The Belles Quotes

“Be the best without trying to be better than the others.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Dreams remind us of who we are and how we feel about the things around us.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Love is when hearts beat together.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Lies are as dangerous as a sword. They can cut to the bone.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“You have to decide for yourself. It is you who must live with the outcome.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“No one is a prisoner. Even you have the power to make your own choices.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“You can never be clean enough, pretty enough, or smart enough.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Envy can grow like a weed inside you. Be the best without trying to be better than the others.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“If you want to burn yourself, go ahead."
He does, and I try not to gasp. "I don't mind it. Sometimes it reminds me that I'm awake.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“I still hate the feeling in these moments that my body doesn’t belong to me. I become a doll—an object to be embellished.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Love isn’t a cage, petit,” she says. “It’s more like a post-balloon—sent off in a specific direction, but allowed to make its own path.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“She's nice," he says.

His compliment warms me.

"That's it?" the third one replies with a stamp of her foot. She shoves his shoulder and pouts, her lips a brilliant shade of coral.

"Sh's a little stubborn."

I smile.

"Can be a bit impulsive or reckless," he adds.

I scoff. Bree chuckles.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Don’t be fools. You can’t have both. Who wants love when one can be powerful?”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Love is more like a post balloon-sent of in a specific direction, but allowed to make its own path.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“I didn't mean to offend," he quickly adds.
"Then, what exactly did you mean to say?”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Some people can change, while others can’t. They’re just insects stuck in amber.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Plus, one could have young organs, but still be sick. Illness cares nothing of age.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“It took you long enough.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“He looks up and catches me watching him. He winks, I laugh and look away, willing the flush rising on my cheeks to vanish. I find him absolutely ridiculous, and a little interesting, if i'm being honest with myself.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles

“Sir, please lie down. I’m not finished.” He grabs for me—one hand closing on my wrist, the other pawing at my dress and neck. His mouth presses against my face. Panic tears at me. “Your Highness.” I push him away. “I want to know what you taste like. If being born with color changes the way you feel.” He rips one of my skirts and tries to untie my waist-sash. “You must all be different. I visited one of your sisters. The white-haired one—Edelweiss, yes, that was it—and she was lovely.” I scream out. His hands find their way under my skirts. We knock into the trays, scattering Belle-products across the floor. “I like screaming.” He hisses at me like an animal. I kick him and escape to the opposite side of the treatment table. He jumps at me again and presses me against the wall. He kisses my neck and smells my hair. I reach for the tools in my belt, grab a metal smoothing rod, and stab him with it. The rod pierces his belly. He grunts, but still pushes forward, trying to sandwich me between his body and the treatment table. I shove the rod in harder and finally make the space to slip away. “Get back here!” he bellows. “Just one kiss.” He yanks the rod out of his flesh and tosses it aside, like it’s nothing more than a splinter. He chases me around the table and catches me by the waist. I use my arcana to call the Belle-roses in the teapot back to their younger forms. They surge; the teapot explodes. The porcelain shatters. Liquid splatters all over, and he flinches as the hot droplets sting his back. I uncoil the flowers, stretching out their petals and stems. They bloom into thorny chains that I use to press Prince Alfred’s arms and legs against the wall. He fights against the restraints. “I like you. You’re feisty,” he says. Blood trickles down his arms and legs. I push the thorns deeper into his skin, then let a vine hook around his neck. He makes a kissing noise at me.”
― Dhonielle Clayton, The Belles