Farah And Dorian Quotes

“Of course it's all-consuming, but love- real love- doesn't destroy or smother. It's the very opposite of a weakness. Love strengthens. It liberates. It molds itself to every fiber of your being and fortifies you where where you may be broken.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“You'll never be rid of me now." It would have been a tease from a less serious man, but coming from Dorian, it sounded like a dire warning. "You may come to regret it. My demons will haunt our lives."
Farah reached for his wrist, stilling his hand and capturing his eyes with her own to make certain he understood her words. "I don't mind battling a few demons when I'm living with their king." She smiled. "And I think, after a time, we'll chase them away together.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“She looked up at him with those eyes, and Dougan experienced a pang of love so intense and ferocious it felt as though it didn't belong in this holy room.
He began the incantation he remembered from watching once from behind his mother's skirts when he was young.

'Ye are blood of my blood, and bone of my bone.
I give ye my body, that we two might be one.
I give ye my spirit, 'til our life shall be done.'

Farah needed a bit of prompting to remember all the words, but she said them with such fervency that Dougan was touched.
Slipping a ring of a willow herb vine onto her finger, he recited the sacred olde vows with perfect clarity, but translated them into English for her sake.

'I made ye my heart
At the rising of the moon.
To love and honor,
Through all our lives.
May we be reborn,
May our souls meet and know.
And love again.
And remember.'

She looked lost and mystified for a moment, then announced, "Me, too.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“I recall being quite captivated when we first met," he said lightly. "Helpless, I daresay."
Farah's snort turned into a reluctant laugh. "Don't be charming. It doesn't suit you."
The glimmer in his blue eye became a twinkle, the curve of his mouth lifted a little too far to be called a smirk anymore. But a smile? Almost... "No one's ever accused me of being charming before."
"You don't say." Lord, were they- flirting?”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“She felt safe here in the arms of this dangerous man. It was like returning to a home that had been destroyed and rebuilt. The same bones, same structure, but a new core that felt more foreign than if you hadn't ever known it from before. Walls and obstacles constructed by hands that were not her own.
But it didn't matter to her. She'd learn this man he'd become, renovate with her love what could be improved upon, and accept and adapt to what she could not repair.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“If I've learned anything in my life, it's that there is no darkness so absolute that it cannot be dispelled by the faintest of light," she explained.
His face softened as his eyes touched her, and his boot slid forward. "My sweet Fairy." He exhaled on a painful breath. "You can't imagine darkness. You are the only light I've ever known."
His tender words didn't match his pitiless features, but Farah still found hope. "You must believe that my light is more powerful than your darkness. And so let me touch you, instead. And everywhere that my fingers touch your flesh, they will clear away the blood and filth that you see, and will leave behind the light I've always wanted to give to you.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Warmth stole into Murdoch's voice at the memory, and Farah's heart clenched at the picture of her Dougan not yet a man, and yet not a boy, regaling a room full of hardened prisoners about the graveyard capers and bog adventures of a ten-year-old girl in the Scottish Highlands. "He described ye so many times, I feel as though any of us would have recognized ye had we seen ye on the streets. He told us of yer kindness, yer innocence, yer gentle ways and boundless curiosity. Ye became something of a patron saint to us all. Our daughter. Our sister. Our... Fairy. Without even knowing it, ye gave us- him- a little bit of sunshine and hope in a world of shadow and pain.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“The rest of us, we'd lay down our lives for years, but Blackwell... he'd do that and more. He'd rip the beating heart from his chest. He'd give up his soul if ye'd only-"
"It is making a rather large and fallacious assumption that I have a heart to give... or a soul." Dorian Blackwell's smooth voice didn't echo through the washroom as theirs did. He slithered into their midst with a serpentine stealth, striking before Murdoch's words uncovered any of his secrets.
Gasping, Farah sank deep into the bath, thankful the water was now cloudy with soap, though she did draw her knees under her chin and anchor them with her arms, just in case. "Get out!" she insisted in an unsteady voice. "I'm indecent."
"That makes two of us."
He'd moved closer. So close, in fact, that Farah knew if she looked behind her, she'd find his mismatched eyes staring down at her from her towering height. Perhaps, despite the opaque water, he could see the flesh that quivered just below the surface. The thought sent bolts of heat and mortification through her.
