Chapter 13:
Listening to the most recent of countless anonymous tips regarding a certain escaped convict's whereabouts, Riley heaved an agitated sigh, "Ma'am, I seriously doubt your ex-husband is the man we're looking for."
At the woman's shrill disagreement, he replied, "Well, because until recently, William Beverley was in state custody, and had been for almost five years. May I ask when you last saw your ex?"
He pushed the phone's receiver into the crook of his neck, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt while attempting to keep his temper in check, "That's an impossibility. Six months ago, the fugitive I'm after was being forcibly transported to a mental institution, so he probably didn't have time to debate with you over 'who gets the entertainment system.'"
The woman at the conversation's other end began to shriek.
"I apologize for being rude then, ma'am, but I would think you'd be less disappointed. William the Bloody murdered the last woman he married. Consider yourself lucky!"
Disconnecting abruptly, Riley pressed the heels of his hands into tired eyes. He felt as if he'd been babysitting attention-starved callers for an eternity, and hadn't slept for just as long. Even this brief respite was interrupted by the rap of knuckles on his desktop.
He looked up to find Graham staring curiously at him, "Another one?" his partner queried, as if he didn't know.
"This is why I hate the fucking press," Riley grumbled in response, "The story breaks, and a million fucking morons are wasting time that could be used to catch this bastard."
"I've got good news, then. You can take a break from answering phones; Daly's here for you."
"Again?" Riley asked, glancing past his partner to see Liam at the opposite end of the station, hands shoved into his pockets, feet shifting nervously.
Graham nodded, "Again. What's he want, anyway?"
Standing, Finn waved Daly over, "Wants me to take a big risk," he said, unwilling to reveal more.
The other detective shrugged, "Maybe third time's a charm?"
"If not, he'll only come back."
"Wouldn't you?" Graham countered, "If she was yours?"
Liam was advancing quickly, so Riley kept quiet and headed toward Interrogation Room C.
Positioning himself in front of the two-way mirror, he folded his arms and watched Liam fidgeting in the doorway.
"Come in; close the door," he said, "Take a load off."
Liam hesitated a moment, then complied with the request, chuckling anxiously and cracking a few knuckles, "Sorry…feel like a criminal."
"It's a privacy issue. This case is getting enough attention; I don't need the entire department knowing what we know."
"Smart," Daly muttered, pulling up a chair. Lowering himself to sit, he grimaced and held onto his side.
"Ribs?"
"Some broken, some bruised," he admitted, a bitter edge to his tone.
The detective found himself wondering how Liam even managed to stand, much less make it across town for yet another confrontation. Beyond the extensive wounds Beverley had left him with, he just looked like shit. His eyes were bloodshot—weighed down by bags and ringed with dark shadows. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair matted, exhaustion blanketed his every move.
"How you feeling?" Riley asked, an unnecessary question, "Other than the ribs, I mean."
"I've been better. And I will be again, once she's home."
There it was. Riley knew it could only be a matter of minutes before they'd used all their allotted pleasantries and had to get to the point. Damn.
"We've been through this. I can't—"
Liam slammed a fist on the metal table he sat behind, "Don't! Don't jerk me around! Not this time! You know where she is; you know where he's taking her! Why won't you fucking help me?"
Riley felt his composure slip, "It's out of my hands. And more importantly, out of my jurisdiction. But I assure you, we've got the best men in the country on the trail."
"That's not good enough. You put cuffs on him the first time; you're the one I trust will do it the second," Liam retorted, shaking his head and mumbling, "No. That's not good enough."
Pushing off from the mirror he leaned against, Finn strode to the table and sat across from the grieving man, "Well, it's just going to have to be," he began, the irritation he felt reflected in his voice, "If I go over Walsh's head on this one, she'll remove me from the case completely. That means no progress reports, no information, nothing. For either of us. I help you, she'll have my balls and my badge. I can't risk it. Stop asking."
The fight seemed to go out of Daly at that. If at all possible, he looked even more beaten, broken, and weary than he had when he'd entered the precinct. Hell, he looked…dead. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he bowed his head like a dog that'd just been severely chastised.
When the detective felt he could no longer stand the silence or the guilt that was beginning to weigh on him, he made a weak attempt at comfort, "Buffy is an intelligent woman. She'll be okay."
A long pause followed his reassurance; he wondered if he'd even been heard.
"Intelligent…" Daly responded, sounding confused, "She's incredible: finished undergrad in two years, med school in three. She was...she is…so determined, so driven…she refuses to fail." He looked up then, the anger and despair in his expression unsettling, "But none of that will make a damn bit of difference if that psycho she's with gets bored."
Riley searched furiously for something to say and could only think of, "She'll find a way to survive this."
Liam sneered his skepticism, "I couldn't hold this guy off, Finn. What the hell is she supposed to do?"
Ilinois
From her seat in the car, Buffy watched him put gas in the tank. His body language begged to be analyzed. With one hand on the pump and the other raising a cigarette to his lips, Spike silently communicated his disregard for human mortality…his complete denial of his own.
