What's the matter with her? [Jasper] asked Griffin.
Griffin shook his head. 'Nothing. She's just two personas struggling for dominance in one body.'
[Jasper] ... Poor little thing.

He is dirt under fingernails and the stick of sap on skin... I am saintly, poetic; I am demise, otherworld.

Suddenly he was in the doorway, looming over her in a determined fashion. Gone was sweet, patient Griffin. This was the Duke of Greythorne, one of the most powerful men in England.
“I don’t care that you came to Dandy,” he said, his voice low, but sharp. “If you want to blame yourself for Sam’s injury, then go ahead and be a fool. And I don’t care that you could cosh my head in if you wanted. I came here to get you and if I have to, I’ll toss you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry you all the way to Mayfair. I’m taking you home where you belong.

Who do you think keeps this country safe so you can sleep at night?”
“I don’t sleep most nights. And to be honest, Your Grace, I don’t feel all that safe.

What I want from you,” he said, and Finley braced herself, “is your trust. Irrevocable and unshakable. I want you to put your life in my hands, and I want to be able to do the same without hesitation.”
Disturbed to her very soul, Finley could only shake her head. “You ask too much.” Put his life in her hands? He was deranged! A bedlamite for certain. A crooked grin curved his mouth.
“Too much? You strange and wonderful girl, that is the least I’ll ask of you.

I cannot tell my heart what to feel.