Volterra's angry. (Angry or upset?)

The emotion is carved into the ponderous planes of his chiseled face, and drips down throughout his entire body. He should be made ugly by it—Nymeria, after all, is wet and snivelling, forelock tumbling into her eyes and tail pressed against her hind legs. Except: except he is righteous and justified, like a majestic emblem painted across a battle-worn shield; where he swells she shrinks, and where he grows she dies. It was unfair of him to do that to her; but how could she fault him for being what he was?

The forest is cold and smells like blood and ruin. Volterra’s words parallel a knife tracing the contours of her throat.

She does not condone him for his language, for his command, but neither can she disapprove entirely. Looking at him, she sees what she's been expecting the whole time: a burgeoning warlord, a future king... oh, she could elaborate on how she loathes it, loathes him, but she doesn't. What good would come of that? Better to be underestimated—or never even expected—than to be seen coming a mile away. The tears that race down her cheeks slow, instead catching on her eyelashes; she cuts back on a sob like she’s got a broken heart (but doesn’t she?)

In that moment, her preparations for self-preservation seem almost petty. They won’t be, not in the long run, but it’s difficult to remember that when he’s looking at her with his red eyes and his too-hard, too-soft face, all cracked and brittle with pain. What if I misjudged? What if she had misinterpreted the way he looked at her, when there was something of the battle still in his eyes and she could see the strain throughout his body? There are too many words vying for a place on her tongue, too many thoughts to sort through. Giving way to instinct, she gives voice to what feels the least wrong rather than most right.

“I can’t," she said, and her voice cracks, soft and weak like her. "I just… I can’t right now. Please… will you spend the night with me? We can part ways tomorrow morning. Just not tonight.” There’s something to her tone—pitched and sloping—that has it bordering on a plea, edging towards begging. Nymeria blinks, swallows, looks to him—hopeful and hurting, caring too much and not enough at the same time; and moves closer, pressing her head towards his shoulder, hiding away her face in his mane.

I'm sorry I'm not sorry.