Pity those who don't feel anything at all.

Rhysand stared at me for long enough that I faced him.
"Be glad of your human heart, Feyre. Pity those who don't feel anything at all.

Given a choice, it seems like pity would be easier to bear than mockery, but that's not true. Mockery hardens defenses; pity slips through, finds the softest places you have, and slices to the bone. Pity will break you, every time.

...are you as deft at handling your sword as Captain Westfall?"
"Better," he whispered in her ear.

She knew he meant it. He’d burn the library, the city or the whole world to ashes if she asked him. It was their bond, marked by blood and scent and something else she couldn’t place. A tether as strong as the one that bound her to her parents. Stronger, in some ways.

He stalked closer, his movements feline, those violet eyes turning subdued-lethal. "You're welcome, you know."

"For saving you when asked." I stiffened. " I didn't ask for anything.