" He loves her. Of this he is certain. he loves her laugh; that sharp, sudden sound; the cynical laugh that always comes out too quick, like it's ripped out of her. He loves her quick, confident grin. He loves her resilience, her bravery, even her impulsiveness. She's everything he's not: unbound, reckless, free. He's never known anyone like her. She terrifies him and he loves her so much it hurts. In all of his worst nightmares, she's dying. She's fading away in his arms, helpless and whimpering, while hot, dark blood spills over his fingers. This he tells her. He doesn't tell her that his hand holds the blade. "
― R.F. Kuang , The Drowning Faith (The Poppy War, #2.5)