Ve Schwab Vengeful Quotes

Perhaps she was glass. But glass is only brittle until it breaks. Then it’s sharp.

Maybe we are broken. But we put ourselves back together. We survived. That’s what makes us so powerful. And as for family—well, blood is always family, but family doesn’t always have to be blood.

How many men would she have to turn to dust before one took her seriously?

Victor stared at the wall as if it were still a window. “He doesn’t know how patient you are,” he said. “Doesn’t know you like I do.” Eli cleaned the blood from his hand. “No,” he said softly. “No one ever has.

I don't want to survive. I want to thrive.

Ask nice. Play nice. Marcella was so fucking tired of nice.

Some people were matches, a bit of light and no heat. And some were furnaces, all heat but little light. And then, once in a blue moon, there was a bonfire, something so hot and bright you couldn't stand too near without burning.

Every end is a new beginning.

Ignorance is only bliss if you want to get caught.

Men look at anyone with power and see only a threat, an obstacle in their path. They never have the sense to see power for what it really is. Potential.

A promise you can’t keep is just another lie

ONCE upon a time, when the marks on his back were still fresh, Eli told himself that he was growing wings. After all, his mother thought Eli was an angel, even if his father said he had the devil in him.

You look like Snow White killed the queen and stole the mirror.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a human versus a human or a human versus an EO or an EO versus an EO. You do what you can. You fight, and you win, until you don’t.

Knowledge may be power, but money buys both.

The next time you point a gun at someone, make sure you’re ready to pull the trigger.

Marcella sighed. “Men are always so impatient. Perhaps it comes from a lifetime of being given what you want, when you want it. Sometimes, Joseph, you just have to wait.

Eli dragged his gaze away from the photo. “What are you going to do about him?” “I’m going to find him. You two can each have a cell to rot in.” “Oh, great,” said Eli dryly. “We can be neighbors.

I wanted us to do this, together. I'm not a fucking coat, Marcus. You don't get to check me at the door.

Every end may be a new beginning, but every beginning had to end

She shook her head, baffled and amused. “Jesus, Marcella, anyone ever told you that you’re batshit crazy?” Marcella pursed her lips. “Several times,” she said. “It’s an insult men love to aim at ambitious women.

When you think about it, it’s really all anyone ever wants. Once upon a time, power was determined by lineage—the age of blood. Then it was determined by money—the age of gold. But I think it’s time for a new age, Victor. The age of power itself.

Eli had made a mistake. He wasn't prone to making mistakes, except where Victor Vale was concerned. Victor had always possessed the unnerving ability to get under Eli's skin, interrupt his focus.

Men.

Better to be friendly, without being friends.

The life I had is gone. There’s no getting it back. I’d rather make a new one. A better one. One where I don’t have to pretend to be weak to survive.

Turned toward Eli like a face toward a mirror. Like to like. It frightened and thrilled Eli, to be seen, and to see himself reflected. Not all of himself—they were still so different—but there was something vital, a core of the same precious metal glinting through the rock.

It was just so easy. As if everything had wanted to come apart. There was probably some law about that. Order giving way to chaos.

Every object had a shatter point, a limitation to its tensile strength. Apply enough force, and it would break.

It was like a magnet, constantly drawing his eye, but Victor forced himself not to stop and look at it. Not to think about what it meant, that Eli Cardale was really, truly dead. The way the knowledge knocked Victor off-balance. A counterweight finally removed. An opposite but equal force erased.

She was done playing by other people's rules. Done hiding. If you lived in the dark, you died in the dark. But stand in the light, and it was that much harder to make you disappear.

She was nursing a beer in a glass bottle, and she was bored—bored by the music, and the boys who swaggered over every now and then to flirt, and then stormed away, sulking, when she turned them down. She was bored by being called beautiful, and then a bitch. Stunning, and then stuck up. A ten, and then a tease.

With all due respect—” “That saying usually precedes a no,

One body doesn't draw much notice. The trouble is when they start adding up.

In Dom’s head, Victor went around acting like the world was one big game of chess. Tapping people and saying, “You’re a pawn, you’re a knight, you’re a rook.

Catch me if you can.

Pain, Victor had learned, turned people into animals.

