The words may as well have been tangent objects, because that's exactly what it felt like. Booker's face mirrored as much. Her words cut into him worse than the glass of any of the windows he'd been thrown through from Columbia, or any shrapnel that exploded during the war.
An array of emotions spread along his face before they settled into one. Shock, confusion, pain, and then indignation. What Booker was more irritated at, himself, or Elizabeth, he didn't know. There were too many feelings to process at once that he wasn't at all familiar with that could coexist. Because of that, and because she clearly had struck him deeply, he let all of those settle under the more commonly surfaced anger that set his jaw so tight he thought his face would snap.
He knew deep down she didn't mean it, if only by the look on her face and the quick manner in which she took to apologizing. Cruel and callous wasn't within her. Whatever had frightened Elizabeth was making her act out. Yet he was already full of insecurity when it came to trying to be what he was supposed to twenty years ago, and while Elizabeth was subject to change her mind, he did worry he was doing it wrong and would eventually fail her anyways. If the words were so easy to say, maybe she did think it from time to time, or it had been something she'd needed to get off of her chest.
What he wanted to do was leave. Before he or she did or said anymore that would only make things worse. For some reason he found himself unable to move, and ultimately, at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say, you're right? Apologize again?
"Told me what." Finally he was able to force it out, tucking his hands under his arms so they wouldn't shake, his eyes falling from her to the guns and books on the table.