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“Tell me you don’t care!” she demands with a ferocity that’s echoed in every shove of her hands against his chest.
“I can’t do that.” He says it in such a resigned way, so hopeless and defeated that it only serves to fuel her frustration— her desperation to understand.
A part of her is clamouring for her to stop. Let go. Leave. Leave him. Save yourself. But her heart is showing and all attempts to hide it is futile. Can he see what he has done to her? Can he see what he has made of her? Can he see her shame? Her embarrassment? Her utter humiliation? Does he delight in seeing how deeply he’s snaked himself inside her? That in ripping himself away he’s left her torn and gaping?
She steps back, barely hearing his words of apology. Each step brings distance, a cold ruthless certainty born of her upbringing as her clan’s First. Her mind fights to reassert control over her bleeding heart.
It’s meaningless now, she thinks to herself. This whole thing is meaningless. Step back. Don’t waste your tears. Build your walls stronger than before. Don’t let him see any more than this.
She feels his eyes on her back as she strides away.
She disregards it. She disregards every part of her that demands that she go back.
She happens upon Cullen in the War room. She doesn’t know why her feet take her there. She supposes her mind wants to remind her of her responsibilities, to treat the wounds Solas has left upon her with the calming balm of duty.
Cullen stops in the middle of his greeting, gold eyes wide as they look upon her.
She bristles at his expression, although she enforces an outward calm. She wishes she could lean back upon her flirtatious quips, but she feels that it’s too late for them now.
“Inquisitor…” She looks upon him as he calls her name. His voice is soft, different from all the other voices of shems she’s encountered throughout her life. There’s warmth there— a fondness and sizzling attraction she’s undoubtedly had a hand in creating. She feels all too cold under the weight of his stare. She’s always thought of him as fire: passionate and ceaselessly burning— to personal ruin, to great victory. He’s broken too, she thinks idly, hairline fractures all around his spirit that no one but her and Cole could see.
Could he see the echoes of himself within her as she could with him now?
She walks over to him with a dancer’s grace, placing cold fingers against his red cheeks.
“Take me to bed.” She finds herself saying, murmuring the words against his lips. Her forest green eyes locked with his. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t ask. For that, she is thankful.
He merely nods, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, and takes her hand.
She wonders if he knows. Can he smell Cullen’s claim on her, inside of her? Can he feel the bruises in the shape of hands and fingertips on her waist, the bites on the inside of her thighs and the small of her back? Can anyone?
She doesn’t know whether or not she wants him to. She knows that she shouldn’t care. Whatever it was between them is over now. He has no hold on her, no say on who she fucks and when. She is not his just as he was never hers.
She walks inside the war room proudly, treating the slight limp in her walk like a badge of honor. Her grand entrance and her bravado, false or not, don’t matter. Her companions are all too busy with their own duties to look at her.
Only one set of eyes burn into her now. A part of her wonders if his eyes crackle like thunder in his fury. Is he furious? Jealous? Disappointed?
She shakes her head and turns her back on him proudly, a fresh love bite peeking from the collar of her shirt. She lifts her fingers to the map, drawing lines from place to place, her left palm flashing green in response.
It doesn’t matter now. Neither of them can afford to be sentimental. She thought they could but she's learned her lesson well. She can't and he doesn't deserve to.
But all that doesn't matter here. This is what he wants, what he's always wanted. As Inquisitor, it's her duty to oblige.