Tilted Crown Quotes

Celaena stared at the dark, tilled earth, a chill wind rustling her veil. Her chest ached, but this was the one last thing she had to do, the one last honor she could give her friend. Celaena tilted her head to the sky, closed her eyes, and began to sing.

I hate you," I whisper before he can speak. He tilts my face to his. "Say it again," he says as the imps comb my hair and place the ugly, stinking crown on my head.

I hate you," I whisper before he can speak. He tilts my face to his. "Say it again," he says as the imps comb my hair and place the ugly, stinking crown on my head. His voice is low. The words are for me alone. I pull out of his grip, but not before I see his expression. He looks as he did when he was forced to answer my questions, when he admitted his desire for me. He looks as though he's confessing.

Seattle, the mild green queen: wet and willing, cedar-scented, and crowned with slough grass, her toadstool scepter tilted toward Asia, her face turned ever upward in the rain; the sovereign who washes her hands more persistently than the most fastidious proctologist.

Ean seems like the ‘not here to make friends’ type, but I don’t think anyone could go through this without getting close to someone. It’s too hard. As difficult as it is for me, I know it’s just as bad for you all.” “We definitely get the better end of the deal though,” he said, winking at my reflection. I tilted my head. “I don’t know about that. The more I think about it, the sadder I get about having to send all but one of you away. I’ll miss having you here.” “Have you considered a harem?” he said, deadpan. I bent over in laughter and was rewarded with a pin stabbing my waist. “Ow!” “Sorry! I shouldn’t joke when there are needles around.

You alive?” Hadrian asked. “If I were dead, I don’t think there’d be geese.” Royce tilted his head up to catch the arrow of birds heading south. “But maybe they’re evil geese.” “Evil geese?” “We have no idea what goes on in the water fowl world. They might have been a gang that stole eggs or something.” “I’m guessing you have a fever.

¨I hate you,¨ I whisper before he can speak. He tilts my face to his. ¨Say it again,¨ he says as the imps comb my hair and place the ugly, stinking crown on my head. His voice is low. The words are for me alone. I pull out of his grip, but not before I see his expression. He looks as he did when he was forced to answer my questions, when he admitted his desire for me. He looks as though he´s confessing. page 104-105

Balance,” she answered, head tilting like a bird of prey. “To right terrible wrongs. To free Blunder from the Rowans.” Her yellow eyes narrowed, wicked and absolute. “To collect his due.

Coddly slammed a fist on the table. “No one will take you seriously if you do not act decisively.” There was a beat of silence after his voice stopped echoing around the room, and the entire table sat motionless. “Fine,” I responded calmly. “You’re fired.” Coddly laughed, looking at the other gentlemen at the table. “You can’t fire me, Your Highness.” I tilted my head, staring at him. “I assure you, I can. There’s no one here who outranks me at the moment, and you are easily replaceable.” Though she tried to be discreet, I saw Lady Brice purse her lips together, clearly determined not to laugh. Yes, I definitely had an ally in her. “You need to fight!” he insisted. “No,” I answered firmly. “A war would add unnecessary strain to an already stressful moment and would cause an upheaval between us and the country we are now bound to by marriage. We will not fight.” Coddly lowered his chin and squinted. “Don’t you think you’re being too emotional about this?” I stood, my chair screeching behind me as I moved. “I’m going to assume that you aren’t implying by that statement that I’m actually being too female about this. Because, yes, I am emotional.” I strode around the opposite side of the table, my eyes trained on Coddly. “My mother is in a bed with tubes down her throat, my twin is now on a different continent, and my father is holding himself together by a thread.” Stopping across from him, I continued. “I have two younger brothers to keep calm in the wake of all this, a country to run, and six boys downstairs waiting for me to offer one of them my hand.” Coddly swallowed, and I felt only the tiniest bit of guilt for the satisfaction it brought me. “So, yes, I am emotional right now. Anyone in my position with a soul would be. And you, sir, are an idiot. How dare you try to force my hand on something so monumental on the grounds of something so small? For all intents and purposes, I am queen, and you will not coerce me into anything.” I walked back to the head of the table. “Officer Leger?” “Yes, Your Highness?” “Is there anything on this agenda that can’t wait until tomorrow?” “No, Your Highness.” “Good. You’re all dismissed. And I suggest you all remember who’s in charge here before we meet again.

