A Dowry of Blood (A Dowry of Blood, #1)

by S.T. Gibson

ven loneliness, hollow and cold, becomes so familiar it starts to feel like a friend.

This is my last love letter to you, though some would call it a confession. I suppose both are a sort of gentle violence, putting down in ink what scorches the air when spoken aloud.

The people only call me cruel because it is easier to think of a woman as cruel than competent.

More often than not, love ends in tragedy, but we go on loving in the hope that this time, it will be different.

“Love makes monsters of us, Constanta, and not everyone is cut out for monstrosity.

“It would be easier if he hated us,” she said. “But he loves us all terribly. And if we go on letting him love us, that love is going to kill us. That’s what makes him so dangerous.”