Without time,” the angel said, “you have only the bottomless, shapeless mire of eternity.” “FYI, philosophy bores me.” “Not philosophy. Reality. Time is what gives life significance.

What the—Have you been crying?" Tohrment demanded. "Are you all right? Dear God, is it the baby?" "Tohr, relax. I'm a female, I cry at matings. It's in the job description." There was the sound of a kiss. "I just don't want anything to upset you, leelan." 'Then tell me the brothers are ready." "We are." "Good. I'll bring her out." "Leelan ? " "What?" There were low words spoken in their beautiful language. "Yes, Tohr," Wellsie whispered. "And after two hundred years, I'd mate you again. In spite of the fact that you snore and you leave your weapons all over our bedroom.

We don’t have to talk about Zsadist. That’s okay. He’s the most interesting part of me.

You know, you sound like birds when you do that chuckle thing. It's nice. Over to the left, Vishous put his head in his hands.

Times have changed and so have heroes and heroines, but the core of what makes readers happy has remained the same: Does the material touch you, resonant with you, stick with you? Do you feel yourself in the pages, see yourself walking in another person's shoes, hear the voices as they speak? Are you in love with the way they are in love?

That's the problem with white horses. You have to pay for them yourself or you'll always be using someone else's reins.

He [Vishous] was all need, no ease.