Avery

A woman's beauty is in her strength and her passion.

I wouldn't pick you as the kind of man who'd care to die nicely." He leant forward, lacing his hands together. "How do you think I'd like to die?" "In a blaze of ice and fury." He was from Pirenti, after all. The corner of his mouth hitched up at that, but it was a humourless expression, one filled with chipped edges and painted regrets. "And you?" he asked. " How would you like to die, Avery of Kaya?" I picked up the oars and started to row. "I'm already dead, Ambrose.

He smiled. And as I looked at the naked beauty of the expression, I fell in love with him. It was that simple, that complicated.

It's simple, being hurt. But it's complicated, loving someone.

Who has ever loved as boldly as he does?

She was abstractly beautiful, as I had always wished to be, but I now found her ugly, understanding as I did now that real beauty simply came from happiness.

And then I stopped thinking about Prince Ambrose of Pirenti, because he was destroying me.

I keep asking myself why this happened," I told him softly. "How you and I could have possibly ended up here, together. I think I'm supposed to help you realise." "Realise what?" "The man you will be.

And that was when I realised I wasn't the strongest man in the world after all. I was the weakest.

Forget dying. I suddenly wanted to inflict pain. My anger was a living, breathing thing controlling my body, making me shake. It was funny what a person with only half a soul could feel: no joy, no pleasure, no amusement, no longing or desire or fear – but they could feel anger, more keenly than if they were whole. Sharper than they ever had before they were destroyed – anger like it kept you alive, anger like air. I’d thought, many times, that it might have been only this anger that allowed me to survive at all.