I was not a pet, not a doll, not an animal.I was a survivor, and I was strong.I would not be weak, or helpless again I would not, could not be broken. Tamed.

No one was my master— but I might be master of everything, if I wished. If I dared.

I was not prey any longer, I decided as I eased up to that door.And I was not a mouse.I was a wolf.

Come on, Feyre. We don’t bite. Unless you ask us to.

He had stayed. And fought for me. Week after week, he’d fought for me, even when I had no reaction , even when I had barely been able to speak or bring myself to care if I lived or died or ate or starved. I couldn’t leave him to his own dark thoughts, his own guilt. He’d shouldered them alone long enough.

But I forgot to tell him,” I said quietly, opening the door, “that the villain is usually the person who locks up the maiden and throws away the key.”“Oh?”I shrugged. “He was the one who let me out.”.

I once lived in a place where the opinion of others mattered. It suffocated me, nearly broke me. So you’ll understand me, Feyre, when I say that I know what you feel, and I know what they tried to do to you, and that with enough courage, you can say to hell with a reputation. You do what you love, what you need

That girl that had needed to be protected, who had craved stability and comfort . . . she had died Under the Mountain. I had died, and there had been no one to protect me from those horrors before my neck snapped. So I had done it myself. And I would not, could not, yield that part of me that had awoken and transformed Under the Mountain.

But I wouldn’t sit in my room, couldn’t allow myself to mourn and mope and weep and sleep. So I would venture out, even if it was an agony…