He was quiet, his breathing labored still from the high of her mouth on his own, of the taste of her skin. For perhaps the first time in his life, he did not know what to say. There was no clever way he could turn this around, no amount of charm he could use to redeem himself if she thought it despicable that he did indeed mean to kill whoever had harmed her. But there wasn't entirely much of a purpose now in trying to convince her that he had a heart when he did not. She would have to learn, eventually, that he had killed, and would kill again. For his right to hold power, to be respected and never made a victim.