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“You know the problem with this place?' I tug my arm back again, but he holds fast. 'Besides you touching things that don't belong to you?' My eyes narrow on him. 'I'm sure you're going to tell me.' My stomach flutters as his thumb brushes my pulse and he releases my wrist. I answer before I can think better of it. 'Hope.' 'Hope?' He tips his head closer to mine as if he wasn't sure he heard me right. 'Hope.' I nod. 'Someone like you would never get it, but I knew coming here was a death sentence. It didn't matter that I've been trained my entire life to enter the Scribe Quadrant; when General Sorrengail gives an order, you can't exactly ignore it.' Gods, why am I running off at the mouth to this man? What's the worst he'll do? Kill you? 'Sure you can.' He shrugs. 'You just might not like the consequences.' I roll my eyes and to my utter embarrassment, instead of pulling away now that I'm free, I lean in just a little, like I can siphon off some of his strength. He certainly has enough to spare. 'I knew what the odds were, and I came anyway, concentrating on that tiny percentage of chance that I would live. And then I make it almost two months and I get...' I shake my head, clenching my jaw. 'Hopeful.' The word tastes sour.” — Rebecca Yarros