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“I have to burn,” she says. “I have to feed. But it doesn’t have to be that bright. It doesn’t have to be . . .” She pauses, again, as if words were hard to get. “It doesn’t have to harm.”
A silence. Then Giang’s touch, a faint warmth on her cheeks—not the fire of her nightmares, not the smoke and choking air of the palace, but something trembling and vivid and breathless. “You matter.”
She stops then, starts again, “Your life doesn’t come with an obligation to make mine work.”
Because—because anger is easier, and compassion hurts so much.
If love is what it takes to make her remember a girl in the midst of a fire, then how much can you trust her? How much can you trust that love?”
“I see. You could have had so much.” A gilded cage. A ring of thorns, gnawing her to the bone.
She says—because darkness needs to be faced, needs to be denied—“You would have given me so much, in exchange for me giving up everything.”