I replaced my lip with my thumb as my nervous chewing object. "I've taken over your workspace. Your hours. Your life." "You've taken over the very heart of me. Blah, blah. What do you want to do about it?" He tilted his head and drew his ribbon through his fingers. "No, I'll tell you what I want. I wa-" "I'm sorry!" "Do you hear me complaining, Crown? Do you actually know me to do anything I don't want to do?

Night was close. Black trees towered over the dimly lit horizon like cloaked guardians. The winds rocked their crown and their heads tilted, like a nod, begging him over. He wanted to join them. Desperately. He longed for a friend as precious and pure. With the next gust of wind, their bodies seemed to grow, arching over the slumbering town, watching like a curious visitor. There was nobody outside, but some homes were still lit. A tiny speck of brightness that broke the trees’ black figures with an orange hue forming near the roots. The winds jerked and pulled, and for a moment, it looked like their roots were a prison. And that even comfort, nourishment, life itself, was worth escaping.

I don't think you fully appreciate the dirty lengths the people around you will go to for you," he said evenly. "I don't want want anyone to do bad things for me." I gnawed at my lip. "But I'm trying to rely on others more." "That's a horrible plan, darling. You should only rely on yourself, and me." Tilting my head up, I gave him a look. "I don't want you to do bad things for me either." "I'll do horrible, terrible things in your name," he murmured, fingertips dragging along my skin. I sighed. "That doesn't work on me." "I know. More's the pity." He smiled and lifted a lock of my hair against his lips. It was the closest I'd ever felt Constantine experience contentment.

Vhalla Yarl, the Windwalker." Her name on the lips of a stranger made her uneasy, and Vhalla sat back onto her feet to assess him with equal interest. "I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't you." She laughed bitterly, remembering Elecia's first unappreciative assessment of her months ago. "Sorry to disappoint." The man tilted his head. "You show up as if you materialize from the wind itself, to save the life of the crown prince whom you jumped off the side of the Pass in an attempt to save. You're unassuming, you're filthy, and you're soaked in what I can only presume to be the blood of our enemies." A grin slowly spread across Jax's face, like that of a rabid beast. "Who said anything about being disappointed?

I had no idea my kisses were that powerful, even then.” “In another life. That was what you said.” I gave him a mock scowl. “And then you insisted on this one instead.” His huge palm cupped my cheek, tilting my face up. “In every life, wildcat. No matter what happens, you hold on to that. It’s you and me in every life.

He stared at me, unreadable for a moment. "I've had women try to save me before," he said idly. "Then that means I'll be yesterday's trash soon on that part of the equation, but we will still be friends." He smiled with a far truer lift of his cheeks. "Don't be foolish. I told you before. I'd never let you go." He touched my chin, tilting it up toward him. "I could remove the danger, you know. Lock you in a room—a tower—" "My hair isn't long enough," I said automatically. "But you would spin me gold. So many things better than gold. Truer." His gaze dropped to my lips. "I would keep you in the finest of materials, handcrafted with only you in mind. The finest paints, in a tower so high that you would have no cares.

showing Jamie when he was much younger, no more than a child, yet staring at the camera with that same stony face he still wore now. It was strange enough that Haru would have such a thing, and yet there was something else that drew her to it. Haru had adorned Jamie’s head with gold ink to give him a crown of antlers. Lottie picked up the photo with extra care, tilting it in the light to get a proper look, and, when she turned it over, the world stopped. Written on the back at the bottom in English were the words THE LITTLE PRINCE OF MARADOVA. ‘No.

Captain Bailey’s face went rigid as he stepped aside, revealing another bicorne-crowned officer just behind him. The gentleman joined their circle, probing Milly with his gaze. He was handsome, more so than the other two. The upward tilt of his chin, confident set to his shoulders, and seductive smile lifting one corner of his mouth sent a wave of disquiet through her middle. She’d met this sort before. The silver tassels on his epaulettes glimmered in the firelight and spoke of power, and she lowered her eyes, pointedly aware she didn’t belong here, surrounded by such important men, addressing them as if anything she said were worthy of their consideration. She sucked in a deliberate breath and drew back ever so slightly. Captain Bailey matched her move and slipped a hand to the back of her elbow. She suspected the touch was meant to be one of support. Instead, she felt trapped. “Miss Milly Wilkins, may I present Captain Jameson Collins?” Captain Bailey’s voice was clipped, and Milly feared he was beginning to see through the ruse. The sound of rattling chains stemmed from the shadows and her eyes darted toward it. Any minute these officers would realize she should be shackled as well. Could they see through the shadows of her hood to the pulse pounding in her neck?

