I wanted what most people wanted—love, companionship.
I wanted someone to touch. I wanted someone to touch me back.
I wanted someone to laugh with, someone who would laugh with me, laugh at me.
I wanted someone who looked and sawme . Not my power, not my position.
I wanted someone to say my name. To call out, “Merit,” when it was time to go, or when we arrived.
Someone who wanted to say to someone else, with pride, “I’m here with her. With Merit.”
I wanted all those things. Indivisibly.
But I didn’t want them from Morgan.
Tags: night friday bites merit
I wouldn’t say I was forward, but I made a move when I was interested.
Chloe NeillTags: merit
A slap wouldn’t have pulled me out of the trance any faster.
Chloe NeillTags: merit
Avoidance helped settle the emotions. Considerably.
Chloe NeillTags: merit
Have you ever had a moment where you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you were in the right place?
That you were on the right journey? Maybe the sense that you’d crossed a boundary, jumped a hurdle, and somehow, after facing some unconquerable mountain, found yourself suddenly on the other side of it?
When the night was warm and the wind was cool, and a song carried through the quiet streets around you. When you felt the entire world around you, and you were part of it—of the hum of it—and everything was good.
Contentment, I suppose, is the simple explanation for it. But it seems more than that, thicker than that, some unity of purpose, some sense of being truly, honestly, for that moment, at home.
Those moments never seem to last long enough. The song ends, the breeze stills, the worries and fears creep in again and you’re left trying to move forward, but glancing back at the mountain behind you, wondering how you managed to cross it, afraid you really didn’t—that the bulk and shadow over your shoulder might evaporate and re-form before you, and you’d be faced with the burden of crossing it again.
The song ends, and you stare at the quiet, dark house in front of you, and you grasp the doorknob, and walk back into your life.
You’re crude.”
"I’m crude?”
"You just offered to make me your whore.”
"To be the Consort of a Master vampire is an honor, Initiate, not an insult.”
"It’s an insult to me. I’m not going to be your—anyone’s—sexual outlet. When that . . . happens for me, when I meet him, I want partnership. Love. You don’t trust me enough for the former, and I’m not even sure you’re capable of the latter.
Do you understand what I’m offering you?"
"Do you understand that it’s not 1815?"
"It’s not unusual for Masters to have Consorts."
"Yes, and your current Consort’s in my kitchen right now. If you need . . . relieving, talk to her."
"As much as it pains me to say it, Amber isn’t you."
"I don’t even know what that means. Should I—What? Be flattered that while you don’t like me, you’re willing to sacrifice just to get into my pants?
Stop. That was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened."
"No?"
"No."
"I could offer you more.”
"What?”
"Power. Access. Rewards. You’d need be available only to me.”
"Are you asking me to be your mistress?”
"Yes.”
"Oh, my God.”
"Is that a yes?”
"No, Ethan, Jesus. Definitely not.
So you’re now an official member of Enclave Three. You weirdo.”
I snorted. “I’m a weirdo? You’re a werewolf.”
“I suggest you say that with respect, Parker.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll have to bite you.” His lips widened into a grin of heart-stopping proportions. I guessed it
would have been pretty effective on him in werewolf form, too.
Scout released me, then wiped tears from beneath her eyes. Catharsis, I guessed. “I’ve said it
before and I’ll say it again—you seriously rock, Parker.”
"Tell me again, Green,” I said as we switched on flashlights and headed through the tunnel.
“Seriously, you rock.”
“One more time.”
“Don’t press your luck.
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