Their love was unlovely: Caranthir’s hands were red with the blood of the kin he had slain, and Haleth’s were stained with the blood of the kin she had failed to defend; and they each bore their griefs and regrets inexpertly, sharp-edged and ragged, jutting into each other’s unguarded places and slicing open scars until their hands were bloodied again.

He was capricious and quick to anger, and she was proud and willful; and the only compromises they could settle on were those of fevered touches and searing kisses, where their anger and passion transformed into something binding, something unifying—a shared rage at the nature of their kinds that dictated that their love wasn’t meant to be, even as they bound themselves tighter together; a shared fear of their vulnerabilities, even as they bared themselves to each other.

As unlovely as their love was, it was theirs, and they would let none take it from them.