Sunt comentarii proprii, nu sunt preluate de pe internet. Toate comentariile le voi posta treptat. ^-^ 1. "Ion", de Liviu Rebreanu 2. "Luceafărul", de Mihai Eminescu 3. "Plumb", de George Bacovia 4. "Maytrei", de Mircea Eliade 5. "Povestea lui Harap-Alb", de Ion Creangă 6. "Moara cu noroc", de Ioan Slavici 7. "Baltagul", de Mihail Sadoveanu 8. "O scrisoare pierdută", de I.L.Caragiale 9.. "Ultima noapte de dragoste. Întâia noapte de război", de Camil Petrescu 10. "Enigma Otiliei", de George Călinescu 11. "Eu nu strivesc corola de minuni a lumii", Lucian Blaga 12. "Testament", Tudor Arghezi →Următoarele nu sunt încă făcute. De asemenea, la cererea voastră voi posta și : -Modele de încadrare în curentul romantic/realist/ simbolist -Schemă pentru un text argumentativ de nota zece:)

:)

Highest Ranking: #4 My eyes were wide as I slowly got to my feet, turning to yank the dagger that was embedded down to the hilt in the wall, where my head was moments ago. "What the fuck was that for?" I said in shock, completely flabbergasted as I stared at him with a bewildered look on my face. Judging by the shocked expressions on Elliot and Dylan's faces, it looked like they hadn't expected their Alpha to throw a fucking dagger at my head either. Heath flashed his teeth at me in a smile that was more predatory than pleasant. "Just making sure your arm isn't going to be a hindrance to our rescue mission." My jaw dropped. By throwing a fucking dagger at my head? Enraged, I let the burst of anger spur my next actions, and before anyone could so much as twitch, I was across the room, toe-to-toe with Heath, one hand fisting his shirt and pressing him against the edge of the desk and the other holding the blade of the dagger at his neck. I applied the slightest pressure on the blade, shallow enough it wasn't lethal, at least not for a werewolf, and deep enough so blood welled up at the thin cut. "Just making sure this isn't silver," I said mockingly, and I didn't hide my smirk when the wound didn't heal over. "Oh wait," I widened my eyes, feigning shock, "this is silver." I flashed him a wicked grin, completely unrepentant, and his eyes were a thunderous black as he looked down at me. "Oops," I smirked. "My bad."

A beat of a second passed before he slowly pulled away from me, the suffocating heat withdrawing with him as he straightened up. My eyes lifted to meet his as he released his hold on my knife, and I flicked my wrist, flipping it with ease so my hands closed around its smooth, still-warm handle. The room was silent. The ten other men seated on the couch didn't bother trying to hide the shock on their faces that a hunter had just agreed to a deal with their Alpha. I totally felt the same way, even if I was that dumb motherfucker. They seemed to be imagining what horrible, unthinkable threats he could have whispered into my ear to make me cave, but to think my resolve had dissolved with just four unexpected words from his mouth. Sometimes, I wondered if I even had a brain. "So," I said now, holding back a sigh as I looked up into those steely, unreadable eyes, "If I'm going to work with you, I'll need a name to call you by. Unless you prefer to be referred to as moody dick?" Silence followed my words. "What, don't you guys know Moby Dick?" I asked no one in particular, and ten pairs of eyes exchanged glances that further questioned my sanity. The last pair of eyes held mine steady. The ring of gold in them seemed to burn like a flickering candlelight against the night of the sea. "Heath," he said, and I could finally place his accent as the name curled and settled in my ears like a cat by the fireplace. I smiled. "Well, cool." I put my hand out between us, the one holding the knife, the silver-pointed tip facing him as I offered him a handshake. "Nice to meet you moody dick, I'm Alessandra."