Sascha

“It is only a few days by wyvern from the Wastes to Rifthold.” Her eyes were wary, and yet—yet that was a slight smile. “I think Bronwen and Petrah will be able to lead if I occasionally slip away. To help with rukhin.”
He saw the promise in her eyes, in that hint of a smile. Both of them still grieving, still broken in places, but in this new world of theirs… perhaps they might heal. Together.
“You could just marry each other,” Yrene said, and Dorian whipped his head to her, incredulous. “It’d make it easier for you both, so you don’t need to pretend.”
Chaol gaped at his wife.
Yrene shrugged. “And be a strong alliance for our two kingdoms.”
Dorian knew his face was red when he turned to Manon, apologies and denials on his lips. But Manon smirked at Yrene, her silver-white hair lifting in the breeze, as if reaching for the united people who would soon soar westward. That smirk softened as she mounted Abraxos and gathered up the reins. “We’ll see,” was all Manon Blackbeak, High Queen of the Crochans and Ironteeth, said before she and wyvern leaped into the skies.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Kingdom of Ash

“Remember what they made you do,” Manon said, “when you face them again.” “I doubt I’ll ever forget it, witchling.” He stood, heading for the door. Manon said, “These chains are rubbing my skin raw. Surely you’ve some sympathy for chained things.” Dorian paused. She lifted her hands, displaying the chains. “I’ll give my word not to do any harm.” “It’s not my call. Now that you’re talking again, maybe telling Aelin what she’s been pushing you about will get you on her good side.” Manon had no idea what the queen had been demanding of her. None. “The longer I stay in here, princeling, the more likely I am to do something stupid when you release me. Let me at least feel the wind on my face.” “You’ve got a window. Go stand in front of it.” Part of her sat up straight at the harshness, the maleness in that tone, in the set of those broad shoulders. She purred, “If I had been asleep, would you have lingered to stare at me for a while?” Icy amusement gleamed there. “Would you have objected?” And perhaps she was reckless and wild and still a bit stupid from blood loss, but she said, “If you plan to sneak in here in the darkest hours of the night, you should at least have the decency to ensure I get something out of it.” His lips twitched, though the smile was cold and sensuous in a way that made her wonder what playing with a king blessed with raw magic might be like. If he’d make her beg for the first time in her long life. He looked capable of it—perhaps willing to let a little cruelty into the bedroom. Her blood thrummed. “As tempting as seeing you naked and chained might be …” A soft lover’s laugh. “I don’t think you’d enjoy the loss of control.” “And you’ve been with so many women to be able to judge a witch’s wants so easily?” That smile turned lazy. “A gentleman never tells.” “How many?” He was only twenty—though he was a prince, now a king. Women had likely been falling over themselves for him since his voice had deepened. “How many men have you been with?” he countered. She smirked. “Enough to know how to handle the needs of mortal princelings. To know what will make you beg.” Never mind that she was contemplating the opposite. He drifted across the room, past the range of her chains, right into her own breathing space. He leaned over her, nearly nose-to-nose, nothing at all amused in his face, in the cut of his cruel, beautiful mouth, as he said, “I don’t think you can handle the sort of things I need, witchling. And I am never begging for anything again in my life.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Empire of Storms

“But would you bleed red, or black?” “I’ll bleed whatever color you tell me to.”
― Sarah J. Maas, Throne of Glass

“You cannot pick and choose which parts of her to love.”
― Sarah J. Maas