Her silence, her hesitation, stretches out the suspense until it is nothing but a sinking feeling in his gut. He waits with baited breath, waiting for it to fall, waiting for the weight to sink into his bones and curl his anger. Why? Why does he care? Why does it matter if she has been wronged? She is nothing to him…nothing but another pretty face, another game of wits and romance, another toy to play with the primal instincts that fires his veins, flooding his body until his skin becomes hot. She…should not…be…special. She should not be any different.
 
But…
 
His lies are crumbling.
 
Her voice, when it comes, cuts through the façade as if a blade has pierced him through his chest—stripping him to his core until even the desire to pretend, the game, is lost to him. Her mis-matched eyes fall from his, but he still looks at her. Tracing the lines of her face, each delicate detail, he can see the pain and the betrayal that is laced through every curve. She is hurting. He will see him pay, he will burn the gutless bastard, he will hunt and shred the sniveling little rat who had taken every intimate part of her against her will. Against her will.
 
“I didn’t want him to, didn’t want this—“
 
It is that single fact alone that is the fuel to the rage that seethes within him. Enna can have sex with anyone she wants—he doesn’t own her (he certainly doesn’t want to own her, even if he wouldn’t mind some action himself, but that’s beside the point)—and to whoever this pitiful bastard is, Rohan could care less about his loose sex life. The Gods know his own list is far from the tightest either. But for all his flaws, for all his arrogance, for all his greed, the Warlander would never take a woman against her will. He’s got enough game to seduce them to his bed all with their own free judgement. To think what kind of rat would be so cowardly—would hurt Enna—ignites a wrath that fumes and blisters in his anger.
 
“I…I’m sorry, Enna,” his voice is deeper than usual, gruff and short, the green of his eyes falling from her face to skirt across the waters. The words are not spoken as an apology, because he knows that an apology is not what she needs to hear right now. Especially from him. Still, he feels helpless, uneasy, and ignorant as to how to handle Enna’s discomfort and pain. His anger is the most familiar thing to him, and he clings to it now.  “You didn’t deserve this,” it is nearly a groan, grief and pity leaking into his expression as he glances to her. “I—don’t—” struggling with words, Rohan huffs a weighted breath, flicking his tail sharply, at a loss for advice, for assistance. This isn’t him—he doesn’t do this. But he knows he can’t abandon her as he had Iofiel.
 
He doesn’t want to.
 
Shifting his weight, the Warlander simply breathes for a short moment, reaching out to press his muzzle against Enna’s forehead, breathing in her scent, before drawing back. Her nearness helps him control his rage as much as it fuels it (the images of her being taken advantage of provoking bile to the back of his tongue) and he finds himself gritting his teeth before continuing. “A child is not his father. It is only a fool and a coward who would do this, who would leave, who would abandon you—” his voice is rising and he has to stop himself, his eyes shifting away from hers.
 
“A child is not his father,” he repeats, the timbre of his voice lower again, as if he is clutching at the words for himself. Rohan would know. Rohan Kaerji would know. Held beneath the hand of his father, pressing and wretched, he had spent every moment of his youth proving that they were not the same. He is still doing so, perhaps. From prince to vagabond—it has a fitting rebellion.
 
And so it can be for her child—her child. She only need worry about herself now, get over her grace and be selfish for once. He certainly wants to be selfish. It is not an unfamiliar fault for him—greed, lust, and selfishness—and perhaps a better person might try to reason with her, reason with that despicable bitch of a stallion, but not he. There is a primal part of him that wants to rise and dominate, if only to keep her safe, to keep her sheltered (wanting her in ways that run deeper than carnal desires, even if he doesn’t understand them) and he selfishly implores of her now. “You don’t have to see him again…do you? Protect yourself. Tell me you don’t have to see him again,” his voice is earnest, almost demanding, pleading. His body rises up where he feels like he could crumble inside, eyes searching for hers.


“Speech.”

Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,

but lend me your heart and I’ll just let you fall.

Lend me your eyes I can change what you see,

but your soul you must keep,

t o t a l l y   f r e e.