...there was not enough time in life to waste on hatred. On feeling it and putting it into the world

I had done everything – everything for that love. I had ripped myself to shreds, I had killed innocents and debased myself, and he had sat beside Amarantha on that throne. And he couldn’t do anything, hadn’t risked it – hadn’t risked being caught until there was only one night left, and all he’d wanted to do wasn’t free me, but fuck me. And when Amarantha had broken me, when she had snapped my bones and made my blood boil in its veins, he’d just knelt and begged her. He hadn’t tried to kill her, hadn’t crawled for me. Yes, he’d fought for me – but I’d fought harder for him.

I turned. “I was asking about Jurian, the king, the queens, and the Cauldron, but I’m glad to know I have so many options where our relationship stands. And that you’ll do whatever I want. I must have you wrapped completely around my finger.”
His eyes danced with feline amusement. “Cruel, beautiful thing.

Don’t you—you don’t want your own space?”
“No,” he said baldly. “Unless you do. I need you protecting me from our enemies with your water-wolves.

But I wouldn’t sit in my room, couldn’t allow myself to mourn and mope and weep and sleep. So I would venture out, even if it was an agony…

That girl that had needed to be protected, who had craved stability and comfort . . . she had died Under the Mountain. I had died, and there had been no one to protect me from those horrors before my neck snapped. So I had done it myself. And I would not, could not, yield that part of me that had awoken and transformed Under the Mountain.