He doesn’t know how patient you are,” he said. “Doesn’t know you like I do.” Eli cleaned the blood from his hand. “No,” he said softly. “No one ever has.

A relationship, Eli had learned, was a universal shorthand for normal. A societal stamp of approval.

Was it madness, to believe? Or arrogance, to not?

Marcella hated small talk, but that was because so often it felt like a chore. Just noise, empty words meant to fill empty space.

Lying was a skill made easy by habit.

How quickly we devolve. People become animals the moment they are caged.

They say people grow on you, and maybe that was true, because every time Marcella saw Tony, she felt the need to scrub him off her skin.

While seeking revenge, dig two graves—one for yourself.

I saw became I think I saw became I couldn’t have seen became I didn’t see. Eyes were fickle. Minds were weak.

Think hard, Sydney. We all have to live with our choices.

Small talk was an art form, one of those things that made people’s eyes gloss over. Go silent, and they might start wondering why. But keep them talking about nothing at all, and they wouldn’t even blink.

I’m not a fucking coat, Marcus. You don’t get to check me at the door.

What is it with men and places like this? I swear, you always pick the most morose places to gather.

And by the time I’m thirty,” she’d said, “everyone I know will be dead. Except for Eli.

Since you have a knack for finding people—” “I have a knack for killing people,” corrected June. “Finding them is simply a prerequisite.

Gods [were] crucified before they were worshipped.

So much spoken, so little said

You can live in the heavens. I’ll take the earthly sphere.

Careful is a calculated risk,” he said. “And I’m very good at making those.

War needed both kinds of people—those who played the long game and those who played the short one.

You’re think you’re better than me?” a drunken senior had slurred at her earlier. Marcella had looked at him straight on, his eyes bleary, hers sharp, and said simply, “Yes.

Some people were matches, a bit of light and no heat. And others were furnaces, all heat but little light. And then, once in a blue moon, there was a bonfire, something so hot and bright you couldn't stand too near without burning. Marcella was a bonfire if ever June saw one. Of course, even bonfires eventually went out, smothered by their own ashes.

She had long ago learned to compartmentalize her feelings, shove the inconvenient and the unbecoming into the back of her mind like an old dress in a dark closet.

Maybe we are broken. But we put ourselves back together. We survived. That’s what makes us so powerful.

People have an idea of pain," he said. "They think they know what it is, how it feels, but that's just an idea. It's a very different thing when it becomes concrete.

Whatever's happened to you, however you're hurt, you've done it to yourself.

Go to parties!” said Maggie. “Drink cheap beer! Make bad choices! Date pretty girls!” He leaned back in his chair. “Do pretty girls count as bad choices, or are those two separate things?

Some women spent years planning their wedding. Marcella had spent the last decade planning a hostile takeover.

She checked the time—seven, now—but resisted the urge to call. The fastest way to kill a flame was to smother it.

He ran track and field. He aced all his classes. He had a winning smile and an easy laugh, and nobody knew about the scars on his back or the shadows in his past. Nobody knew that it was all an act, that none of it came naturally.

Lost. That was a strange word. Lost suggested something misplaced, something that might be recovered. He hadn’t lost his mother. After all, he’d been the one to find her. Lying in the tub. Floating in a white dress stained pink by the water, palms up as if in supplication, her forearms open from elbow to wrist. No, he hadn’t lost her. She’d left him.

She was bored by being called beautiful, and then a bitch. Stunning, and then stuck up. A ten, and then a tease.

June was back again,

This is, of course, only an suggestion.

Every end may be a new beginning, but every beginning had to end.

Some people were matches, a bit of light and no heat. And some were furnaces, all heat but little light. And then, once in a blue moon, there was a bonfire, something so hot and bright you couldn’t stand too near without burning.

Marcella had always been pretty. The kind of pretty people couldn't ignore. Bright blue eyes and pitch-black hair, a heart-shaped face atop the lean, clean lines of a model. Her father told her she's never have to work. her mother said she'd have to work twice as hard. In a way, both of them were right.

It just didn’t make sense, that she was dead, that he was not—Claire didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve this, to become a past tense, a footnote in someone else’s story—and Jonathan had the strange but unshakable idea that he hadn’t made it either. That he was a ghost, anchored to the place where it all happened, bound there until some grim business was done.