"Leave," Farah ordered, unable to face him for fear she'd lost her nerve.
"Stand up and make me.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Oh, Dougan, why send me this dark horse?' Farah inwardly railed. 'Why ask the devil in the flesh to find and protect me?'
Young Dougan couldn't have known how the man in front of her would affect her. How dangerous he truly was, because of the reckless impulses pouring through her veins and settling in the most secret of places.
He couldn't have known how much Dorian Blackwell secretly thrilled her. How his eyes on her made her feel helpless and powerful at the same time.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Dougan had almost completely forgotten about the food, for his entire body was suffused with the most intense and exquisite sensation he'd ever known. It was something like hunger, and something like fulfillment. It was wonder and awe and yearning and fear encapsulated in a tender bliss.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“To no longer be able to abide the comfort of human contact. How did he stand it? No wonder he was so very remote. How could warmth touch your heart when it wasn't even allowed near your skin?
It could have been regret that softened his features, but it was impossible for her to tell. "You're thinking of Mackenzie," he murmured.
Ashamed that she'd been thinking of Blackwell and not her Dougan, Farah nodded, not trusting herself to make a sound.
For the second time since they'd met, he raised his hand to her face, only to pull it back again. "Is there no pity in your heart for me?"
Farah turned from him then, dashing madly at her cheeks. There was, of course, but she didn't dare show it to him. "Do you deserve my pity?" she asked, her voice thick with tears.
"Probably not," he answered honestly. "But the boy I once was might have.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Dougan would rather have submitted to his thousand tortures than to have you submit to one. He wouldn't have survived your suffering. He loves you that much.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“I think this dress will stun the nobility, and leave them stupefied with envy and lust," Madame Sandrine announced with relish.
"I'm just glad it's not crimson, like everything else you drape," Farah said to her husband as she glanced at her transformation in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors across from the raised podium on which she stood. The creation of blue silk evoked the midnight sky, as it wrapped her bosom and waist in bejeweled gathers before cascading from her hips in a dark waterfall. The shamelessly cut bodice was lent a hint of respectability by folds of a shimmering diaphanous silver material draping from a choker of gems about her neck and flowing down her shoulders like moonbeams. To call them sleeves would have been a mistake, for all they concealed.
Madame Sandrine threw a teasing look over her shoulder at Blackwell. "How fitting that the color of blood is the one you prefer the most."
"Not for her," Dorian rumbled.
The seamstress lifted a winged eyebrow, but didn't comment. "Voila. I believe that is all I'll need from you today, Madame Blackwell. I can have these finished in the morning, and in the meantime I have a lovely soft gray frock hemmed with tiny pink blossoms that will bring out the color in your cheeks.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“You understand, don't you, Mrs. Mackenzie?" Blackwell murmured, his hard mouth barely moving as the intensity of his regard pinned her to her seat. "The deeds of a willful youth."
A thrill of danger kissed her spine.
"Horseshit!" Morley roared.
Dorian turned back to face him, and Farah was able to let out a breath she hadn't been aware she'd been holding as the black spell he'd woven over her suddenly dissipated.
"For shame, Morley," he mockingly chided. "Such language in front of a lady."
"She is my employee," Sir Morley gritted through clenched teeth. "And I'll thank you not to bother about her if you want to keep the vision in the eye you have left."
"I can hardly help myself. She's such a ripe piece of skirt.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“How fortunate for you that the water obscures so much." Blackwell shifted in his chair, his knees falling wider and his nostrils flaring.
"Would Dougan Mackenzie forgive this coercion?" she challenged, doing her best to ignore the stirrings of her own body. "If you owe him as much as you claim, would he not wish you to spare my modesty?"
The spark of heat in his eyes died for a moment, before flaring brighter than ever. "When we meet in hell, I'll ask his forgiveness.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Christopher Argent kept stealing disbelieving looks at Farah, his blue eyes reflecting the ambient glow like an alley cat's. Dorian understood why the man would dare in his presence.
First, because Christopher Argent was an unfeeling, fearless killer-for-hire.
