Mareeva > Books: historical‎ (52)

She stares into Mr. Solo’s dark eyes and a peculiar sensation washes over her: dread,

She stares into Mr. Solo’s dark eyes and a peculiar sensation washes over her: dread, and… peace. Relief. There is, finally, no alternative choice. There is nowhere to flee. She is one word away from stability and safety and nary a difficult thought ever again. A cage, perhaps. But it’s a very lovely cage.

“I would do it all over again.” His warm hand pauses atop her head, thumb tracing the arch of her brow, dark eyes quite intent upon hers. “In the same manner, with the same outcome, in any lifetime—I would do the same irrational, cruel things to have you, my love.” Mr. Solo raises his eyebrows. “In this life or the next, and in every life that has come before—in whatever forms we may take—you will always be mine. Do you understand, Rey?”

In my first concrete memories, I am young but already annoyed.


"You beat Ilona at Monte Carlo in '88 and then told reporters it was 'embarrassingly easy,' so no, Ilona does not want to play you"
"It was embarrassingly easy. I was embarrassed for her. That's empathy."


And so, for the first time in decades, I stand in front of a roaring crowd and cry.


I feel as if I can hear my father cheering. I can hear Bowe clapping. The whole stadium is going wild. But I cannot hear anything as clearly as the sound of my own voice, begging me: Let this be enough.

He was a bit surprised, too, for until this very minute he hadn’t realized that women could actually be trusted friends with each other.

I am Harry August, born New Year’s Day 1919.
I am sixty-eight years old.
I am eight hundred and ninety-nine.

I know now that there is something dead inside me though I cannot remember exactly when it died.

Death holds no fear for us.
It is rebirth where the terror lies. Rebirth, and the lingering fear that no matter how much our bodies are renewed, our minds cannot be saved.

if nothing is to change at all, then we must watch our own kind constantly and punish ruthlessly, and live without remorse

1) Start with an "adolesc

1) Start with an "adolescent" matchmaking wizard that decides to pair up a conquering Norman knight with a Welsh princess.
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2) Sprinkle in a lil invasion, killing, instant enemies, forced marriage and a shit ton of angst.

3) Add a cupful of Slowburn that managed to satisfy even my thirsty ass.
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4) With a dash of the most magnificent insults I'll make sure to use on all and any of my future husbands.

“Now that you know who I am, you Norman son of a poxed whore, you will accord me the proper respect.”

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5) Some very questionable political choices that I shall choose to stay blind to because fuck politics am I right?

6) Finally, two shots of undiluted chaos.
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His mouth lowered. Mine lifted. Straining to meet, our lips parted, floated closer, closer, and paused just before making contact.
Our chests rose in unison. Inhale. Exhale. In. Out. Deeper than a lick, more divine than a kiss, we became breaths. Nothing but trembling, heating, mating breaths.
It was a magical, instinctual attraction. I pulled, and he came with me. He leaned back, and I followed.