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Quote by José de Alencar

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José de Alencar

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“To no longer be able to abide the comfort of human contact. How did he stand it? No wonder he was so very remote. How could warmth touch your heart when it wasn't even allowed near your skin? It could have been regret that softened his features, but it was impossible for her to tell. "You're thinking of Mackenzie," he murmured. Ashamed that she'd been thinking of Blackwell and not her Dougan, Farah nodded, not trusting herself to make a sound. For the second time since they'd met, he raised his hand to her face, only to pull it back again. "Is there no pity in your heart for me?" Farah turned from him then, dashing madly at her cheeks. There was, of course, but she didn't dare show it to him. "Do you deserve my pity?" she asked, her voice thick with tears. "Probably not," he answered honestly. "But the boy I once was might have.”

“You understand, don't you, Mrs. Mackenzie?" Blackwell murmured, his hard mouth barely moving as the intensity of his regard pinned her to her seat. "The deeds of a willful youth." A thrill of danger kissed her spine. "Horseshit!" Morley roared. Dorian turned back to face him, and Farah was able to let out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding as the black spell he'd woven over her suddenly dissipated. "For shame, Morley," he mockingly chided. "Such language in front of a lady." "She is my employee," Sir Morley gritted through clenched teeth. "And I'll thank you not to bother about her if you want to keep the vision in the eye you have left." "I can hardly help myself. She's such a ripe piece of skirt.”

“How fortunate for you that the water obscures so much." Blackwell shifted in his chair, his knees falling wider and his nostrils flaring. "Would Dougan Mackenzie forgive this coercion?" she challenged, doing her best to ignore the stirrings of her own body. "If you owe him as much as you claim, would he not wish you to spare my modesty?" The spark of heat in his eyes died for a moment, before flaring brighter than ever. "When we meet in hell, I'll ask his forgiveness.”

“Christopher Argent kept stealing disbelieving looks at Farah, his blue eyes reflecting the ambient glow like an alley cat's. Dorian understood why the man would dare in his presence. First, because Christopher Argent was an unfeeling, fearless killer-for-hire. And second, because most of the incarcerated men at Newgate had considered Dougan's Fairy some mythical creature, a sight too rare and beautiful to be beheld by a common man. Maybe even a fancy born of an imagination keen enough to take possession of the prison. To meet her was to gaze upon a fantasy realized, to remember the desperate yearnings of a lonely prisoner bereft of kindness, mercy, or beauty. To be blinded by the embodiment of all three of those things. For a man like Argent, one born to incarceration, the sight might have him reassessing some long-held cynical philosophies.”

“And you consider yourself as what, some sort of Count of Monte Cristo?" He gave a nonchalant shrug. "Not particularly, though the book is a favorite of mine." Farah frowned. "I thought you said you couldn't read." That Dorian Blackwell could laugh at a time like this astounded her. But he did. The sound so devoid of true mirth, it caused goose pimples to rise on her skin and her nipples to tighten painfully. It was a dark sound, like the rest of him, and it washed over her with chilling totality.”

“Her eyes were liquid silver as they narrowed at him, swirling with as many mysteries as the stars in the night sky. "I want a family," she murmured. "And I'll do what I must to get it." The naked, aching honesty in her voice pierced him with a poisoned arrow, and he could feel the toxins spreading through his blood. Soon he would be completely paralyzed, a victim of the opposing forces now quarreling inside him like two wolves fighting for dominance. The two strongest emotions known to man. He took in a deep breath, the scent of her honey soap and the lavender water evading his senses with the subtlety of a Roman legion.”