More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
“Men in particular are draining, they bleed us dry. They demand we carry their burdens, fix their ills. A man is constantly in search of a good woman, but what do they offer us in return?”
She tried, fruitlessly, to see him. She saw only Tristan instead.
“Varona isn’t Rhodes,” Tristan said, the edges of his shield flickering a little. “They are not interchangeable.”
but he had made no attempts to stop himself, and there was no recovering from what he now understood he craved. Which was, quite unfortunately, Elizabeth fucking Rhodes. And truly, it was a craving—nothing so intentional as wanting. Some chemical reaction was responsible, or demonic possession, or some other tragic malformation that people wrote books about surviving.
The symptoms preempted the condition, or perhaps the condition had existed (blindly, deafly, and dumbly) of Tristan having craved her all along.
And I wouldn’t have come here at all if it weren’t for you.”
The Libby Rhodes that Tristan knew was a collection of imperfections, a constellation of absentminded marks. Of things she tried so meticulously to hide, but never from him. So this was someone very like her, then. This was someone’s Libby Rhodes, but not theirs. Not his.
