Something twisted in his chest. How could she sound so calm about it? "I thought--" he started, then stopped, choked off by guilt. That wasn't the sort of man he was--at least, he hadn't thought so. At the time it had seemed alright. It wasn't as if Boyd hadn't encouraged it, but still. What had he been thinking? Had he been thinking at all?
He'd been thinking about marking her, hurting her, but not too badly, just a little, proving something somehow by not going any further even though he could have. What sort of a man was he then anyway, if the drive that made him kill made him hurt Boyd as well? It came out of the darkest, ugliest part of him. She never should have been subjected to that.