Simon didn’t think Meg really wanted to know how to eviscerate a rabbit. He could be wrong about that, but he just couldn’t picture Meg pouncing on a bunny and ripping it open with her teeth.
Maybe if he tried harder to picture it?
Tags: funny
How does a large slice of fresh bread soaked in beef broth sound?" About as edible as the table leg. "Do I have any choices?" "No."
"Sounds wonderful.
Nothing wrong with the way your mother looks. First thing in the morning, last thing at night, and every hour in between, she looks just fine.
Anne BishopSeven hundred years ago, Tersa had told [Daemon] the living myth was coming. Seven hundred years of waiting, watching, searching, hoping. Seven hundred heartbreaking, exhausting years. He refused to give up, refused to wonder if she’d been mistaken, refused because his heart yearned too much for that strange, wonderful, terrifying creature called Witch.
In his soul, he knew her. In his dreams, he saw her. He never envisioned a face. It always blurred if he tried to focus on it. But he could see her dressed in a robe made of dark, transparent spidersilk, a robe that slid from her shoulders as she moved, a robe that opened and closed as she walked, revealing bare, night-cool skin. And there would be a scent in the room that was her, a scent he would wake to, burying his face in her pillow after she was up and attending her own concerns.
It wasn’t lust—the body’s fire paled in comparison to the embrace of mind to mind—although physical pleasure was part of it. He wanted to touch her, feel the texture of her skin, taste the warmth of her. He wanted to caress her until they both burned. He wanted to weave his life into hers until there was no telling where one began and the other ended. He wanted to put his arms around her, strong and protecting, and find himself protected; possess her and be possessed; dominate her and be dominated. He wanted that Other, that shadow across his life, who made him ache with every breath while he stumbled among these feeble women who meant nothing to him and never could.
Simply, he believed that he had been born to be her lover.
Too much power. Too much. Even the Blood weren’t meant to wield this much power. Even Witch had never controlled this much power. This one did. This young Queen. This daughter of his soul. With effort, Saetan steadied his breathing. He could accept her. He could love her. Or he could fear her. The decision was his, and whatever he decided here, now, he would have to live with.
Anne BishopThe lesson was not lost on Kartane. To be Ringed was the severest form of control. If Daemon couldn’t stand the pain, how could he? It became very important not to give Dorothea a reason to Ring him. That night, after Daemon had been allowed to rest a little, he was ordered to serve the witch he’d earlier refused. That night was the first time Daemon went cold.
Anne BishopHe couldn’t regret Daemon’s and Lucivar’s existence, but he’d tortured himself for centuries with reports of what had been done to them." - Saetan
Anne BishopBecause you’re going to help me train a seven-year-old Witch who’s got the raw power right now to turn us both into dust and yet”—he dropped the shoe onto the chair—“is abysmal at basic Craft.
Anne BishopColdness as a defense for the heart was something Saetan understood all too well.
Anne BishopJaenelle peered into the space between the chair arms. “Saetan?” she said in a small, quivery voice. “Saetan, are you all right?”
Using Craft, Saetan sent the top chair back to the blackwood desk. “I’m fine, witch-child.” He stuffed his feet into his shoes and gingerly stood up. “That’s the most excitement I’ve had in centuries.”
“Really?” He straightened his black tunic-jacket and smoothed back his hair.
“Yes, really.” And Guardian or not, a man his age shouldn’t have his heart gallop around his rib cage like this. Saetan looked around the study and stifled a groan.
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