Threads That Bind (Threads That Bind, #1)

by Kika Hatzopoulou

fear didn’t numb you. It made you cautious, alert.

Only moira-born, descendants of the goddesses of Fate, could see the lines of silver that sprouted from every person, connecting them to the things they loved most in the world.

There is violence in kindness, and kindness in violence.”

Lies curdled love into something sour and noxious.

All these people like her, the other-born and the immigrants and the lower-class who no one would hire, they didn’t let the good get stolen from them, did they? It got nicked little by little, every time they were fired with no back pay, or their apartment application was denied for no reason, or they got looks of suspicion on the trolley. To assume they let it happen was to make them responsible for a system that was rotten long before they ever came along.

The cutter the unseen blade the reaper of fates she watches silver like a sign she weeps silver like a mourning song she holds silver like a blade she cuts the thread and the world ends

“You might survive,” Io told Edei, “but tolerating wickedness seems to me just a slow kind of death.”

twofold: first, because it reminded Io that she was a coward. It was safe to love people from afar, to dream of kisses but never seek them.

She looked like a volcano about to erupt, all molten lava and sulfurous clouds. Io had the urge to march right over and poke her in the stomach. Watch her go boom.

Their life had been hard, but whose wasn’t? And life could be hard and happy at the same time, couldn’t it?

“Someone wise told me once that tolerating wickedness is just a slow kind of death.”

“I think the people we love can be cruel. Our love doesn’t absolve them. Nor should it.” “What kind of person are you,” Edei whispered, “if you love someone who is cruel?” It was a question Io had often asked herself. She opened her mouth, closed it. Tried again. “You’re someone who loves. That’s it. That’s the only part that’s yours to give and yours to take.”

Her heart was exploding with relief. It was out. It was over. She had chosen to take a leap of faith, claim her fate-thread, and kiss him. She chose to risk her heart; if her heart ended up broken, then so be it. She was free now. To love. To get hurt. To stitch herself back together. To love again, without guilt, and, one day, be loved in return.

It was true: she had wronged and hurt and been hurt in return. But that didn’t make her ugly or worthy of this noxious punishment. Things weren’t really that uncomplicated. Black and white, crime and death, love and hatred. There were gradients, Io had realized. Endless shades of gray.