Don't I? [ He makes no move to back away as she approaches other than to tilt his head as he stares down at her - but she gets her wish. The smug look on his face shifts from a careless cruelty to a sharpened one. ]
Come now, Bekah. We both know if that were true you'd still be rotting somewhere outside Florence with a dagger in your chest. Perhaps they might have put you on display. Portrait of a girl with her legs spread for the first man to pat her on the head - but I imagine something a bit shorter would suffice, history does favor its archetypes. [ And we never change. ]