If Patrick had said anything else – if he'd said that Will was letting his anger get in the way of sense, that Martin would get his just punishment, that beating the man bloody wouldn't take back an ounce of Clio's pain, that he was being no better than bloody Apollo – if he'd said any one of the things Will knew full well and didn't want to own – Will would have arced up. He was ready to arc up, veins pulsing with rage and adrenaline that had nowhere to go.
Instead, he froze.
Clio knew he'd killed people. He couldn't even say they'd all deserved it. Soldiers on the opposite side of a battlefield, militia men and constables swarming Sherwood at the Sheriff's command – they were kill-or-be-killed situations, yeah, but it weren't like too many of 'em had much of a choice in being there. And it hadn't always been a matter of survival. He'd never relished it, but he'd always done what had needed to be done.
She knew all that. But knowing and seeing were different things, and all the darkness Clio had endured... people she'd trusted turning forceful on her, people she loved turning violently spiteful...
She needed to be safe. To feel safe. Seeing either one of them with blood on their hands... Patrick was right. Fuck, he was right.
Will's fists tightened, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to punch something, but everything around was hers. He ended up slumped against the arm of the sofa instead. "Fuck," he hissed.