Not prepared? He thought she wasn't fucking prepared? As if he could say anything that would be a surprise? Her dark eyes narrowed and she lifted her chin, her hands falling to her sides, fingers splaying then curling tight again. But the next statement turned her hands into fists.
"You think it was fucking me?" she asked, incredulous. It was all she could do not to hit him, and the effort was clear. She stared defiantly into his stoic face, the hard planes, the stony eyes. "You get one thing straight," she hissed, "There's nothing fucking wrong with me. Have you ever tried living in two worlds? Serving two kings completely - when those kings seethe at each other constantly? Trying to fight for one side with your children when the other has family behind its lines? Have you ever had to be two things at once, for the benefit of the ones you'd die for? Try it, Akheron, just fucking try it, and then tell me there's something wrong with me. My Akheron never understood. My Phobos -- al.. Almost did, he almost..."
Her chest felt twisted and cold inside. The anger was slipping into something deeper, something she worked hard to deny. And why the fuck was it coming out now? Anger was better; anger was hot and bright; anger didn't despair. She swallowed and reached for it -- but it was failing her right here in front of this version of a brother she'd loved -- loved, despite all his shortcomings. "You don't know anything..." she whispered, before the words clogged in her throat.