Come inside." Shelby tilted her head just enough to rest it briefly on his shoulder as they walked to the door. "I'm relying on your word that I'll walk out again in one piece at the end of the weekend." He only grinned. "I told you my stand on playing the mediator." "Thanks a lot." She glanced up at the door, noting the heavy brass crest that served as a door knocker. The MacGregor lion stared coolly at her with its Gaelic motto over its crowned head. "Your father isn't one to hide his light under a bushel,is he?" "Let's just say he has a strong sense of family pride." Alan lifted the knocker, then let it fall heavily against the thick door. Shelby imagined the sound would vibrate into every nook and cranny in the house. "The Clan MacGregor," Alan began in a low rolling burr, "is one of the few permitted to use the crown in their crest.Good blood. Strong stock.

Then he took the teat closest to Sophia and gave it a twist. A fresh stream of milk shot forth, glancing off the rim of the bucket and splashing her slippers. “Take care!” With a little shriek of laughter, she pushed away from the goat’s side. Davy tilted his hand and squeezed the teat again, this time splattering Sophia from crown to chest. Sputtering and wiping milk from her face, she scrambled to her feet. “Davy Linnet,” she scolded, towering over both youth and goat. “You’re a rascal.” “Am I?” He flashed her a lopsided, innocent grin. Shrugging, he dropped his gaze and emptied the last drops of milk into the pail. “Well, you’re blushing.” Sophia made a show of huffing and crossing her arms, but she could not keep the laughter out of her voice. “Never say you’ve learned nothing from me, Davy. You might have shown me how to milk, but I’ve taught you to flirt.” “A fair bargain, then.” He stood and took the goat by its collar. “Perhaps. Mind you don’t confuse the two talents. Keep your goats straight from your girls.” “That’s easily done.” Mischief twinkled sharp in his eye. “The goat’s don’t blush.

She tilted alarmingly and almost fell, but she righted herself at the last moment and hopped several steps. “Darned cat!” “I have to say, I’ve never seen you fall before, but you’ve gotten precariously close in the past day or so.” Cinderella stopped pinwheeling her arms and could not help the rush of relief she felt when she saw Friedrich standing not three paces away, his arms folded across his chest. “Friedrich!” she cried, throwing herself at him. “I am so glad to see you—but we have to get out of here. The prince—” Cinderella cut herself short and stepped back when her eyes finally caught up with her mind, and she realized Friedrich was not wearing his usual uniform. Friedrich wore an outfit of black, and on his head was the copper crown with the ruby setting Prince Cristoph wore. “I’m going to sit down,” Cinderella announced before her legs gave out, and she sat down hard on the ground. “I

There was one door down this hall that she had to reach—one room where she’d be safe. She kept her hand on the stone wall, counting the doors she passed. So close. Her cloak caught on the handle of a door as she passed by and ripped away. But she made it to that door, to the room where she’d be safe. Her fingers didn’t quite feel the grain of the wood as she pushed against the door and swayed on the threshold. Bright light, a blur of wood and stone and paper … and through the haze, a face she knew, gaping at her from behind a desk. A choked noise came out of her throat, and she looked down at herself long enough to see the blood covering her white dress, her arms, her hands. In the blood, she could see Davis, and the open gash across his throat. “Chaol,” she moaned, seeking that familiar face again. But he was already running, smashing through his office. He bellowed her name as her knees buckled and she fell. She saw only the golden brown of his eyes and held on long enough to whisper, “Gloriella,” before everything tilted and went black.

Her chest ached, but this was the one last thing she had to do, the one last honor she could give her friend. Celaena tilted her head to the sky, closed her eyes, and began to sing.

I hate you,” I whisper before he can speak. He takes my chin in his fingers, tilting my face to his. “Say it again,” he says as the imps comb my hair and place the ugly, stinking crown on my head. His voice is low. The words are for me alone.

