He had to ignore the blood draining from her face, ignore that she shrank away from him, ignore that she was playing peacemaker.
Because he wanted her to fight him, didn't she get that? He didn't want these apologies, because he didn't want her to be sorry! For if she were sorry, if she were so well and truly remorseful for what had come to pass between them, then why did it? If the people who loved you could do this to you, then what did it even mean to be loved? Why would anyone in the world want that, when all it would do was twist you up inside, just to rip it all out in the end?
"No," he repeated, continuing to advance despite her stumble, forcing them into a corner of the carriage, waiting for her to do something, anything, "you're not going to fight with me."
It was but two steps before his arm could make contact with the wall, and he braced one hand by her ear, leaning close to her.
His voice wasn't the measured tone that he knew was one of his best weapons against her, but it was quiet, almost confident, just a lilt of desperation underlying it all. "Do you know why?"
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