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Quote by Sandra Cisneros (Author)

“I read somewhere in India there are priests who can will their heart to stop beating. I wanted to will my blood to stop, my heart to quit its pumping. I wanted to be dead, to turn into the rain, my eyes melt into the ground like two black snails. I wished and wished. I closed my eyes and willed it, but when I got up my dress was green and I had a headache.”

Quote by Sandra Cisneros (Author)

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Sandra Cisneros (Author)

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“What happened?” she demanded, vehemence leaching into her tone. These weren’t battle wounds. “Who did this to you?” Alaric turned his head to the side, avoiding her gaze, his lips clamped shut. “Tell me.” Talasyn put her hand against his cheek, urging his eyes back to hers. “Or I’ll go to your guards and ask them instead.” "Don't." “It was my father,” he said hoarsely. Every word sounded ripped from his throat. “In punishment for my shortcomings—” He shuddered with a fresh spasm of pain, eyelids twitching as he closed them, long lashes fluttering against the tops of wan cheeks. “A lesson.” Talasyn had known, of course, that Gaheris was cruel, but it had never before occurred to her that this cruelty would extend to his son. This is how he keeps him chained. It had been ingrained in him to not fight back.”

HeartacheAlaricTalasynUnfair Treatment
Book:A Monsoon Rising
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“Alaric’s large fingers clamped around her wrist, dragging her back down. “No one else can see.” She hesitated, unconvinced and worried sick. He added, his tone uneven and his grip on her tightening, “Don’t, Talasyn.” His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist in fretful strokes, and her free hand moved as though of its own accord, wrapping around his, squeezing in reassurance as she asked, "Do you have any bandages, then? I can-" "Leave it," Alaric told her through clenched teeth. "I'll take care of myself." “You’re in no condition—” “I can manage—” "No, you can’t!” He gave a start at her raised tone, his powerful body twitching as though it longed to curl in on itself in a protective ball. Thoroughly chastened, she cradled his cheek, the walls that she had so carefully built around herself in his presence crashing down. “Alaric,” she pleaded, “let me help you.” “You shouldn’t even be here.” Despite his rough, strained words, he leaned into her touch with a quiet desperation that made up her mind for her. “I am, anyway,” she retorted. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

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Book:A Monsoon Rising
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“Alaric grabbed her elbow, despair surging from him in waves, and pulled her to him. She let out an indignant squeak as she found herself sprawled on top of his bare chest, her nose inches from his. She held still, careful not to disturb the bandages, and his hand darted from her elbow to her lower back, exposed by the cut of her blue dress, his warm fingers trailing static charges along the base of her spine. She hadn’t realized that she was so sensitive there. “Don’t go,” he murmured hoarsely, fitfully, a man caught in a fever-dream. “I won’t bring up the rebels again. I won’t breathe another word. Just—don’t leave me, Tala.” The name he had first called her on their wedding night sent a mess of starlit recollections swirling through her at the same time that it caught in his throat, along with what he said next. “Please.” Talasyn stared into the hollow desolation in Alaric’s gray eyes, the utter defeat. She knew this loneliness. She understood it in the marrow of her bones. “I was going to clean up, that’s all,” she whispered. “I’m not leaving. It’s just—the bucket and—” “Forget the bucket,” he told her, a hint of his usual imperiousness breaking through the valerian fog. “Stay here.” “All right.” Not her wittiest moment, but it was difficult to think when she was pressed up against his solid body, his hand on the small of her back. “I’ll stay.” He looked like he didn’t believe her, and it pierced her heart.”

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Book:A Monsoon Rising
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“Talasyn suddenly wanted nothing more than to assure Alaric of her presence. She sank fully against his form, holding him down with her weight, burying her face in the side of his neck in a chaste imitation of what he had done to her once, in another bed. “I’m here,” she vowed into his smooth, overheated skin. “I’m not going anywhere.” A sound between a groan and a hitch of breath caught in his throat. The hand on the small of her back rubbed compulsively, tracing the notches of her spine, and his arm tightened around her. His other hand tangled in her hair. “I couldn’t kill that rebel.” It was a choked, bewildered rumble in her ear. “One word from you and I let my guard down. I couldn’t kill you, either, all those times before … What am I, if I’m not a weapon? What have you done to me?”

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“You’re not just a weapon,” she mumbled into his neck. “You have a sweet tooth and sometimes you make me laugh. I tell you things that I’ve never told anyone else.” The very air seemed to spin golden with each surge of memory, aether humming between their forms. “You helped me with my magic. You tackled me out of the way of that void bolt. Today you made sure I could run and fight. All of these things—they’re not what a weapon is, or does. You’re so much more than a weapon. You could be more.” She meant every word.”

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Book:A Monsoon Rising
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