The curtains parted to reveal Aimée and the performance that followed proved to be even more exciting than the Kadine had hoped. The Kizlar Agasi was correct. Here was the little miracle that might save them... the next favorite and with some luck, the next Valide Sultana. The performance left the Circassian Kadine in a highly aroused state. She took several minutes to compose herself, touching her jewelry and her hair and smoothing the layers of gold silk that enveloped her body. When her breathing had returned to normal, she rose and approached Aimée, extending a trembling hand for her to kiss. “You are a pleasure to watch,” she whispered. Aimée knelt, completely naked, with her head bowed. “Thank you, my lady.” The Kadine lifted Aimée’s chin, tilting her face up to look at her. “How old are you, child?” “Nineteen, my lady.” The Kadine stroked Aimée’s cheek. “That is difficult to believe. You don’t look more than fifteen.” Aimée grinned broadly, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. “Thank you, my lady.” She likes me, and she is so beautiful. Oh, if only I were as beautiful. “You will join my retinue and reside close to my own quarters so that you may attend me personally.” Aimée loved the thought of being close to the Kadine, although she did not grasp the importance of the

I don’t ask for your heart, and I don’t want your hand.” She tilted her head to the side. “But I do want you to stay.

Valerian and Locke look strange; their clothing moth-eaten, their skin pallid, and only inky smudges where their eyes ought to be. Nicasia doesn't seem to notice. Her sea-coloured hair hangs down her back in heavy coils; her lips are twisted in to a mocking smiles, as though nothing in the world is wrong. Cardan wears a bloodstained crown, tilted at an angle, the sharp planes of his face as hauntingly beautiful as ever.

His arm folded around me. His face tilted, and when he spoke, I could feel his breath on my forehead. “Just want you to know, Oraya,” he murmured, “that you were the best part of it. The best part of all of it.” My chest clenched violently, so sudden and sharp it felt like the aftermath of a blow. The earnestness of what he’d just said cut me open. But worse still was how much it sounded like a goodbye. I said, voice tighter than I intended, “You accuse me of going soft when you’re spewing that sappy bullshit?

My eyes jutted open. When I looked to my side, a girl sat next to me in the sand. A child. Her hair was woven in two perfect plaits, as if a woman who loved her had taken time to braid them with care. But more than her hair, more than the tilting of her head, it was her eyes I noticed. Her brilliant, yellow eyes. “Who are you?” A grin cracked over her little mouth. “You know who I am. I’m your Tilly.” My name unraveled itself from my mouth like a long piece of string. “I’m Elspeth Spindle.” She giggled, and the sound carried up and down the beach. “Can we swing in the yew tree like you promised?

A flash of teeth. No. Why? I didn’t hear his answer. A loud fluttering sound blotted it out. All of our heads snapped up. “Arrows!” Jespyr shouted, pushing Ravyn off the path into the grass. Ravyn landed in a crouch, three arrows buried in the ground where he’d stood, each tipped by a small glass vial that shattered upon impact. A sweet-smelling smoke filled the air, shooting up the Nightmare’s nose and deep into his lungs. He coughed, a vicious snarl emptying out of his mouth. My vision blurred and then the world tilted. The Nightmare fell into the grass. I couldn’t see Ravyn and Jespyr anymore. But I did see the Ivy brothers. Petyr was in the grass, eyes rolling shut. Wik was next to him, unmoving— An arrow lodged in his skull. I screamed. This, my dear, the Nightmare hissed, is the sort of thing we might have seen coming, had Ravyn Yew not been poking about in our mind. The last things I saw before the Nightmare lost consciousness were two pairs of leather boots, stepping toward us through the grass. “Well, well,” came a voice from above. “Two more Destriers.

Horse in his hand. “This Card lends incredible strength. I might have snuck up on you and won—if you weren’t such an accomplished cheat and could see it by color.” “Magic against magic.” I pulled him to his feet. “What’s unfair about that?” We walked out of the wood together. When we reached my castle, he offered me back the Black Horse. “Thank you for another eventful training.” “Keep the Card,” I said. “There are more. And I will make others that offer different magic. As providence would have it, I have a knack for bartering with the Spirit of the Wood.” “And you’d give one of your precious Cards to a lowly guard?” “No. But I would to the Captain of my Guard.” His green eyes widened. My laugh sounded into the night. “Magic isn’t just for those to whom the Spirit lends her favor.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Besides, you’ll need something to your name if you’re going to continue batting your eyes at my sister.” He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Ayris told you about us, then?” he said, rubbing his jaw. “No. But I can read her well enough.” I tilted my head to the side, hawklike. “Perhaps one day I’ll make a Card to read your mind, too, Brutus Rowan.

