). 12)   He uses money to control the activities, purchase, and behavior of his wife/partner. 13)   He becomes jealous of anyone or anything that takes her time away from the relationship; he keeps her on a “tight leash,” requires her to account for her time. 14) He refuses to accept rejection. 15)   He expects the relationship to go on forever, perhaps using phrases like “together for life;” “always;” “no matter what.” 16)   He projects extreme emotions onto others (hate, love, jealousy, commitment) even when there is no evidence that would lead a reasonable person to perceive them. 17) He minimizes incidents of abuse. 18)   He spends a disproportionate amount of time talking about his wife/partner and derives much of his identity from being her husband, lover, etc. 19)   He tries to enlist his wife’s friends or relatives in a campaign to keep or recover the relationship.

It took years for me to properly train Kate, to curb the agent’s tendencies for mindless chit-chat and pleasantries. In the beginning, she was more resistant to my expectations, but the first advance, the first bestseller, the first commission—that made her more pliable. It’s amazing what money will do to a person, the level of control it can establish. It’s made Kate my monkey. It made Simon my pet—the sort who doesn’t clean up his messes, the sort who marks his territory, the sort who bares his teeth and will attack your child if you don’t keep him on a tight enough leash.

Just then, we heard a yelp and then a roar of barking and snarling and snapping. Startled, I looked around to see that Britty had launched herself at Fender. Imani moved quickly. She caught Britty’s leash and pulled her back in midspring. Fender’s owner already had a tight grip on Fender and was keeping him away. As if she had eyes in the back of her head, Imani spun around and stepped in front of Shug, who was dragging her owner at top speed toward the brouhaha, determined to join in. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said to Shug, giving the leash a quick snap and bringing Shug to a halt. Shug immediately sat down and looked up at Imani innocently. “Look,” said Karen. “Fender is afraid of Britty!” It was true. The big shepherd puppy was pressed against his owner’s shins, his tail tucked between his legs, while Britty, now several yards away, continued to growl softly.

She let out a rough laugh, close enough that it warmed his face. “Just sleep in the bed,” she said. “I don’t feel like digging up bedding for the couch.” Maybe it was the laugh, or the silver lining her eyes, but he said, “Fine.” Fool—he was such a stupid fool when it came to her. He made himself add, “But it sends a message, Aelin.” She lifted her brows in a way that usually meant fire was going to start flickering—but none came. Both of them were trapped in their bodies, stranded without magic. He’d adapt; he’d endure. “Oh?” she purred, and he braced himself for the tempest. “And what message does it send? That I’m a whore? As if what I do in the privacy of my own room, with my body, is anyone’s concern.” “You think I don’t agree?” His temper slipped its leash. No one else had ever been able to get under his skin so fast, so deep, in the span of a few words. “But things are different now, Aelin. You’re a queen of the realm. We have to consider how it looks, what impact it might have on our relationships with people who find it to be improper. Explaining that it’s for your safety—” “Oh, please. My safety? You think Lorcan or the king or whoever the hell else has it in for me is going to slither through the window in the middle of the night? I can protect myself, you know.” “Gods above, I know you can.” He’d never been in doubt of that. Her nostrils flared. “This is one of the stupidest fights we’ve ever had. All thanks to your idiocy, I might add.” She stalked toward her closet, her hips swishing as if to accentuate every word as she snapped, “Just get in bed.” He loosed a tight breath as she and those hips vanished into the closet. Boundaries. Lines. Off-limits. Those were his new favorite words, he reminded himself as he grimaced at the silken sheets, even as the huff of her breath still touched his cheek.