She made a sound, something soft, and her eyes slid to the place where he'd put his hand. He sounded solid, certain, and his voice was like warm honey. He was here, alive, warm, breathing -- and yet, she couldn't conjure the smile he wanted her to share with him. But it did help to hear his unwavering voice, and to feel his hand over hers. She finally lost enough of the sharpness in her shoulders and the stiffness in her back to lower her forehead to his chest.
"I wanted to hurt him," she confessed in a shuttered whisper - and it was very much a confession. "I wanted to use my hands to make him sorry. He said your body was incinerated... in Libria. But before he'd explained that he'd talked with you here, I was sure you were..."
Never once had that sort of rage flooded into her. It was dark and foreign and completely shocking. Against a self-confessed trained killer, she knew she had no chance. She'd accepted this without question or hesitation, and she'd been ready... "Oh, I wanted him to hurt."