She met him eye to eye, her glare morphing briefly to a grimace as he downed his firewhiskey like water. 'Perhaps it will burn some sense into you.' She doubted it, but the thought was a pleasant one. She considered his words carefully, more so than she wished when her hackles were up, but whatever his ignorance, she knew how he would react to her snapping. Sulking in his chair and sucking up liquor was a sure sign he was inches from shutting down on her, yet again. She would have to tread carefully. How did she seem so capable of pushing him to retreat inside at the slightest provocation?

"I do not want you to feel guilty. And I don't want to fight with you." Deciding against a direct approach, she gave a wave of her hand, satisfied as his glass filled again. The simple act of magic gave her a moment's calm, a sense of much-needed control as she watched the whiskey rise. He rattled her. With unnerving precision, he got underneath her skin and found where she was most vulnerable, and made it seem so simple. But he was her husband and if she'd learned anything from her first marriage, it was her responsibility to do the adapting. Merlin knows men seemed incapable.

"Let's compromise: I vow to consider your offer," she'd already considered it and it wasn't going to bloody happen, "and I need a vow from you. Whatever your desires, my quarters and yours are for you and me. Your affairs stay in the guest quarters where they belong." The sour taste now in her mouth was irrelevant.

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