TapDanceQueen

“With each day, he felt the barriers melting. He let them melt. Because of her genuine laugh, because he caught her one afternoon sleeping with her face in the middle of a book, because he knew that she would win.

She was a criminal—a prodigy at killing, a Queen of the Underworld—and yet . . . yet she was just a girl, sent at seventeen to Endovier.

It made him sick every time he thought about it. He’d been training with the guards at seventeen, but he’d still lived here, still had a roof over his head and good food and friends.

Dorian had been in the middle of courting Rosamund when he was that age, not caring about anything.

But she—at seventeen—had gone to a death camp. And survived.

He wasn’t sure if he could survive Endovier, let alone during the winter months. He’d never been whipped, never seen anyone die. He’d never been cold and starving.

Celaena laughed at something Dorian said. She’d survived Endovier, and yet could still laugh.

While it terrified him to see her down there, a hand’s breadth from Dorian’s unprotected throat, what terrified him even more was that he trusted her. And he didn’t know what that meant about himself.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass

“Would you like to dance with me?”

He laughed. “With you? No.”

She looked at the marble floor, her chest tight. “You needn’t be so cruel.”

“Cruel? Celaena, Perrington is just over there. I’m sure he’s not happy about you being here, so I wouldn’t risk drawing his attention any more than necessary.”

“Coward.”

Chaol’s eyes softened. “If he weren’t here, I would have said yes.” (...)

“Anyway,” Chaol added, jerking his chin at Dorian, “I think you have far more attractive suitors vying for your attention. I’m boring company to keep.”

“I don’t mind being here with you.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Chaol said dryly, though he met her stare.

“I mean it. Why aren’t you dancing with anyone? Aren’t there ladies whom you like?”

“I’m the Captain of the Guard—I’m not exactly a catch for any of them.” There was some sorrow in his eyes, though it was well concealed.

“Are you mad? You’re better than everyone in here. And you’re—you’re very handsome,” she said, taking his hand in her free one. There was beauty in Chaol’s face—and strength, and honor, and loyalty. She stopped hearing the crowd, and her mouth became dry as he stared at her. How had she missed it for so long?

“You think so?” he said after a moment, looking at their clasped hands.

She tightened her grasp. “Why, if I wasn’t—”
― Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass

“To four years until freedom," she said lifting her glass.

He raised his in salute. "To you, Celaena."

Their eyes met, and Chaol didn't hide his smile as she grinned at him. Perhaps four years with her might not be enough.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass

“Two black boots came into view, then a pair of knees as someone crouched on the edge of the ring.

“Get up,” Chaol whispered. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the face. It was over.(...)

“Get up,” Chaol said again, louder. She could only stare at the white line of chalk that marked the ring.(...)

“Celaena,” Chaol said gently. And then she heard the scraping noise as his hand came into view, sliding across the flagstones. His fingertips stopped just at the edge of the white line. “Celaena,” he breathed, his voice laced with pain—and hope. This was all she had left—his outstretched hand, and the promise of hope, of something better waiting on the other side of that line.

Moving her arm made sparks dance before her eyes, but she extended it until her fingertips reached the line of chalk, and stayed there, not a quarter of an inch from Chaol, the thick white mark separating them.

She lifted her eyes to his face, and found his gaze lined with silver. “Get up,” was all he said.

And in that moment, somehow his face was the only thing that mattered. She stirred, and couldn’t stop her sob as her body erupted with pain that made her lie still again. But she kept her focus on his brown eyes, on his tightly pressed lips as they parted and whispered, “Get up.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass