“And he made love to her, offering his body in both tenderness and anger, unsure which was the best way to pass her bits of his soul so that she could patch her own with it”

“His mother had been the world to him, and although she had done her best to prepare him, he had been too young to fully understand what death meant—until she was gone, and the great, raw, gaping hole in his heart could not be filled or patched or mended. He looked for her everywhere, even after he had been shown her body—looked and looked and she could not be found.”

“He had preserved the best part of her and made it his own: the principle of her scent.”

“She wanted nothing that he could offer her, except perhaps his absence.”

“He treasured her, treasured her tears, treasured her love for others. Her heart might even be big enough to fill that empty space in his own chest. Perhaps she could be his heart as well.”

“His gaze held hers, and his voice was tender and rough. “Love me, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth felt a tremor run through her entire body, but she looked at him without flinching. “I do.”

“He offered her the world. She said she had her own.”

“The instant he knew he loved her, she slipped down his body and out of his arms.”

“When you were the son of evil, there was little you couldn't do, own, or kill, and yet her mortal self was an elusive trophy he could touch, but not put on his shelf.

This made her rare. This made her precious.

This made him… love her.”

“His love for her was a gift he gave her daily, expecting nothing in return. He walked at her side, his love for her a torch to guide her footsteps along the dark path she walked.”