The Six Deaths of the Saint (Into Shadow, #3)

by Alix E. Harrow

Your joints grated, and your vision spun in sickening lurches, but you rose, because she was a saint and you were nothing, because no one had ever needed you before.

to love everyone that needs you. you don't love them, you love being to use.

And you found you did not mind being a devil, so long as you were his.

oh! to feel the madness, the obsession

you thought again, even more viciously, in a kind of terror: He loves me.

You didn’t always recognize yourself in their songs—you were no great beauty, and your sword was not forged in hellfire—but you recognized your enemies.

laughter of men who knew they would die in the morning.

i love women.

You saw yourself as an unholy triptych, three into one, one into three: she the girl, you the Devil, and I the Saint. And you understood, finally, that there had never truly been a she or a you but only a terrible, lonely I.

this is so perfectly worded

Gwynne’s voice cut through yours, his brow still resting heavily on your forehead. “I would rather love a coward than mourn a legend.”

That I have lived and killed and lived again in the name of a man who does not deserve it because I wanted so badly to be beloved.

I know him, and in knowing him I love him, and in loving him I cannot do as he wishes.