Her cry froze him in place, a sound that he had never in his worst nightmares expected to be the cause of. He had broken mugs and plates at the farmhouse when his temper boiled over, but he had never come close to hurting Rory. He had hoped - assumed, prayed - that Amalia was safe from him as well. That he would control himself around her, hold the anger back and apologize as she deserved. But first the apology wouldn't pass his prideful lips and then his temper had risen, held back only by that same pride. When one broke the other was freed, but at what cost?
"Amalia..." he whispered, eyes so fixed upon the burns upon her skin that he missed the dawning horror in her eyes. Her words were softly spoken but they seemed to echo within the quiet bakery, dropping like a forge hammer against steel. He flinched from them, from her, fingers flexing his claws deeper into his flesh. The words could not be unsaid, though he still had not decided whether or not to tell her, to worry her... or to trust in her strength, as he had trusted in Rory's.
Like a marionette with its strings cut he collapsed back into his seat, unable to look at her as he curled forward, forcing his fox's claws to retract back to human nails and staring dully at the damage he had done to himself and the black-streaked blood that pooled in his palms. A shudder wracked him as he nodded, unable to deny the evidence he had unintentionally let loose.
"I'm sorry, Ama," he said softly, sweet tenor turned rough and thready. "I... for everything. I'm sorry. I can't even help you tend the burn..." Not with blood on his hands like a red-stained accusation of his sins. Though if it had truly represented his mistakes he would have been awash in it up to his shoulders. "I should..." He hesitated, then looked up at her at last, guilt and anguish a match for the simmering anger still in his eyes. "I should go. But... I don't want to leave you again. Not like this."
"Amalia..." he whispered, eyes so fixed upon the burns upon her skin that he missed the dawning horror in her eyes. Her words were softly spoken but they seemed to echo within the quiet bakery, dropping like a forge hammer against steel. He flinched from them, from her, fingers flexing his claws deeper into his flesh. The words could not be unsaid, though he still had not decided whether or not to tell her, to worry her... or to trust in her strength, as he had trusted in Rory's.
Like a marionette with its strings cut he collapsed back into his seat, unable to look at her as he curled forward, forcing his fox's claws to retract back to human nails and staring dully at the damage he had done to himself and the black-streaked blood that pooled in his palms. A shudder wracked him as he nodded, unable to deny the evidence he had unintentionally let loose.
"I'm sorry, Ama," he said softly, sweet tenor turned rough and thready. "I... for everything. I'm sorry. I can't even help you tend the burn..." Not with blood on his hands like a red-stained accusation of his sins. Though if it had truly represented his mistakes he would have been awash in it up to his shoulders. "I should..." He hesitated, then looked up at her at last, guilt and anguish a match for the simmering anger still in his eyes. "I should go. But... I don't want to leave you again. Not like this."