And second, because most of the incarcerated men at Newgate had considered Dougan's Fairy some mythical creature, a sight too rare and beautiful to be beheld by a common man. Maybe even a fancy born of an imagination keen enough to take possession of the prison. To meet her was to gaze upon a fantasy realized, to remember the desperate yearnings of a lonely prisoner bereft of kindness, mercy, or beauty. To be blinded by the embodiment of all three of those things. For a man like Argent, one born to incarceration, the sight might have him reassessing some long-held cynical philosophies.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Still canna resist the draw of the devil."
A tremor sliced through Farah at the old woman's words. Dougan had called himself a demon the first time they'd met. If that sweet boy had been a demon, then Dorian Blackwell certainly was the devil.
And Farah was, indeed, helpless to resist his dark allure.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“As much as I approve of your change in tactics, Morley, dangling this tasty piece in front of me still won't have the desired effect." Blackwell's voice reached out to her like the first unwelcome tendrils of frost in winter. Deep, smooth, caustic, and bitter cold.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“And you consider yourself as what, some sort of Count of Monte Cristo?"
He gave a nonchalant shrug. "Not particularly, though the book is a favorite of mine."
Farah frowned. "I thought you said you couldn't read."
That Dorian Blackwell could laugh at a time like this astounded her. But he did. The sound so devoid of true mirth, it caused goose pimples to rise on her skin and her nipples to tighten painfully. It was a dark sound, like the rest of him, and it washed over her with chilling totality.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Her eyes were liquid silver as they narrowed at him, swirling with as many mysteries as the stars in the night sky. "I want a family," she murmured. "And I'll do what I must to get it."
The naked, aching honesty in her voice pierced him with a poisoned arrow, and he could feel the toxins spreading through his blood. Soon he would be completely paralyzed, a victim of the opposing forces now quarreling inside him like two wolves fighting for dominance. The two strongest emotions known to man.
He took in a deep breath, the scent of her honey soap and the lavender water evading his senses with the subtlety of a Roman legion.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“His tongue split her in one long lick. He growled against her, and Farah whimpered in reply, unable to stop herself.
But she didn't say a word. Not. One. Word.
Blackwell had become that jaguar she'd evoked the first time she'd laid eyes on him. His shoulders rolled and bunched just so as he settled in for a feast. He left no part unexplored. His bold tongue found places she'd never known she possessed. He parted her with his fingers, exposing her in a way so absolute, she could barely stand it. And yet, she read the veneration on his face as he looked at her, as he tasted her, as if he committed every single crevice and protuberance to memory. He learned very quickly what made her gasp, what caused her to arch or retreat. He played like a man who'd only just learned how. Testing her reactions, re-creating sensations, enjoying a bit of cruelty as only the Blackheart of Ben More could. Driving her to the edge of her wits and then pulling back, leaving her groaning, straining, and sweating.
She jerked as his finger found its way inside her slick channel, and the vibration of his groan against the soft hood of flesh he'd sucked into his mouth with a flattened tongue shattered her composure.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“But, to her ultimate surprise, a tight, aching heat bloomed low in her belly, starting in her womb and reaching for the shaft of branding heat plunging and retracting from inside her.
Her lips parted of their own accord, and a small sound of delighted surprise escaped.
Blackwell's eyes sharpened. Questioned.
Farah's body answered without thought. A lift of her hips, a press of her thighs, and a soft moan of encouragement.
It was all he needed.
Blackwell didn't kiss or taste her. Instead he watched her face with an intensity that abashed her. Every flutter of her eyelid, or intake of breath, the way her lips parted or pressed together. His body again became a conduit of her gratification.
It shocked her how he could support his heavy frame all this time on one powerful arm, but the thought dissipated as he used his other hand to explore her, rendering her mind useless and directing her awareness like a symphony conductor. He traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbones, as though committing her to memory, or visiting one, she couldn't be sure.
As the slow pressure mounted, her moans became mewls, her mewls became cries. His finger drifted along the outline of her lips, slipping past her teeth and leaving the taste of sex on her tongue. Sex and leather. She closed her lips and rolled the glove between her tongue and the roof of her mouth, feeling the hard ridge of his fingers beneath.
He hissed, growled, and pulled his hand away, drawing it down to her hip and gripping the curve of her ass, spreading her wider for his accelerating thrusts.
