[ Sweet. The word sticks. His brow furrows as he looks at her, like he's looking for a lie. Not that he doesn't think he hasn't been (nor does he feel a tremendous amount of uncertainty as to her affection for him, in part because they're here, and in part because of an unfortunate streak of innate narcissism), but— some part of him thinks it might be a lie, nonetheless.

How many sweet words had he offered to those he'd drawn into the dark? How many of them had found him gentle, affectionate, unmooring? The guilt he feels is complicated by the fact that it had been a necessary part of survival; it had either been him or them, and it wasn't like Cazador to make even death an easy means of escape. Had they met any earlier, either she'd have driven a stake through his heart, or he'd have lured her back to the Palace without a second thought.

The sigh he lets out, as such, is unintentional, something he only catches once it's already left his chest, wistfulness he immediately dismisses with a click of his tongue. ]

I wouldn't say you went looking for it, [ he says softly, about as kind a thing as he's ever said thus far. Then, lightly, for the sake of balance: ] But, no, I suppose I didn't have to be.

[ Still, he doesn't pursue that line of thought, doesn't speak aloud the aren't I nice that he might, were this conversation anything other than what it is (were they not alone). Instead, he turns onto his back, though he doesn't pull his hand away. (Her hand feels so warm in his — small, almost, more delicate than one might expect from someone so proficient in battle.) ]

I know what that's like. To be taken.

[ He keeps his face turned toward the sun, his gaze on the clouds that lazily float through the sky above them. ]

I wouldn't subject you to that again.