Officially an adult, even if she didn’t look it. She considered the boots. The blue hair.

Those who don’t believe in the soul have never seen one leave.

SOME women spent years planning their wedding. Marcella had spent the last decade planning a hostile takeover.

Normal was such a fragile thing, so easily upset by even good intentions.

او باید چند نفر را به خاکستر تبدیل می کرد تا یکی از آن ها او را جدی بگیرد؟

Victor knew he was playing a dangerous game. The odds were terrible, the stakes monumental. It was Russian roulette, except that a bullet would be a cleaner end.

EVERYONE was shitfaced.

That’s no way to talk to a lady,

They never seem to realize. We’re the power behind the throne.

But it’s up to us to find the purpose in the pain.” The purpose in the pain.

That was the thing, it was amazing what you could get used to, how quickly the strange became mundane, the extraordinary normal.

People can see an awful lot, and believe none of it.

Once upon a time, power was determined by lineage—the age of blood. Then it was determined by money—the age of gold. But I think it’s time for a new age, Victor. The age of power itself.

the polished sheen of white-gold silk. It molded to her body like liquid metal, rising up around her throat and plunging down between her shoulder blades, pooling in the small of her back.

Dollface. Baby. Darling. Was that how he really thought of her, after all this time? As helpless, brittle, weak, something ornamental, a glass figurine designed to shimmer and shine and look pretty on a shelf?

The thing about mistakes was that they weren't always big, or obvious. Sometimes they were very simple. Small. The decision to keep walking. Turn to left instead of right. Those few extra steps in the wrong direction.

If you were planning to rob me, you could have at least brought a gun." "Oh, I did," said Victor, holding out his hand. Slowly, as if performing a trick, he curled three of his fingers in, leaving his thumb up and his index extended. "See?" he said, pointing the finger at Jones. Jones no longer seemed amused. "You some kind of-?" "Bang." There was no gunshot--no earsplitting echo or spent cartridge or smoke--but Jones let out a guttural scream and fell to the floor as if hit.

Make me the villain of that night, Mitch. Wash your hands of any blame. But don’t act like Serena Clarke was merely a victim or even a casualty of circumstance. She was an enemy, a weapon, and killing her wasn’t just smart, or easy—it was right.

Sometimes it feels like I'm in a fight, and all I've got are my hands, and the other guy has a knife. But that guy with the knife, eventually he's going to face someone with a gun. And the one with the gun is going to go up against someone with a bomb. The truth is, Syd, there will always be somebody stronger than you. That's just the way life works.' He looked up at the shining skyscraper. 'It doesn't matter if you're a human versus a human or a human versus an EO or and EO versus an EO. You do what you can. You fight, and you win, until you don't.

Act normal, the Russo girl had said. And so Eli tried again. Started fresh. It wasn’t a perfect imitation, not by far. But it was an improvement. The children at this new house still called him names, but the names had changed. Timid, quiet, weirdo had been replaced by strange, curious, intense. Soon came another family, and another chance. Another opportunity to reinvent, to modify, to adjust aspects of that act. Eli tested his theater on the families as if they were an audience, and used their feedback, the immediate, constant feedback, to tweak his performance. Slowly strange, curious, intense had been refined, honed into charming, focused, clever.

I'll meet you at midnight." "Do you promise?" Victor held her gaze. "I promise." Sydney knew he was lying. She always knew when he was lying.

Marcella considered him. "Are you used to getting what you want?" The edge of a smile. "I have a feeling we both are." He returned her long look. "Marcella the Business Major. What do you want to be?" Marcella twirled her beer. "In charge." Marcus laughed. A soft, breathy sound. "You think I'm joking?" "No," he said. "I don't.

I want to know," she said, voice catching. "I need to know." "Why?" "Because it's my fault. Because I did this to you." Victor started to shake his head, but she cut him off. "Tell me. Tell me the truth. You've been lying for all this time, the least you can do is tell me how it feels." "It feels like dying.

Ah, Marce, you've always known how to rile me up." "Let me go," she hissed. Marcus brought his face close to hers, ran a hand through her hair, cupped her cheek. "Only if you play nice." He was smiling. Smiling. As if this were just another game. Marcella spit her blood into his face. Her husband let out a long-suffering sigh. And then he slammed her head against the table.