Solomon was busy judging others, when it was his personal thoughts that were disrupting the community. His crown slid crooked on his head. He put it straight, but the crown went awry again. Eight times this happened. Finally he began to talk to his headpiece. “Why do you keep tilting over my eyes?” “I have to. When your power loses compassion, I have to show what such a condition looks like.” Immediately Solomon recognized the truth. He knelt and asked forgiveness. The crown centered itself on his crown. When something goes wrong, accuse yourself first. Even the wisdom of Plato or Solomon can wobble and go blind. Listen when your crown reminds you of what makes you cold toward others, as you pamper the greedy energy inside.

You look . . . so divine,” I said in a tight voice. “I see candy in your eyes and the crown jewels of England too.” “No—that’s what I am seeing in your eyes, Cathy. You’re so very beautiful in that white nightgown. I love you in white nightgowns with blue satin ribbons. I love the way your hair spreads like a fan, and you turn your cheek so it rests on a satin pillow.” He moved closer, so his head was on my hair too. Even closer he inclined his head until our foreheads met. His warm breath was on my face. I moved so my head tilted backward and my neck arched. I didn’t feel quite real when his warm lips kissed the hollow of my throat and stayed there. My breath caught. For long, long moments I waited for him to move away. I wanted to pull back myself, but somehow I couldn’t. A sweet peace stole over me, quivering my flesh with a tingling sensation. “Don’t kiss me again,” I whispered, clinging harder to him and pressing his head to my throat. “I love you,” he choked. “There will never be anyone for me but you. When I’m an old, old man, I’ll look back to this night with you under the Christmas tree, and remember how sweet it was of you to let me hold you like this.

We walked out of the wood together. When we reached my castle, he offered me back the Black Horse. “Thank you for another eventful training.” “Keep the Card,” I said. “There are more. And I will make others that offer different magic. As providence would have it, I have a knack for bartering with the Spirit of the Wood.” “And you’d give one of your precious Cards to a lowly guard?” “No. But I would to the Captain of my Guard.” His green eyes widened. My laugh sounded into the night. “Magic isn’t just for those to whom the Spirit lends her favor.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Besides, you’ll need something to your name if you’re going to continue batting your eyes at my sister.” He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Ayris told you about us, then?” he said, rubbing his jaw. “No. But I can read her well enough.” I tilted my head to the side, hawklike. “Perhaps one day I’ll make a Card to read your mind, too, Brutus Rowan.

I lifted our intertwined hands, tilted so his thumb was facing me, and before I knew what I was doing, lowered my mouth to it.

What does the Shepherd King want?” he asked the girl-spirit. “What is he after?” “Balance,” she answered, head tilting like a bird of prey. “To right terrible wrongs. To free Blunder from the Rowans.” Her yellow eyes narrowed, wicked and absolute. “To collect his due.

I hate you,” I whisper before he can speak. He tilts my face to his. “Say it again,” he says as the imps comb my hair and place the ugly, stinking crown on my head. His voice is low. The words are for me alone.

So you’re stubborn, then? Have a bit of a temper?” I saw Maxon covering his mouth with his hands, laughing. “Sometimes.” “If you have a temper, would you happen to be the one who yelled at our prince?” I sighed. “Yes, it was me. And right now, my mother is having a heart attack.” Maxon called out to Gavril, “Get her to tell the whole story!” Gavril whipped his head back and forth quickly. “Oh! What’s the whole story?” I tried to glare at Maxon, but the whole situation was so silly, it didn’t quite work. “I got a little . . . claustrophobic the first night, and I was desperate to get outside. The guards wouldn’t let me through the doors. I was actually about to faint in this one guard’s arms, but Prince Maxon was walking by and made them open the doors for me.” “Aw,” Gavril said, tilting his head to one side. “Yes, and then he followed to make sure I was all right.... But I was stressed out, so when he spoke to me, I basically ended up accusing him of being stuck-up and shallow.” Gavril chuckled deeply at this. I looked past him to Maxon, who was shaking with laughter. But the more embarrassing thing was that the king and queen were laughing along with him. I didn’t turn to look at the girls, but I heard some of them giggling, too. Well, good. Maybe now they would finally stop seeing me as any sort of threat. I was just someone Maxon found entertaining. “And he forgave you?” Gavril asked in a slightly more sober tone. “Oddly enough.” I shrugged. “Well, since the two of you are on good terms again, what sort of activities have you been doing together?” Gavril was back to business. “We usually just go for walks around the garden. He knows I like it outside. And we talk.” It sounded pathetic after what some of the other girls had said. Trips to the theater, going hunting, horseback riding—those were impressive next to my story. But I suddenly understood why he had been speed dating over the last week. The girls needed something to tell Gavril, so he had to provide it. It still seemed weird that he hadn’t mentioned any of it to me, but at least I knew why he had been away. “That sounds very relaxing. Would you say the garden is your favorite thing about the palace?” I smiled. “Maybe. But the food is exquisite, so. . .” Gavril laughed again.

