For all it's worth, he thinks she isn't half of what the papers make her out to be. He doesn't see any brilliant smile, nor does he witness the courageous glare in her face. For all it's worth, her height and the way her eyes stare at him, bored and already used to winning battles she shouldn't, it makes something tick in his gut. He hasn't felt like this in a long time. He hasn't felt anything for a long time. For all it's worth, he wants to know how she feels trapped beneath his fist, arteries beating in panic when his hypothetical thumb runs across her dry cheek.
He wants to see her cower in fear, but he isn't supposed to. Cyrus is not supposed to want anymore, and he knows it. Yet, he wants to inspire a sense of fear and terror and adulation onto her, wants her to see him like he is, or like the deity he will become.
He hates this; he hates her. He hates hating someone; that means they are important, and Cyrus doesn't want his heart to tell him what to do.
He just likes to think he doesn't have one anymore.