Jenna Sinclair

“And what had Mary said when these fervent protestations of an undying love had been thrown at her feet? Mary, it must be remembered, was very nearly of the same age as Frank; but, as I and others have so often said before, "Women grow on the sunny side of the wall." Though Frank was only a boy, it behoved Mary to be something more than a girl. Frank might be allowed, without laying himself open to much just reproach, to throw all of what he believed to be his heart into a protestation of what he believed to be love; but Mary was in duty bound to be more thoughtful, more reticent, more aware of the facts of their position, more careful of her own feelings, and more careful also of his.”
― Anthony Trollope, Doctor Thorne

“It’s the smell of revenge. Well, it’s the smell of piss, but you get the idea.”
― S.T. Abby

“I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists. One where my heart is full. My body loved. And my soul understood.”
― Melissa Cox

“Roark reached for the 'link again, cursed himself for a fool, then turned away from it.
He wasn’t going to keep calling her, her friends, her haunts, hoping for a scrap.
Bugger that.
She’d be home when she came home. Or she wouldn’t.
Christ Jesus, where was she?
Why the hell was she putting him through this? He’d done nothing to earn it. God knew he’d done plenty along the way to earn her wrath, but not this time. Not this way.
Still, that look on her face that morning had etched itself in his head, on his heart, into his guts. He couldn’t burn it out.
He’d seen that look once or twice before, but not on his account.
He’d seen it when they’d gone to that fucking room in Dallas where she’d once suffered beyond reason. He’d seen it when she tore out of a nightmare.
Didn’t she know he’d cut off his own hand before he’d put that look on her face?
She bloody well should know it. Should know him.
This was her own doing, and she’d best get her stubborn ass home right quick so they could have this out as they were supposed to have things out. She could kick something. Punch something. Punch him if that would put an end to it. A good rage, that’s what was needed here, he told himself, then they’d be done with this nonsense once and for all.
Where the fucking hell was she?
He considered his own rage righteous, deserved—and struggled not to acknowledge it hid a sick panic that she didn’t mean to come back to him.
She’d damn well come back, he thought furiously. If she thought she could do otherwise, he had a bulletin for her. He’d hunt her down, by Christ, he would, and he’d drag her back where she belonged.
Goddamn it all, he needed her back where she belonged.
He paced the parlor like a cat in a cage, praying as he rarely prayed, for the remote in his pocket to beep, signaling the gates had opened. And she was coming home.”
― J.D. Robb, Innocent in Death