Saying what you want does take vulnerability. So does sharing who you are. It is how he felt then, that morning, and it is how he feels now, stripped and bruised, despite intentions. What she says are pretty words, and if she means them... If. And even if she does, she's been, ostensibly until this moment, unwilling to at every turn of hardship. When she disappeared. So many moments of tenderness, turning a blind eye. When he told her all this.

When he speaks, his voice is roughened, merciless despite the strain. He is afraid too. Of course he is afraid, and hurt, and angry. His words come quick, on the very heels of her own. "There are centuries of blood on my hands; the cruelty for which I am known is legend." Elena was not the first of his victims, nor was she the last, and the chances that another might follow him here are not small. That he already has and would make another, not small. "If that is something you cannot handle, if it's something you cannot accept—" Feeling crowds his throat, takes his voice for a pause, for this is truly what this is about, for him. "—about me."

He wants to be known. Accepted. Cared for. He deserves; he demands it. It's been easy for her to turn her head from what she doesn't want to see or feel. And perhaps he's been just as selfish, just as reticent, letting her. Letting himself. Because it would be easier to lose something you didn't care about. That you couldn't care about, by choice.

His voice levels. His gaze fills with fortified will. "If you cannot accept me — I would rather live with the disappointment."