Prisoner of Night (Black Dagger Brotherhood, #16.5)

by J.R. Ward

“This is bullshit.” Chalen’s pockmarked face twisted into a nasty smile. “No, it is the consequence of your and your brother’s decisions. He chose to steal from me. You chose to intercede on his behalf. You are chafing under decisions made freely, and that is folly considering you could have stayed out of this.You opened these doors. If you do not like the rooms revealed, that is nothing I, nor any other, can help you with.”

The male had an ass that went on for days. Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaays.

‘Whether you believe you can or believe you can’t, you’re right’?

Why did people always learn things about themselves too late, he thought.

Then again, grief was not like gravity. There was no reliable law to it, no fixed rate of falling, no universal application. The only parallel was that it was everywhere and always with you to varying degrees, weighing you down. Sometimes crushing you like a falling mountain.

you cannot feed the truth to people. They have to see it themselves if they’re going to.”

Sometimes the worst part about trauma was not going through it. It was the aftermath, when you were free.