Farah's head tossed against her pillow, her eyes rolling back into their sockets, retreating from sight, as her other overwhelmed senses demanded her attention.
Leather and sex. Darkness. Spice. Chilly air. Hot Blood. Textiles. Smooth, slick flesh. Wide, hard male.
A mouth on hers. A tongue thrusting inside, tasting the essence of her he'd left there, lapping at it.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Dorian--- please!" Her voice trembled, her muscles clenched around his shaft.
"I'm sorry," he gasped as a new blaze ignited on the embers of his previous climax. She would hate him. He already hated himself. But she felt so good, and he'd waited so long. "I'm sorry but I--- I can't stop."
"No," she gritted out, her voice low and guttural. "Please--- faster."
He fucked her then. One hand bracing her hip, the other grasping the hair at her scalp, imprisoning her head and exposing her throat as he piston into her tight body again and again.
Little pants of demand escaped her. Tight whimpers of pain or pleasure. Then she bucked against him, a reedy cry becoming a shrill one. She twisted and writhed, pulled and arched as her intimate muscles drew another soul-shattering climax from him. He could feel his seed leaving him and pouring into her. He sank deep enough to touch her womb with his own flesh.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“I'm going to devour every inch of you," he growled into her ear, setting her blood on fire, incinerating any incoherent thought she might have had left. "But first..."
His cock settled against the throbbing slit of her body, and Farah was only able to produce a mewl of demand before he found his way, and slid inside with a low groan.
Hot breath brushed her cheek, but they only touched where their bodies joined.”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“They each gasped at the feel of her tight flesh gripping at him as he pulled away, and welcoming him deep as he returned.
Farah clothed at the impossibly powerful muscles of his back, feeling more interruptions to the smooth skin that shouldn't be there.
She kissed him harder, pouring all her love into him.
Dorian drank from her lips and pushed himself deeper, his height making the union of their mouths difficult if their bodies were to stay clasped together.
Farah buried her face into his neck, unwilling to let the magnificent sensation of his flesh fused to every inch of hers end. He rocked deep within her, curling his spine in slow, painstaking thrusts.
She became a creature of pure need, bottomless desire, and shameful appetites. Her bones relished his weight. Her sex hungrily took every bit of his, stretching and lifting to receive the man she loved.
"You're so warm," he moaned. "So fucking soft." He said other incoherent things against her hair. Made vows. Gasped curses. He was her jaguar, his movements so lithe and graceful. His body so perfect and powerful.
She thrust upward, her moans becoming supplications. Her hands wandered inquiringly down the straining cords of his back to grip the muscles of his buttocks as they clenched and released.
The tide of ecstasy flooded her so swiftly and took her so high, that she almost missed the violent jerks in his hips as he buried himself only a handful of times before seizing on a shuddering convulsion”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman

“Stay with me," she encouraged. "Let me feel your skin move along mine."
"Yes," he hissed, finally moving his hips.
They each gasped at the feel of her tight flesh gripping at him as he pulled away, and welcoming him deep as he returned.
Farah clutched at the impossibly powerful muscles of his back, feeling more interruptions to the smooth skin that shouldn't be there.
She kissed him harder, pouring all her love into him.
Dorian drank from her lips and pushed himself deeper, his height making the union of their mouths difficult if their bodies were to stay clasped together.
Farah buried her face into his neck, unwilling to let the magnificent sensation of his flesh fused to every inch of hers end. He rocked deep within her, curling his spine in slow, painstaking thrusts.
She became a creature of pure need, bottomless desire, and shameful appetites. Her bones relished his weight. Her sex hungrily took every bit of his, stretching and lifting to receive the man she loved.
"You're so warm," he moaned. "So fucking soft." He said other incoherent things against her hair. Made vows. Gasped curses. He was her jaguar, his movements so lithe and graceful. His body so perfect and powerful.
She thrust upward, her moans becoming supplications. Her hands wandered inquiringly down the straining cords of his back to grip the muscles of his buttocks as they clenched and released.
The tide of ecstasy flooded her so swiftly and took her so high, that she almost missed the violent jerks in his hips as he buried himself only a handful of times before seizing on a shuddering convulsion”
― Kerrigan Byrne, The Highwayman