“Yeah, you're fucked up, baby." He smiled a little and kissed Fen again. "'S part of what I love about you.”
― Carole Cummings, quote from Incendiary
“There was probably something very wrong with the fact that an exchange of death threats made Malick all warm and fuzzy, but there it was.”
― Carole Cummings, quote from Incendiary
“Focus, Fen. You've been using pain for it all your bloody life. How badly do you want him dead?”
― Carole Cummings, quote from Incendiary
“I think that's the most terrifying thing about being... loved--that you can hurt someone so badly just by being what you are.”
― Carole Cummings, quote from Incendiary
“Ah, Joori--couldn't live with him, couldn't chop him up for stew.”
― Carole Cummings, quote from Incendiary
“She didn't. I hadn't seen or spoken to Hailey since I left Silence."
He frowned. "Then she made that stuff up?"
Nell sipped her coffee, then smiled. "She always made stuff up, Max. Didn't you know?"
"You're saying she was a liar?"
"Sweet, friendly Hailey. So charming, so good-tempered. And she had a way about her, didn't she? A
way of… getting people behind her. A way of making people believe her. Not exactly my strong suit,
huh?”
― Kay Hooper, quote from Whisper of Evil
“I understand you love him and UR down/ But that don't mean you gotta be his clown.”
― Meg Cabot, quote from Party Princess
“I could see no reason for being sad. It´s just that it makes me unhappy not to feel happy.”
― Simone de Beauvoir, quote from The Mandarins
“That question became even more salient to me as I began my clinical work with troubled children. I soon found that the vast majority of my patients had lives filled with chaos, neglect and/or violence. Clearly, these children weren’t “bouncing back”—otherwise they wouldn’t have been taken to a child psychiatry clinic! They’d suffered trauma—such as being raped or witnessing murder—that would have had most psychiatrists considering the diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), had they been adults with psychiatric problems. And yet these children were being treated as though their histories of trauma were irrelevant, and they’d “coincidentally” developed symptoms, such as depression or attention problems, that often required medication.”
― Bruce D. Perry, quote from The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog: And Other Stories from a Child Psychiatrist's Notebook
“We may have to mask your scent.” He looked at her soberly. “Did Olivia tell you anything about scent marking?” “Scent marking?” Sophie wracked her brain, trying to remember. It seemed vaguely familiar though she couldn’t remember exactly what it involved. Still, how bad could it be? “Oh, uh, sure. Scent marking.” She nodded. “Good. Because in the last extremity, if I hear the sniffers around this cabin, I may have to scent mark you—to mask your scent with my own.” “Can you do that? I mean, is your scent that much stronger than mine, especially when they’re focused on me?” Sylvan looked down at his hands. “Normally it isn’t but right now…ever since the trip we took in the transport tube…” Sophie thought of the warm, spicy scent that seemed to go to her head, the way it made her react to him… “It’s your mating scent, isn’t it?” she asked in a low voice, not daring to look at him. “Yes.” He sounded ashamed. “But why…” She risked a sidelong glance at him. “Why is it coming out now? I, uh, thought it only happened during the claiming period. But you’re not, um, claiming me or anything. I mean, we’re not… you know.” “I know.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand what’s going on either. We haven’t even been dream sharing. Well, that is, I mean…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve had a few dreams of you. But nothing out of the ordinary.” He glanced at her. “Have you…had any strange dreams?” “No.” Sophie shook her head and a look of mingled disappointment and relief passed over his stern features. “I have been, uh, having problems with my art, though,” she admitted in a low voice. “Problems with your art?” He frowned. “What do you mean?” “I paint,” Sophie explained. “You know—with a paintbrush and easel?” She made a painting motion in the air and his eyes widened. “That was what I dreamed. That you were painting a picture of…of me.” Sophie nearly choked. “But I have been! You’re all I’ve been able to paint lately. Even when I try not to, you always sneak in there. It’s so annoying.” Then she realized what she’d said. “Uh, I mean—” “It doesn’t matter.” Sylvan cut her off, shaking his head. “So we have been dream sharing, in a way.” Sophie felt herself go cold all over. “Does…does that mean you’re going to try to…to claim me? The way Baird claimed Liv?” Oh my God, if he does, if he claims me, then he’ll want to bite me! That’s the way his people do it. She had horror-movie visions of being held down under his muscular bulk, held down and pierced multiple times and in multiple ways. God, his teeth in my throat at the same time he’s inside me, filling me, holding me down and biting and thrusting. He’s so big, so strong—I’d never be able to get away. The horror she felt must have showed on her face, because Sylvan’s voice was rough when he spoke. “Don’t worry, Sophia. Even if I wanted to claim you, I couldn’t.” “Oh right.” She felt a small measure of relief. “Your vow.” “My vow,” he agreed. “Sylvan,”
― Evangeline Anderson, quote from Hunted
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