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Quote by Stephanie Garber

“Jacks-' Evangeline tried not to sound as if her heart was racing. 'Don't you want to hurt me anymore, Little Fox?' His finger reached out and lightly traced her exposed collarbone, setting every inch of her skin on fire. 'You can pick up the dagger any time now.' But Evangeline couldn't pick up the dagger. She could barely manage to keep breathing. His hand was now at the hollow of her throat, careful and caressing. Jacks had touched her before- last night he'd held her while she'd slept, but he'd acted if that had been torture. His touch hadn't been warm, or curious. Or maybe she was the one who was curious. She knew she shouldn't be. But hadn't she wondered what it would be like to be wanted with the intensity that Jacks seemed to want things? His mouth curved wider as his hands moved from her throat to her shoulders and slowly slid the cape away, leaving more of her skin exposed. 'You should go back on the other side of the gate.' Her voice was hoarse. 'You're the one who said I needed a distraction.' HIs fingers drifted lower, trailing down her chest to the sensitive stretch of skin right above the lacy line of her corset. 'Isn't this better than talking?' One finger dipped all the way in to the corset. Her breathing hitched. 'I don't think this is a good idea.' 'That's what makes it interesting.' His other hand found her jaw, while the finger in her corset gently stroked just above her heart, coaxing it to beat even faster. 'You can always pick up the blade,' he taunted. 'You wouldn't like me as a vampire, Little Fox.”

Quote by Stephanie Garber

Book:Once Upon a Broken Heart
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Once Upon a Broken Heart

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Stephanie Garber

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DeathHorrorTouchingDraculaBram Stoker
Book:Dracula
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“It's funny how you get under his skin.' At first, I'm not sure I heard him right. I almost ask whom he's talking about, because I can't quite believe he's admitting that high and mighty Cardan is affected by anything. 'Like a splinter?' I say. 'Of iron. No one else bothers him quite the way you do.' He picks up a towel and wets it, then kneels down beside me and carefully wipes my face. I suck in a breath when the cold cloth touches the sensitive part of my eye, but he is far gentler than I would have been to myself. His face is solemn and focused on what he's doing. He doesn't seem to notice my studying him, his long face and sharp chin, his curling red-brown hair, the way his eyelashes catch the light. Then he does notice. He's looking at me, and I'm looking back at him, and it's the strangest thing, because I thought Locke would never notice anyone like me. He is noticing, though. He's smiling like he did that night at the Court, as though we share a secret. He's smiling as if we're sharing another one. 'Keep it up,' he says. I wonder at those words. Can he really mean them? As I make my way back to the tournament and my sisters, I can't stop thinking of Cardan's shocked face, nor can I stop considering Locke's smile. I am not altogether sure which is more thrilling and which more dangerous.”

TouchingHolly BlackThe Folk Of The AirJude DuarteCardan GreenbriarJudeCardanThe Cruel PrinceLockeUnder His Skin
Book:The Cruel Prince
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“He looks around in amazement, taking in the mess. 'Where- Do you really sleep here? Perhaps you ought to set fire to your rooms as well.' 'Maybe,' I say, guiding him to my bed. It is strange to put my hand on his back. I can feel the warmth of his skin through the thin linen of his shirt, can feel the flex of his muscles. It feels wrong to touch him as though he were a regular person, as though he weren't both the High King and also my enemy. He needs no encouragement to sprawl on my mattress, head on the pillow, black hair spilling like crow feathers. He looks up at me with his night-coloured eyes, beautiful and terrible all at once. 'For a moment,' he says, 'I wondered if it wasn't you shooting bolts at me.' I make a face at him. 'And what made you decide it wasn't?' He grins up at me. 'They missed.' I have said that he has the power to deliver a compliment and make it hurt. So, too, can he say something that ought to be insulting and deliver it in such a way that it feels like being truly seen. Our eyes meet, and something dangerous sparks. He hates you, I remind myself. 'Kiss me again,' he says, drunk and foolish. 'Kiss me until I am sick of it.' I feel those words, feel them like a kick in the stomach. He sees my expression and laughs, a sound full of mockery. I can't tell which of us he's laughing at. He hates you. Even if he wants you, he hates you. Maybe he hates you the more for it. After a moment, his eyes flutter closed. His voice falls to a whisper, as though he's talking to himself. 'If you're the sickness, I suppose you can't also be the cure.' He drifts off to sleep, but I am wide awake.”

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“If we really saw war, what war does to young minds and bodies, it would be impossible to embrace the myth of war. If we had to stand over the mangled corpses of schoolchildren killed in Afghanistan and listen to the wails of their parents, we would not be able to repeat clichés we use to justify war. This is why war is carefully sanitized. This is why we are given war's perverse and dark thrill but are spared from seeing war's consequences. The mythic visions of war keep it heroic and entertaining… The wounded, the crippled, and the dead are, in this great charade, swiftly carted offstage. They are war's refuse. We do not see them. We do not hear them. They are doomed, like wandering spirits, to float around the edges of our consciousness, ignored, even reviled. The message they tell is too painful for us to hear. We prefer to celebrate ourselves and our nation by imbibing the myths of glory, honor, patriotism, and heroism, words that in combat become empty and meaningless.”

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Book:Death of the Liberal Class
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