"Yeah, and for the record, it's the truth. I could have lied, but I figure you're tough. I thought you might appreciate that much courtesy at least." Maybe he was taking his life in his hands - yeah, probably so - but he turned sideways and propped himself on his elbow, using his free hand to brush her hair from her face. He wouldn't dare accuse her of being frightened, but it was fairly obvious that she had been considerably more rattled by the experience than he had been. She was softer than he had thought, in so many ways.
"All right," he said, trying to soften his tone as well as his expression. "Let's try this. Yes - I want you to stay, obviously. I'd rather have spent the evening thinking about you than dealing with all of that. If you're still considering it, I can see if I can distract you."
His genuine decency was startling. Not in the way that Damia didn't think him capable of it, but for someone to be decent and kind with her was-- for once, it didn't remind her of the dead lover she left in an alleyway, as someone who was undeserving of kindness after what she'd been commanded to do, but more of the girl who paraded through mud in her pretty dresses, always looking forward to the goodness and warmth of her father. He was good to her, better than anyone had ever been, even though she'd taken his wife, and how she always became so terribly excited over the notion of being swept into a hug or having her messy hair tucked behind an ear.
But she wasn't soft: she was brittle, composed though she often was. So many years of remorse, of conflicting feelings of duty and what was honorable and how she'd never received that kiss goodbye-- they would all come crashing down on her, sooner or later.
You're already distracting me, was her first thought, but the words that spilled from her lips gave no such indication that he had a greater affect on her than he might have realized. "You mean to say you don't often fantasize about council members coming to gut you like a fish?" Obviously, sarcasm took priority.