Ana

“Well, she is my Devil now.”
And you found you did not mind being a devil, so long as you were his.”
― Alix E. Harrow, The Six Deaths of the Saint

“Would you make a coward of me, here at the very end? After everything I've done, everything I've become—"
Gwynne's voice cut through yours, his brow still resting heavily on your forehead. "I would rather love a coward than mourn a legend.”
― Alix E. Harrow, The Six Deaths of the Saint

“You buried your face in your treacherous hands. “Gwynne,” you said. “Gwynne. I could have killed you.”
He took your hands away from your face and held them, his fingers so slim and fine around the knotted scars of your knuckles. He kissed the center of each of your palms, precisely where the priest said the Savior suffered the nails to be driven.
“Why do you stay with me? I am a devil. A butcher. Not even a butcher—his knife, falling over and over.”
Gwynne said, softly, “Before all this, before the Saint and the Prince, you were the girl who still shared her meat with the begging dogs, no matter how hungry she was. Who took a beating for a boy who deserved it, for no reason except that she could bear it better than him. Who shone, even in the shadows.” He said your name, even more softly. “You are not a knife.”
And you said, wretchedly, “But I am his.”
Gwynne did not answer. He pulled you down beside him in the tall grass and touched you in that heady, secret way that transformed the brutal weapon of your body into mere flesh. It was like shucking plate armor after a long campaign and walking naked into a river, letting the current take you. It was like surrendering on the field and finding mercy.
Gwynne touched you until you shuddered and went still in his arms.Then he whispered, so gently you barely heard it—but I did, oh, I did—“You are not his.”
― Alix E. Harrow, The Six Deaths of the Saint

“This time, when you looked into the water, you caught a fleeting glimpse of your true reflection. And it was only then, when you saw your own gory, blue-eyed face, bright hair hidden beneath rusted mail, that you understood who you were and who they were. 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.”
― Alix E. Harrow, The Six Deaths of the Saint