He turns toward me. I want to touch him, but I’m afraid of his bareness; afraid that he will make me bare too. ‘Is this scaring you, Tris?’ ‘No,’ I croak. I clear my throat. ‘Not really. I’m only…afraid of what I want.’ ‘What do you want?’ Then his face tightens. ‘Me?’ Slowly I nod.

I am his, and he is mine, and it has been that way all along.

We may both be bad, but there’s a huge difference between us—I’m not content with being this way.

Since I was young, I have always known this: Life damages us, every one. We can’t escape that damage. But now, I am also learning this: We can be mended. We mend each other.

I see a kind of thirst in her expression, the same one I saw when she told me about her brother in the back room of the tattoo parlor. Before the attack simulation I might have called it a thirst for justice, or even revenge, but now I am able to identify it as a thirst for blood. And even as it frightens me, I understand it. Which should probably frighten me even more.

Peter would probably throw a party if I stopped breathing.' 'Well,' he says, 'I would only go if there was cake.

All three combined is...a different kind of stupid formerly unheard of by humankind.