Her mind buzzed dimly as her mother's words swarmed through her: Regina's true love, Cora, killed, Snow told, someone else, true love, didn't everyone only have one true love, wait, why the fuck does it matter to me, Regina, cursed everyone because of that pain, her True Love, killed, not me...
The blonde struggled to keep her face neutral, cool, collected, as calm as she wanted to feel.
She stared at her mother as her soul - I saved Regina's soul: I only wish I'd known then what from - writhed in the agony, unable to understand why she cared that Regina's true love was dead, murdered, the grief the seemingly untouchable woman endured, that the woman's true love was gone and was... not her.
It had only been sex. Not even making love - she wasn't sure if she knew what that felt like - but fast, hard, angry, lustful, painful, hate-filled sex, moments stolen from her life like the older woman stole wetness from her core, a way of venting their anger at each other to make sure they didn't actually kill each, to make sure Henry wouldn't wind up completely motherless, to make sure they could each angrily give the other what she deserved and leave her open, soaking in her own cum and desperate, alone, on the kitchen floor.
It had only been sex. So why did her heart drop out of her chest, squeezed as Graham's was one final time, when she heard her mother, as though from a great distance, answer the question she had asked long ago: How in the hell did you get like this?
"Regina."
She forced the name out of her lips with disdain, growing bitterness, grief, rage that she had fucked this exquisitely powerful - vulnerable, heartbroken - woman so many times and was never allowed into her deep enough to have this question answered by the brunette herself, betrayal that she was really just being used, that her body was a conduit for Regina's own rage and lust and grief, not a growing lo - No.
It had only been sex. Passionate, incredible, angering, lustful, painful, purely orgasmic sex. It wasn't an expression of anything deeper. There was nothing deeper. She had only saved Regina - time and time and time and time again - for Henry. And even if she hadn't, Regina had her true love. That could never - she thought - be her. Be Emma. Grief and rage burned inside her.
Do I want to be her true love? Did I think I was? Whoa, Swan. This is the Evil Queen you're talking about. It was only sex to her. She's had her true love. And it ain't you.
"Regina. That's who we should blame."