"Is that what you desire, Alexandrie?" Voice still flat. Clipped. He wishes he had a drink in hand; he wishes that he might be drunk, to dull all of the confused feelings within him. Because all inside is a miserable tangle, a mess of humiliation and grief and - and frustration, because if she'd just been honest instead of being a blasted Orlesian everything would have been different. Everything would have been different. Not all for the better, but all for the easier; his life would have been less lean, less hard, less cold, less bitter. And she wouldn't have ended up with her fucking Vint - maybe wouldn't be here at all, wouldn't be scarred and hurt and battle-worn. But she had to be a fucking Orlesian.

Why would you ever cry for me?

"You know me. I live to serve. If you want me to hurt you, I'll hurt you."

But there's satisfaction in it, in the cruelty of his indifferent stance. No doubt she wants passion; he knows that what will sting most of all is nothing.