"I love you," he says, smiling widely at the way Inej covers her face with her hands. "I do," he says, practically singsonging it as she bows her head and tries to hide beneath the waterfall of her loose hair.

He’s found her weakness; it isn’t her Saints or her big, beating heart—nor is it her knives when they’ve become bloodied and the hilts nicked. It’s him and his smile, the way he admires her so openly; Inej blushes so deeply behind her hands that his chilly bedroom swarms with heat.

"I love you, Inej," he smiles, ducking his head to try and spy her between the cage of her fingers, "and perhaps one day you’ll do me the honour of not blushing like a maiden when I tell you."