Sheikh Zayed al Nahyan, who had ruled Abu Dhabi beginning in 1966 and was the founder of the United Arab Emirates in 1971, would warn that the emirate could not always depend on oil. With that in mind, he had established ADIA—the Abu Dhabi Investment Authority—considered today the second largest sovereign wealth fund in the world, with assets publicly estimated at over $800 billion. His son, Mohammed bin Zayed, became crown prince in 2004. He catalyzed the drive to broaden the economy. “In 50 years, when we might have the last barrel of oil,” he said, “when it is shipped abroad, will we be sad? If we are investing today in the right sectors, I can tell you we will celebrate.” One initiative was Mubadala, a second sovereign wealth fund, with about $230 billion under management, which tilts toward building and investing in companies both in Abu Dhabi and internationally.

Cardan steps close to me, his gaze devouring. I am not sure I can bear his cutting me down again. Luckily, he seems at a loss for words. 'I hate you,' I whisper before he can speak. He tilts my face to him. 'Say it again,' he says as the imps comb my hair and place the ugly stinking crown on my head. HIs voice is low. The words are for me alone. I pull out of his grip, but not before I see his expression. He looks as he did when he was forced to answer my questions, when he admitted his desire for me. He looks as though he's confessing.

I should be dead. But I’m not human, am I?” She swiped a tear of frustration off her face. “Whatever I am makes me stronger, faster, and scary as hell when fighting. I changed, scaled the top of a moving truck, and fought a guy shooting a gun at me.” She ran her hand across her face to wipe away the tears. “I’m a mess. The mud in that ravine got in all the cracks, even my underwear. But the injuries are already almost gone, and somehow, I know all this will heal. Based on you being all pissy, I assume your meeting didn’t go well.” “It took an unanticipated turn.” His tone was odd as he continued to stare at her. “What exactly do you do that involves secrecy and the Crown?” “I can’t tell you.” Something about how he looked at her was different. Her skin tingled like it had before she’d shifted. Survival instinct flared. “Did they order you to…kill me?” It came out of her on a fatigued exhale. Her shoulders drooped. His face remained remote as if trying to wall off emotion. He neither confirmed nor denied, which might as well have been a screaming affirmative. She dropped her chin. He said nothing, so she looked up. He stared intently at her, making her almost shrink in place under the gaze of those thunderous eyes. “Is this when you tell me to leave again?” she asked. “Would you go?” “If they ordered you to kill me, wouldn’t you be forced to come after me? To hunt me down? So, what’s the point in me running unless you like the hunt?” He pushed his hand through his dark hair and stepped away from her. Frustration oozed from him. Seeing him start to lose some of his composure made him less threatening. He wasn’t the robot assassin. She wanted to run her fingers through his thick hair and down his scruff-roughened chiseled jawline to soothe him. Would her touch, if done in comfort, affect him the way she suspected his touch would destroy her? From the way he simply stared at her, she guessed yes. The silence was killing her. “What’s going on here?” “No idea.” He muttered something under his breath that she couldn’t make out. He stepped toward her and slid a finger under her chin to tilt her face upward. Their eyes met and held. “I’m sorry someone hurt you. That you had to fight for your life and went through a windshield.” In a whisper, he added, “I should’ve been there.” The grit in his voice, the despair, as if he’d let her down, packed one hell of a punch. What was she supposed to do with that? Oh dear…God. His hold on her face, how his thumb gently stroked over the skin on her jaw… How he moved in so she could feel the hard surfaces of his body, the concrete chest and abs… All of it swirled together, turning her mind to mush, which was bad when she needed to remain alert. Death… her death was on the line. But she was about to make a very bad decision to let him do whatever the hell he wanted after that declaration. “I made a promise to erase Dom’s kiss. To make you forget. I never go back on my promises.” Like his promise to help her get answers? He didn’t lower his head, but stood there, hesitant. “You’re too hurt right now.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She slid her good hand up his shoulders and neck. His muscles twitched under her touch, and his chest rose and fell more rapidly. Feeling how much just her hand on him affected him encouraged her to continue. Cradling the back of his head, she pressed her body into his. As she pulled him toward her mouth, his incredible size and power registered but didn’t intimidate. Didn’t scare her. Her mouth touched his. Warmth on warmth. Once… Twice… Three times. His lips were a lot softer than they appeared. The roughness of his facial scruff scratched her skin.

