Published in , The Sound and the Fury was Faulkner's fourth novel, and Epub, kaz-news.info, If you cannot open kaz-news.info file on your mobile device. pages, with a reading time of ~ hours (96, words), and first published in This DRM-Free edition published by epubBooks, DOWNLOAD EPUB Reading Faulkner: The sound and the fury. Read more The Sandman #7 Master of Dreams: Sound And Fury. Read more.
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An easy three count: one, two, three—pivot, slide, spin into a gentle turn. One, two, three—sway with the baby cradled against her, keeping him happy and herself content.
Pulled free of a ponytail, her hair swung loose. The soft strands brushed across her shoulders as she sidestepped the end of G. The Winnie-the-Pooh mobile bobbed.
Eeyore nodded at her. Ignoring the encouragement, Hope danced by the toy box full of stuffed animals, skirted the changing table, then whirled around the rocking chair.
Sucking on his thumb, G. Joy bubbled up, settling into her bones, invading her heart. God, what a pleasure. It had been ages. Her gaze on her temporary Chapter Thirteen The dream tightened its hold, driving Forge into thick fog. Swiping at the ashy swirl, he struggled to find his way through the smoke: to level his wings, to feel the rush of air and bring the landscape into focus, but.
He growled through clenched teeth. Zero visibility. Nothing but gloom and shadows.
Pushing forward, Forge narrowed his view and tried again. His vision wavered. Light flickered behind the fog and—goddamn it.
He knew it was coming. Other times, the dream began as he leapt from the cliffs. Or like now, as he approached the moors, wings spread wide, winter wind in full bluster. He felt Chapter Fourteen Forge needed to stop kissing her. And caressing her petal-soft skin? Oh, so not a good idea.
He ought to be shot. Drawn and quartered. Hung from the nearest rafter. Or something. Maybe then his brain would kick over and order him to do the right thing. An honorable male would back off.
Sit her down and talk it out. Which made it official. He should pull away, explain the way things worked while he made his position clear and let her decide.
Only two options existed for females in his world—accept his dragon half, become his mate, or run like hell. Clear cut. No room for misinterpretation.
And yet, as her tongue t On a collision course with warriors hidden amid inhospitable cliffs and low-lying mountain valleys, he banked into a tight turn. Twin streams whistled from his wing tips.
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His brown, orange-speckled scales rattled. Snow spun in his wake, the mad rush matching the rise of his fury. A yellow glow sparked in his dark eyes. His gaze swept east, the citrine glow staining the washed-out winter landscape in front of him. He needed a target. The perfect remedy. A way to focus his rage, the promise of a fight that would leave him bruised and more than a touch bloody.
It was either that or explode. Not a great plan considering his firepower in dragon form. The flammable poison Chapter Sixteen Cursing his bad luck, Ivar leapt off the third-floor balcony. The violent free fall blew his hair back. Frigid air burned over his cheekbones. Focused on the ground, he bared his teeth and timed his landing.
The blackness was absolute. No porch light on behind his aboveground lair. No glow from streetlights bleeding into his backyard. No moon to break through the murky thread of midnight. Just stony silence and the abysmal threat of another fucked-up night. Suppressing a snarl, Ivar called on his magic. His night vision sparked. Frozen grass came into focus, the brown, bladed edges sharp and battle worn in the darkness.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
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Three— He let his fire dragon loose. Pink flame licked over his skin. Heat blasted through the cold. His body lengthened beneath the spread of blood-red scales and the crack of razor-sharp claws. Winter wind snapped at the spikes adorning his tail. Brick facade of 28 Walton Street blurring in his periphery, Ivar spread h Chapter Seventeen Sitting with her back to the wall inside her temporary bedroom, Hope turned the rolled boxing wrap over in her hands.
She snorted. The who, however, remained a serious problem. One unlikely to go away anytime soon. Hope frowned at her knuckles. Or rather, what she was doing.
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Hiding might be a better characterization. In full retreat was an even better one. The fact she was doing it while wedged between her bed and the night table with her butt planted on the floor summed up her situation nicely. Hope cringed. All right, best add pathetic to the heap of shame and get on with her day. Cursing under her breath, she examined the Velcro holding the boxing Chapter Eighteen Raising her fists, Hope kept her guard high and pivoted around the heavy bag.
Footwork perfect, her bare soles skimmed over the hardwood floor. Shift right. Dance left. Keep her opponent in her sights. Rope creaked.
The black bag swayed from her last strike. Muscles pulsing with energy, she flexed her hands inside the sparring gloves and, timing her punch, hammered the sucker again. The violent thump echoed across the weight room. The impact jolted up her arm. Satisfaction hummed through her as her biceps squawked in protest. Ignoring the discomfort, she struck again.
And again. Jab right, a quick left cross before powering into an uppercut, moving in a rhythm that would make her trainer proud.
Again and again until her surroundings fell away. Concrete walls nothing but blur in her periphery, she brought her feet into play. Kicking high, she slammed her foot into the target zone. Black leather groaned. The heavy bag rocked sideways. Sweat rolled down her Chapter Nineteen He tasted like fine whiskey and hot sex. A combination she loved. Nothing wrong with a single malt after work. Probably something wrong with having hot sex with Forge.
Or what he intended. None of it mattered. The moment he kissed her, the outside world fell away. The idea of rethinking her decision disappeared.
It was done. A lost cause. Ethics thrown under the bus along with her ability to say no. No second-guessing necessary. Might as well commit. Might as well go with the flow. Might as well enjoy the ride and reap the reward.
Tangli Chapter Twenty Stretching out his shoulders, Forge turned left into the corridor and strode toward the clinic. Hardwood floors gave way to smooth concrete floors.
The high polish gleamed dark gray as the round lights embedded in the floor threw splashes of light onto granite walls. Chisel marks stood in stark relief against the pale paint, reminding him of home and his painful history.
Bowing his head, Forge cupped the back of his skull. He pressed down. His chin touched his chest. Taut muscles squawked. He kept his feet moving, knees bending, bare soles whispering in the quiet, pace steady despite his tension. Goddamn history. The past never left him alone. As unrelenting as a hungry wolf, it circled, making him recall the good times, taunting him with the bad. Not that he could remember all of it.
Which made him want to forget all the more. A picture of Hope rose in his mind. Forge shook his head. No sense turning away from the truth. Sooner Chapter Twenty-One Standing in the antechamber connected to his laboratory, Ivar tapped his fingertips against the keyboard space bar. The bank of monitors mounted to the wall woke up, the prompt for his password an island surrounded by an ocean of blue screen. He stared at it a moment, worry sitting like a hair ball in the pit of his stomach.
His XO needed to get his head screwed on straight. Choosing males to breed his HE females when the Meridian realigned might be important, but the development of his antiviral drug took precedence. Females were dying—babies, toddlers, teenagers, mothers or not.
Which meant, as much fun as the competition was turning out to be. Playtime was ove City lights winked in the distance. Waves crested and rolled in the bay, merging with unseen undercurrents before flowing past Seattle and out to sea. The icy swirl threw damp tendrils into the air, coating his scales with water, obscuring his vision with fog, making his unease keep time with frothing whitecaps.
Refolding his wings, he adjusted his stance for what seemed like the thousandth time. Raising a paw, he flexed his talons. Black, razor-sharp tips gleamed in the moon-glow. Step closer to the edge of the cliff. Climb to the row of boulders above the beach below him. Hop back down.What, exactly? Of heartbreak and loss.
No matter what he did—or how often he changed position—nothing eased the disquiet. Or like now, as he approached the moors, wings spread wide, winter wind in full bluster. Which made it official.
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