The flicker of disgust or annoyance or judgment or whatever the fuck it is that creases his brow when she keeps spitting words at him is only accelerant. Good. She wants to all but shove her anger and whatever the hell else it is in this wash under his goddamn skin. It's hate. Obviously, it's hate. She hates that she touched him—even in some small, normal, stupid, average way she'd trusted him.

Even if it was just being whoever he'd been presenting himself as.

It's too tense a frisson to let herself slide where that wants to keep tracking.

She doesn't want that, as he stands rigid and unremorseful and unapologetic and unashamed, just like she expected. Because he's a goddamn fucking angel who put her boys through unspeakable shit that she's all too aware of. And somehow, even knowing it, she got had, too. Even if nowhere nearly on any kind of scale of the same sort. Because she found out first. Before he could do whatever the hell he was going to—which, of course, comes spilling out, bitter bile even with a two-edged weapon, biting both ways, but she never has backed down from dealing herself damage to throw it out.

"What was your plan? Huh?" That second part gets a sharp note and gesture. "See how long this could go? How much I might trust, or tell you, eventually? Give you a fucking in?"