At first he couldn’t work out why she’d flinched. And then he saw the flicker of fear in her face - she couldn’t possibly be afraid of him, could she? Lorcan didn’t think anyone had ever been afraid of him in his life. Not that he was often as annoyed as he was now - he was rarely angry at all - but he’d always looked at his more tempestuous cousins and thought it would funny, to be so terrifying. But seeing that look on Maggie’s face? He hated it.
This was not what he’d wanted.
She was angry in turn, too, of course, and pushed him backwards a little, though not enough to make him stumble. His hand, emptied of the letter, loosened from the fist he’d been making, most of his anger dissipating with it, though there was an undercurrent of bitterness he still couldn’t budge.
No, she didn’t look happy. “This is exactly the way you wanted it to be,” Lorcan said flatly, which he could tell was unfair, because how on earth would Maggie have predicted this of him, that he hadn’t thought any of this through, he was only going to be more trouble - more trouble to her than he was worth. (Really, Lorcan considered, perhaps she should have had an inkling.)
He knew what he was supposed to say next to her, to try and begin making up for his letters and his ingratitude and impatience and anything else he’d done that she hated him for, and that was but I don’t hate you. And he didn’t. He hated this, but the situation hadn’t tarnished how he thought of her - fondly, still fondly. And this was what she had wanted, so it wasn’t his fault if it wasn’t all she’d cracked it up to be, and he wasn’t going to apologise. “And, whatever you say, I don’t have a problem with it,” he said with a shrug, half in challenge and half in defeat - that he’d suck it up and live with it, with private affairs and staying out of her way and whatever else she wanted - “so what’s yours?”
This was not what he’d wanted.
She was angry in turn, too, of course, and pushed him backwards a little, though not enough to make him stumble. His hand, emptied of the letter, loosened from the fist he’d been making, most of his anger dissipating with it, though there was an undercurrent of bitterness he still couldn’t budge.
No, she didn’t look happy. “This is exactly the way you wanted it to be,” Lorcan said flatly, which he could tell was unfair, because how on earth would Maggie have predicted this of him, that he hadn’t thought any of this through, he was only going to be more trouble - more trouble to her than he was worth. (Really, Lorcan considered, perhaps she should have had an inkling.)
He knew what he was supposed to say next to her, to try and begin making up for his letters and his ingratitude and impatience and anything else he’d done that she hated him for, and that was but I don’t hate you. And he didn’t. He hated this, but the situation hadn’t tarnished how he thought of her - fondly, still fondly. And this was what she had wanted, so it wasn’t his fault if it wasn’t all she’d cracked it up to be, and he wasn’t going to apologise. “And, whatever you say, I don’t have a problem with it,” he said with a shrug, half in challenge and half in defeat - that he’d suck it up and live with it, with private affairs and staying out of her way and whatever else she wanted - “so what’s yours?”
