“Some may blackly (angrily) accuse me of trying to blacken (defame) the English language, to give it a black eye (a mark of shame) by writing such black words (hostile). They may denigrate (to cast aspersions) me by accusing me of being blackhearted (malevolent), of having a black outlook (pessimistic) on life, of being a blackguard (scoundrel)- which would certainly be a black mark (detrimental fact) against me. Some may black brow (scowl at) at me and hope that a black cat crosses in front of me because of this black deed. I may become a black sheep, who will be blackballed (ostracized) by being placed on a blacklist in an attempt to blackmail or blackjack (compel by threat) me will have a Chinaman’s chance of success, for I am not a yellow-bellied Indian-giver of words, who will whitewash (cover up or gloss over) a black lie (harmful, inexcusable). I challenge the purity and innocence (white) of the English language. I don’t see things in black and white (entirely bad or entirely good) terms, for I am a white man (marked by upright firmness) if there ever was one. However, it would be a black day when I would not “call a spade a spade,” even though some will suggest that a white man calling the English language racist is like the pot calling the kettle black. While many may be niggardly (grudging, scanty) in their support, others will be honest and decent- and to them I say, that’s very white of you (honest, decent).”—
“I cannot give you the formula for success, but I can give you the formula for failure - which is: try to please everybody.”—Herbert Bayard Swope, 1882-1958 American Newspaper Editor (via oursmileyplace)
She could smell him, the spicy musk of him. She could hear him, the deep breathing that told of his nervousness and his eagerness.
She barely noticed her Coven Master or her Ravens as they escorted her toward her destiny. She didn’t notice her Damshire’s worried face or the First’s cautious movements or even Raitza’s amusement.
All she could sense was that her mate was on the other side of that door…and it was time to take him, to claim him, to mark him in such a way that no other female would dare to touch what was hers.
She walked slowly, as if the vibrations from her movements would break her, but she moved forward with determination.
Alnowan was hers. No one would keep him from her.
Her instincts howled, they screamed for her to take him. But there was the ritual first. And then, ah, Creator then he would be hers.
The officiate was there, standing beside her mate’s Coven, a smile on his face and he watched her progression.
She could kill him. It would be so easy.
Her eyes narrowed at the scent of another so near to what was hers! For all that was connected to her mate belonged to her!
But she reined in the urge. Now was not the time to spill blood. Now was the time to see to it that her mate would never leave her side, that those he considered his saw and acknowledged her claiming, that they would never attempt to roust him from her side.
There was a small party gathered, just her Damshire and her Ullah but they too remained at a distance, just as they should.
She knew them from the scent on their skin, but they all stayed back, respectful of her position with her mate.
Her mate, the perfect one, the one who was created just for her—
Where was he? She could feel him, she could smell him, and she knew he was nearby.
She had to rein in the desire to tear apart the domicile until she found him and claimed him as her own.
Her eyes narrowed and a low growl emerged from her throat. She wanted her mate. This was taking too much time!
And then he was walking towards her, his steps hesitant but sure. And she could have died from the satisfaction of smelling his aroused state, knowing that he was erect and his cock drooling for her and her alone.
The officiate moved forward, as did her Coven Master, but she barely paid them any attention. Her eyes were on her mate.
He was dressed in a small white loincloth, the pale material making his skin seem all the more dark. His muscular body gleamed where the light hit it, glinting off of a thorough coating of oil that someone had lovingly applied to his whole form.
Her fevered mind could only imagine him lying there, beneath her, arms spread, head tilted to the side submissively before her.
“I believe that both parties are in compliance with the stated law,” the officiate spoke softly, as if he too could feel the danger that Cyprus represented at the moment. “We shall retire to the audience chamber.”
The exodus was swift and soon there was only Cyprus and Alnowan standing across the room from each other, separated by a bed and a padded bench.
And he was still too far away.
“Submit,” she snarled, exposing her fangs as she glared at her mate.
But he just stood there, almost daring her to lay claim to her property.
With a snarl, she was across the room, her hand tangling in his hair, jerking his head to the side.