I wanted him, but I didn’t want to cry through this—warrior princesses didn’t cry when they made love to their fiendish princely husbands. But maybe they cried when the fiendish princely husband looked so heartbreakingly thin and pale. Maybe they cried when they could see Death slinking up behind him with a great scythe. Maybe then a warrior princess could cry, and rage, and catch Death by the wrists, and hold back that scythe with every ounce of will and strength she had.