It’s the quiet ones like you who are the most dangerous and cunning.” “Me?” Elizabeth asked in disbelief. “I’m not the least bit quiet.” “Perhaps not, but you do choose your words carefully.” “Well, yes,” she said with an unconscious tilt of her head. “I’m clumsy enough in body without tossing my mouth into the mixture.

What impresses me is his height. I’ve never seen a man who made me feel small. Even in my heels, Sebastian towers over me. I have to tilt up my chin to look in his face.

Nennius tells us, what Gildas omits, the name of the British soldier who won the crowning mercy of Mount Badon, and that name takes us out of the mist of dimly remembered history into the daylight of romance. There looms, large, uncertain, dim but glittering, the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Somewhere in the Island a great captain gathered the forces of Roman Britain and fought the barbarian invaders to the death. Around him, around his name and his deeds, shine all that romance and poetry can bestow. Twelve battles, all located in scenes untraceable, with foes unknown, except that they were heathen, are punctiliously set forth in the Latin of Nennius. Other authorities say, “No Arthur; at least, no proof of any Arthur.” It was only when Geoffrey of Monmouth six hundred years later was praising the splendours of feudalism and martial aristocracy that chivalry, honour, the Christian faith, knights in steel and ladies bewitching, are enshrined in a glorious circle lit by victory. Later these tales would be retold and embellished by the genius of Mallory, Spenser, and Tennyson. True or false, they have gained an immortal hold upon the thoughts of men. It is difficult to believe it was all an invention of a Welsh writer. If it was he must have been a marvellous inventor. Modern research has not accepted the annihilation of Arthur. Timidly but resolutely the latest and best-informed writers unite to proclaim his reality. They cannot tell when in this dark period he lived, or where he held sway and fought his battles. They are ready to believe however that there was a great British warrior, who kept the light of civilisation burning against all the storms that beat, and that behind his sword there sheltered a faithful following of which the memory did not fail. All four groups of the Celtic tribes which dwelt in the tilted uplands of Britain cheered themselves with the Arthurian legend, and each claimed their own region as the scene of his exploits. From Cornwall to Cumberland a search for Arthur’s realm or sphere has been pursued.The reserve of modern assertions is sometimes pushed to extremes, in which the fear of being contradicted leads the writer to strip himself of almost all sense and meaning. One specimen of this method will suffice: "It is reasonably certain that a petty chieftain named Arthur did exist, probably in South Wales. It is possible that he may have held some military command uniting the tribal forces of the Celtic or highland zone or part of it against raiders and invaders (not all of them necessarily Teutonic). It is also possible that he may have engaged in all or some of the battles attributed to him; on the other hand, this attribution may belong to a later date." This is not much to show after so much toil and learning. Nonetheless, to have established a basis of fact for the story of Arthur is a service which should be respected. In this account we prefer to believe that the story with which Geoffrey delighted the fiction-loving Europe of the twelfth century is not all fancy. If we could see exactly what happened we should find ourselves in the presence of a theme as well founded, as inspired, and as inalienable from the inheritance of mankind as the Odyssey or the Old Testament. It is all true, or it ought to be; and more and better besides. And wherever men are fighting against barbarism, tyranny, and massacre, for freedom, law, and honour, let them remember that the fame of their deeds, even though they themselves be exterminated, may perhaps be celebrated as long as the world rolls round. Let us then declare that King Arthur and his noble knights, guarding the Sacred Flame of Christianity and the theme of a world order, sustained by valour, physical strength, and good horses and armour, slaughtered innumerable hosts of foul barbarians and set decent folk an example for all time.

