Alright, he was a bastard, he was a cunt – but maybe if she hadn’t needled at him so constantly over the years, they could have still been happy in spite of him? But Ambrosia could never just fuck him without trying to fuck him at the same time – never in her life had she ever been content to let things lie. She liked her vendettas too much to ever settle for peace: she wanted to make them both bitter for the rest of their lives, if only she could, and so she would hold his youthful mistakes against him for all time.
But she couldn’t leave, not in the aftermath of that rage, with that revelation – she should not even leave the room like this – because he certainly couldn’t have someone else in the household asking what did they argue about this time. So the smug expression slid from his face as he reached out for her shoulders with both hands, swiftly changing tack. (What would never happen again? What else was she going to do?) “Come on,” Trystan said, beseeching, please. “Come back to bed, Ambrosia, and we can talk.” She had thought better of him, somehow, if she hadn’t believed it before – he was almost touched by it, surprisingly indebted to her and some nub of hope she had never shown. “Didn’t I try to spare you, all these years?”
But she couldn’t leave, not in the aftermath of that rage, with that revelation – she should not even leave the room like this – because he certainly couldn’t have someone else in the household asking what did they argue about this time. So the smug expression slid from his face as he reached out for her shoulders with both hands, swiftly changing tack. (What would never happen again? What else was she going to do?) “Come on,” Trystan said, beseeching, please. “Come back to bed, Ambrosia, and we can talk.” She had thought better of him, somehow, if she hadn’t believed it before – he was almost touched by it, surprisingly indebted to her and some nub of hope she had never shown. “Didn’t I try to spare you, all these years?”
