I can, and am. ‘Tis a dying man’s last request,” he said roughly. “I want you to remember me as a man, lass, as your man. Not as a prisoner of Dark Magycks. I doona want you to watch me die. Promise me you won’t, Jessica. Promise me and mean it.
I wanted to watch her save the world, and feel on top of it.
You tried to barter with the devil himself for me, you crazy woman. Bloody hell, doona you ever risk your life for mine. Ever! Do you hear me?
Fear of the power you believe someone or something has over you is nothing but a jail cell you choose to walk into.
Och, lass, doona you know? Your heart is my home.
Lust is absurd. It strikes in the strangest places at the oddest times. She doesn’t even realize she’s feeling it. She’s erected a barricade of propriety and lies between us. I despise the type of woman she is. I loathe her soft pink innocence. My body doesn’t concur. I wonder why her?
I am the law.” “Apparently. Heil.” I click my heels together and salute.
He, who had once been whole, was halved, without hope of ever being complete again. And when you’ve known that kind of love, to endure the creeping passage of time without it is to live a half-life where nothing ever feels real.
If you don’t do things with all your might, you may end up being harmed by those things you try halfway.
Oh, the cockiness of youth. How I missed mine.
Bold. Ruthless. Energy. Action. Tenacity. Hunger. That was what B-R-E-A-T-H was.
Using some of your own time to make someone else’s life better is, like, the nicest thing you can do for anybody. I almost can’t stand it, it makes me so happy.
Occam’s razor: The simplest explanation that accommodates all variables is most likely the truth.
The man was a walking dichotomy. Those powerful neck-snapping, knife-throwing hands that did murder without pause were equally capable of tenderness and delicacy.
I hoped to make you laugh,” he said softly. “I’ve not seen much in the way of happiness in your eyes since we’ve crossed paths.
There is a monster inside me. And she’s beautiful.
The worst part about losing someone you love – besides the agony of never getting to see them again – are the things you never said. The unsaid stalks you, mocks you for thinking you had all the time in the world. None of us do.
Who and what are you?” “You called my name when you released me the first time,” he said impatiently. “ ‘Tis Cian MacKeltar. As for the what of me, I’m but a man.
Why do they always ask for words? Why do they ever believe them?
They changed me. Before the rape, I was good, genuinely never had a mean thought. If I hurt someone, it was by accident and I felt bad about it. But when they were done with me, there was something new inside me: something ruthless and feral and beyond law that hungered to be the one perpetrating the savagery, because when you are the savage, no one messes with you. I’d wanted to be bad. It’s safer to be bad.