All he saw of the house, as Taropat carried him through its dim-lit rooms, were picture fragments: a high-backed chair: a tilted painting of a frowning face: the gleam of a crystal ball on a cluttered table; a tattered cloth hung from the ceiling; cracked pain on the walls beside the stairs.

Sheridan’s eyes fell to the watery gateway as he begrudgingly donned the novel wetsuit and pulled on the crown of arc lamps. Following Kunchen’s lead, he cinched it tightly around his waist, feet, and neck. And all the while his eyes returned to the teeming portal. Kunchen took notice. “This whirlpool is like the mighty river of life.” Kunchen said. Sheridan watched as Kunchen dipped his right hand into a shallow pool of ice-crusted water, scooping up the pristine liquid in his cupped fingers. He submitted the handful of water to Sheridan. With the gentle tilt of his right hand he poured it out, watching it trickle into his left hand. With unerring kindness in his eyes, Kunchen became the teacher and Sheridan the pupil: “Observe the water. It is soft, easily bending and transforming to its circumstance.” He poured the water from his left hand. It fell into the writhing water and disappeared in an instant. “But when it joins with the force of the whirlpool it becomes powerful and unstoppable. You must be flexible like the water, feeling the flow of life, tapping into its current. This is the only way.

Why? I have everything I need right here." I look down at the crown of her golden head and see the darkness of her roots. I breathe in the full scent of her. If it ends tomorrow or in eighty years, I could breathe her the rest of my life. But I want more. I need more. I tilt her slender jaw up with my hand so that she's looking at me. I was going to say something important. Something memorable. But I've forgorten it in her eyes. That gulf that divided us is still there, filled with questions and recrimination and guilt, but that's only part of love, part of being human. Everything is cracked, everything is stained except the fragile moments that hang crystalline in time and make life worth living.

I watched Raihn, a knot of disgust in my stomach. I’d never seen him drink live prey before—let alone from a human. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him do this. He’d tricked me many times before. He was a vampire, after all. And yet, a little silent sigh of relief passed over me when I saw the shift in his face when he looked into her eyes. I wondered if I was the only one who saw it—the brief trade of the bloodthirsty hunger for silent compassion, intended only for her. He tilted her head back, lowered his face, and sank his teeth into her throat.

His lips brush mine, and then I'm the one surging forward, meeting his mouth. Or maybe we move together. All I know is that we're kissing as if it's sweetly painful, like we've waited so long it's almost too much to bear. And it's so good. So very good, the feel of his mouth flowing over mine, learning the shape of me as I learn the shape of him. He makes a noise deep in his throat, a protracted groan, a needy request for more. Liquid heat pours over me, my mouth opening to his. He tilts his head, his tongue sliding in for the first taste, and I slowly break apart beneath him, my mind going hazy, my body on fire. God, I need more. I need everything. There's no more hesitation. No more careful touches of tongue to tongue, lips softly questing. Just base hunger. Macon kisses me as if he's parched, his jaw wide, tongue thrusting deep, so deep. I arch against him, held down by his chest, his fingers grasping my hair. That small bite of pain drives me frantic, kicks my lust up. We become hot breaths, nips, licks, small wordless sounds. He's surging against me, hard cock moving over my sex, grinding into the tender swell of my clit. And I wrap my leg around his hips, wanting more. The action shifts our positions, and the thick crown of his cock notches against my opening. It feels so damn good I moan into his mouth, my hips pushing up on him. He shudders, suckling the plump crest of my bottom lip, and rocks into me--- only the barrier of his sweats and my bikini keeping him from entering. But it's enough. Enough that I feel that fat head pushing and nudging there but leaving me unfilled, empty. My muscles clench sweetly, wanting relief, needing more. I slide the flat of my tongue against his, whimpering, undulating against him. He groans long and pained, his whole body moving with his stunted thrusts. We're going at it like sweaty teens, dry fucking each other in the sand. And I don't care. I want his clothes off. I want mine gone.