Dementoress

“I… What are you saying, Zsadist?" she stammered, even though she'd heard every word.

He glanced back down at the pencil in his hand and then turned to the table. Flipping the spiral notebook to a new page, he bent way over and labored on top of the paper for quite a while. Then he ripped the sheet free.

His hand was shaking as he held it out. "It's messy."

Bella took the paper. In a child's uneven block letters there were three words: I LOVE YOU

Her lips flattened tight as her eyes stung. The handwriting got wavy and then disappeared.
 
"Maybe you can't read it," he said in a small voice. "I can do it over."
 
She shook her head. "I can read it just fine. It's… beautiful."

"I don't expect anything back. I mean… I know that you don't… feel that for me anymore. But I wanted you to know. It's important that you knew.”
― J.R. Ward, Lover Awakened

“I should go," I said thickly. "Let me know when you want to start practice again. And thanks for...talking."

I started to turn; then I heard him say abruptly, "No."

I glanced back. "What?"

He held my gaze, and something warm and wonderful and powerful shot between us.

"No," he repeated. "I told her no."

"I..." I shut my mouth before my jaw hit the floor. "But...why? That was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. You could have had a baby. And she...she was, you know, into you..."

The ghost of a smile flickered on his face. "Yes, she was. Is. And that's why I had to say no. I couldn't return that...couldn't give her what she wanted. Not when..." He took a few steps toward me. "Not when my heart is somewhere else.”
― Richelle Mead, Frostbite

“I don't have the strength to stay away from you anymore”
― Stephenie Meyer

“No. No!” he says.
“I . . .” He looks wildly around the room. For inspiration? For divine intervention? I don’t know.

“You can’t go. Ana, I love you!”
“I love you, too, Christian, it’s just—”
“No . . . no!” he says in desperation and puts both hands on his head. “Christian . . .”
“No,” he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t move. What?
“Christian, what are you doing?”
He continues to stare down, not looking at me.
“Christian! What are you doing?”
My voice is high-pitched. He doesn’t move.
“Christian, look at me!” I command in panic. His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards me passively with his cool gray gaze—he’s almost serene . . . expectant.
Holy Fuck . . . Christian. The submissive.”
― E.L. James, Fifty Shades Darker