He had expected her to fade and fail within days of her father's death. She had capitulated so rapidly to his own aggression that he was certain direct abuse would be the end of her. Her persistent survival in the face of her situation sent a flicker of respect into the shadowy corners of his mind where he hid the emotions it was better to ignore.

That illumination bought her advice, words he had not intended to say coming forth to help ease her way in what limited way he could. She didn't react to him at all, neither with the cringing fear he had expected or the thankful protestations he feared. She simply put his recommendations into action, folding under the verbal and physical abuse that he knew could not be avoided and surviving anyway with a tenacity that belied the fragility of her appearance. He had never had any pretensions to heroism, but he caught himself wishing once that he could do more for her before he cut that line of thought off sharply. There was no space in his life for heroes or ladies or wishes; obedience and revenge were all he had room for, along with the bone-deep fear that he buried beneath chill focus.

He didn't notice the precise moment when her idealism was lost. All he knew was that there was a time when her eyes had shone with the absurd conviction that there was such things as loyalty and honor and goodness, and one day he realized that her delusions had vanished. She had looked straight at him, her dull gaze fixing on his face with no particular interest but none of the horror he usually faced.

If he had had any idealism of his own left, he would have been appalled at her lack of response. As it was, he felt something that was the closest to pleasure he had felt in a very long time.