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The cold is cruel, but it is not alive. It can consume you, extort you, and convince you to do unspeakable things. It can turn your enemies into body heat, and your friends into the coats you steal from their backs. The cold does not live, but there can be no ridding yourself of it.
beware the female whose desire to hurt burns hotter than her desire to heal.”
So destiny, she supposes, can fuck itself.
“Not a desirable trait, is it? For a woman to be arrogant? On a man, it charms, but in women, it corners us. A self-assured woman is either a harlot or embittered.”
“Did it scare you, Ryon? Tell me, what will you do if I kiss you again?” He grabs her wrist and pulls her down the path. “I will bury myself inside you, Dawsyn. And yes, it scares me.”
“It is my aim in life to leave an impression and I don’t much care for ensuring it be a good one.”
She wears boldness like a cloak, claims to separate desire from true attachment, but he knows he cannot do the same. He cannot have just her body and not become starved for the rest of her.
“Ryon,” she says, swallowing hard, “why did they carve my grandmother into stone?” He pauses for a long moment before he answers, “She was their princess, Dawsyn. The crown princess of Terrsaw.”
She looks exactly like the woman he first saw in the Glacian palace – like a warrior, like destruction. Like she should be his. Or he should be hers. He cannot help the lowering of his head, or the way his nose slides along her jaw. He cannot stop his lips from finding hers, like missing pieces connecting. And in every second that he knows he should stop, leave her be, he also knows he cannot possibly let her go. Because she is his. And he is hers.
he wonders if maybe this isn’t his ideal life – trailing her obnoxiously, baiting her to his desire, drawing the smart from her mouth, and pretending that nothing else exists but them.
When her palm comes to rest in the cradle of his, there is a reverence that floods his chest. He believes this is what it must be to belong. He thinks of how he would break anyone who tried to take her hand from his.
He’d promise her anything. Everything. All of it. Take it all, he thinks. Take it all.
“I cannot decide whether you are a curse or a dream.” “Can’t I be both?” she asks. “Evidently.”
