He knew very well that he was not a good man. His past was filled with death and blood. The only beauty to which he had ever laid claim was his voice, his voice, and now her. There was nothing he could offer her that she had not already given him twice over. "I will try," he said, struggling with the words. Try. Try to what? Deserve her love? It was impossible. "To be," he fought, "To be better. For you."
Impossible. Impossible. He let out a low curse, then realized how tightly he held to her hand and released her as if she'd burned him. She had, in her way.