82
" In 1870, came the victory of the short-service troops of Prussia over the long-service troops of France, where conscription had but recently been reintroduced in a partial form and as a supplementary measure. That obvious contrast carried more weight into the world than all the other factors which tilted the scales against France. As a result, universal peace-time conscription was adopted by almost all countries as the basis of their military system. This ensured that wars would grow bigger in scale, longer in duration, and worse in effects. While conscription appeared democratic, it provided autocrats, hereditary or revolutionary, with more effective and comprehensive means of imposing their will, both in peace and war. Once the rulp of compulsory service in arms was established for the young men of a nation, it was an obvious and easy transition to the servitude of the whole population. Totalitarian tyranny is the twin of total warfare—which might aptly be termed a reversion to tribal warfare on a larger scale. "
― B.H. Liddell Hart , The Revolution in Warfare.
87
" Feyre," he said--softly enough that I faced him again. " Why?" He tilted his head to the side. " You dislike our kind on a good day. And after Andras . . ." Even in the darkened hallway, his usual bright eyes were shadowed. " So why?" I took a step closer to him, my blood-covered feet sticking to the rug. I glanced down the stairs to where I could still see the prone form of the faerie and the stumps of his wings." Because I wouldn't want to die alone," I said, and my voice wobbled as I looked at Tamlin again, forcing myself to meet his stare. " Because I'd want someone to hold my hand until the end, and awhile after that. That's something everyone deserves, human or faerie." I swallowed hard, my throat painfully tight. " I regret what I did to Andras," I said, the words so strangled they were no more than a whisper. " I regret that there was . . . such hate in my heart. I wish I could undo it--and . . . I'm sorry. So very sorry. "
92
" She flapped her hands, anxious energy coursing through her. “How can you be so calm?”
He got to his feet, unfolding with an easy grace. He held out a hand, his dark eyes focused solemnly on hers. “Come with me.”
“For what?”
“That’s part of the lesson.” Was it her imagination, or did a twinkle of humor stir in those eyes? “Center yourself, and grab onto the here and now.”
That made no sense—what was he now, Sir Medieval Zen Master? But she slipped her hand into his strong, calloused one. He hauled her up until she bumped into his chest. With a finger under her chin, he tilted her face until she looked in his eyes.
“Listen to the world around you. Hear the birds? Hear the small animals scurrying? You are in this moment, this moment only, and sometimes that’s all you can do, all you can be.” His finger pulled away, brushing against her skin, and he tapped her nose, stepping away. "
― Angela Quarles , Must Love Chainmail (Must Love, #2)
93
" Temperance Dews stood with quiet confidence, a respectable women who lived in the sewer that was St. Giles. Her eyes had widened at the sight of Lazarus, but she made no move to flee. Indeed, finding a strange man in her pathetic sitting room seemed not to frighten her at all.
Interesting.
“I am Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire,” he said.
“I know. What are you doing here?”
He tilted his head, studying her. She knew him, yet did not recoil in horror? Yes, she’d do quite well. “I’ve come to make a proposition to you, Mrs. Dews.”
Still no sign of fear, though she eyed the doorway. “You’ve chosen the wrong woman, my lord. The night is late. Please leave my house.”
No fear and no deference to his rank. An interesting woman indeed.
“My proposition is not, er, illicit in nature,” he drawled. “In fact, it’s quite respectable. Or nearly so.”
She sighed, looked down at her tray, and then back up at him. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
He almost smiled. Tea? When had he last been offered something so very prosaic by a woman? He couldn’t remember.
But he replied gravely enough. “Thank you, no.”
She nodded. “Then if you don’t mind?”
He waved a hand to indicate permission.
She set the tea tray on the wretched little table and sat on the padded footstool to pour herself a cup. He watched her. She was a monochromatic study. Her dress, bodice, hose, and shoes were all flat black. A fichu tucked in at her severe neckline, an apron, and cap—no lace or ruffles—were all white. No color marred her aspect, making the lush red of her full lips all the more startling. She wore the clothes of a nun, yet had the mouth of a sybarite.
The contrast was fascinating—and arousing.
“You’re a Puritan?” he asked.
Her beautiful mouth compressed. “No. "
― Elizabeth Hoyt , Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane, #1)
96
" Her feet shifted underneath her. “I’m not sure what troubles
you.”
The wolf prowled, though he sat in a great chair. His uneasiness
made her skin tight and her heart race. Hakan was a handsome
man, very appealing to all of the fairer sex tonight with his black
jerkin stretched across broad shoulders. He had shaved for the
Glima festival, and his blonde hair, lighter from summer, loosened
from the leather tie.
“Many thoughts trouble me tonight, but Astrid’s not one of
them.” In the dim light of the longhouse, his white teeth gleamed
against his tanned face.
“Does your head ail you?” She clasped her hands together,
comfortable with the role of nurturing thrall.
“Nay, but ‘twould please me if you sat close to me and played
your harp.”
“Music would be pleasant.” Skittish and studying him under
the veil of her lashes, Helena retrieved her harp.
She sat cross-legged on a pelt near his chair. ‘Twas easy to
strum a soothing song and lose herself in the delicate notes her
fingers plucked. But when the last note faded, the restless wolf
stirred on his throne, unpacified.
“Why did you play that game with Astrid? Letting her think
more goes on between us?”
Ice-blue eyes pinned her, yet, ‘twas his voice, dangerous and
soft, that did things to her.
“I…I don’t know.” Her own voice faltered as warmth flushed
her skin.
Glowing embers molded his face with dim light. Hakan
leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees. His sinewy hand
plucked the harp from her, placing it on the ground.
“Why?” Hakan’s fingertips tilted her chin. "
― , Norse Jewel (Norse, #1)
99
" Like, okay, look up at that cloud and tell me what you see,” Bree said, pointing up at the closest cloud above them. “What do you mean, what do I see? It’s a cloud. I see a cloud,” Alessandro insisted. “No, what do you see? Like when you go to a shrink and they make you look at ink blots,” Bree explained. Alessandro looked over at her. “How much wine did you drink?” She smacked his arm. “I’ll go first. I see a rabbit.” “A rabbit?” Alessandro asked, laughing. “Yeah, the top of that one is shaped like ears, long rabbit ears.” “Ah, I see what you’re doing now. All right then. That one there…looks like…” Alessandro squinted his eyes as if hard in concentration. “An airplane.” “Oh, yeah. I see that,” Bree agreed. “Okay, what about that one?” She pointed to a cloud to Alessandro’s right. “That one looks rather like my wife’s sweet pert little ass,” Alessandro joked. “After two kids? You’re delusional,” she said laughing. “My turn. I think that one looks like…” Bree tilted her head. “My wife’s beautiful round breasts,” Alessandro injected. “Stop that!” Bree said, giggling. “Excuse me, I’m just playing the game.” “No, you’re not. You’re being a horny guy.” Alessandro pressed a hand to his chest as if she had wounded him. “To prove it to you, I say we compare.” He undid the buttons of her blouse and Bree was laughing too hard to stop him. "
― E. Jamie , The Betrayal (Blood Vows, #2)