Of course, this information was nothing new to her, and yet at the moment was bothering her more than usual. Restless and annoyed—cooped up in close quarters for hours on end—she felt claustrophobic. She needed to move.
Climbing out of the DeSoto, she stretched her limbs and checked her watch. 2:53 a.m. Dreading the monotony of the hours and highway that stretched before her, Buffy sighed and slammed the car door.
The noise got Spike's attention, "Where are you off to?" he asked, rotating the gas cap until it clicked into place.
"I have to go to the bathroom."
He nodded permissively, "Be quick about it."
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes or stick out her tongue, she took a moment to wonder just what in the hell was wrong with her tonight before heading toward the convenience store.
Even the little bell that rang as she entered the Stop 'n' Go aggravated her: she was completely on edge. Marching to the back of the shop, she passed the checkout counter and the clerk who sat behind it—absorbed in his examination of Hustler's newest centerfold. Her arrival overlooked, she went into the bathroom and locked the door.
She didn't need to piss, but had used the excuse to find a moment alone. Now, standing aimlessly at the heart of the room, Buffy wasn't sure what to do. Beneath the light of a flickering bare bulb, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and frowned. Moving to the sink and turning the taps, she cupped her hands under the stream of clear water and wet her face. Feeling marginally better, she reached for a paper towel.
And then she saw the window…
Spike tossed a few bills on the countertop, "Pump 4. And a carton," he added, pointing to his brand.
Setting down his magazine, the cashier retrieved the cigarettes, "Anything else I can get for you?" he offered unenthusiastically.
"Did a girl come through here?" Spike asked, canvassing the apparently empty store, "Blonde, short, wearing a green tank top and jeans. She was headed for the khazi."
The Briticism earned him a look that was first perplexed, and then disapproving, "Well, the can's over there," the clerk responded, gesturing vaguely, "but I haven't seen anyone. I've been busy."
Spike glanced at just what had kept the boy so 'busy'. Asshole of the Month: how fitting.
"Look, man," the little sod was saying, "I'm supposed to be closing, and you're the only thing keeping me from going home. So, if there's nothing else…"
Straining to sound pleasant, Spike interrupted, "I didn't mean to keep you. I'll be on my way, then."
Not acknowledging him, the stupid git pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and opened the cash register, removing money from the till in plain view. When he kneeled below the counter, Spike let the forced smile he'd been holding disappear.
Hearing the distinct sound of a safe combination being turned, he walked quietly in the direction of the bathroom, and halted before the closed door, finding it locked. He knocked softly, "Elizabeth?"
When she didn't respond, he called her name again: still nothing. "If you're in there, it'd be best to say so,"
She answered him then, her voice cracking, "J-Just a minute, Spike. I'll be out in a minute."
"All right, pet. Take your time."
He said it so as not to incite suspicion, but he could feel that something was amiss. She'd been acting strangely of late, distant and defensive. The energy surrounding her was angry, anxious. He could understand it. He had been unraveling the fabric of her life, the threads that were keeping her together, and he hadn't let up for a second, though he knew he should have. His intention had been to weaken her, to shock (and mock) her into submission, but he was beginning to think he'd pushed a little too hard.
Spike had learned long ago that every human has a limit: a breaking point that, when reached, results in either total surrender or a fight for dominance. He'd promised himself never to force Elizabeth to this juncture, simply because he wanted to avoid her reaction. He knew this woman. Whether she realized it or not, he knew her better than she knew herself. And so he knew that if she broke…she would put up one hell of a fight.
Yet he'd been unable to help himself; he loved the power of preying on her uncertainty toward him. She thought she could hide it, her attachment to him, but Spike was growing ever more confident that she had come to rely on him just as he had once relied on her. There was power in that as well. A power he couldn't resist. And he'd never quite known when to stop.
Someone was going to pay for his recklessness. Tonight.
Spike walked to the auto. Slipping into the driver's seat, he tossed his fresh carton onto the dashboard and sat staring at it. An odd sensation was niggling at the back of his head, and though he was hardly one for patience, his instincts told him to hold out. So he did.
Leaving his post minutes later, the clerk—bad businessman that he was—failed to notice Spike's continued presence. Obliviously, he secured the shop, got behind the wheel of a vehicle that could only be described as a death-trap, and drove off: muffler and brakes complaining loudly.
His patience no longer required, Spike left the car and prowled around the store's perimeter. What he was looking for, he wasn't too sure, but he made a practice of following his blood, and at the moment he was undoubtedly being led.
The rear of the mini-mart gave way to a vacant lot, beyond which towered an expansive wooded area. That vague warning on the outskirts of his mind became an all-out alarm.
And then he saw the window…
Buffy was more than hesitant to accept the consequences of the plan she was formulating, but the opportunity was too tempting to ignore. She had been deliberating for several minutes, pacing the bathroom floor, resolving to take the risk only to back down a second later. However, by coming to check up on her, Spike had unwittingly made the final decision. Hearing his voice so suddenly had reawakened a fear in her that had lain dormant for days. She couldn't return to him. Not willingly, anyway.
Stepping up onto the toilet seat, she tugged the window open and shoved the screen from its place, listening as it fell to the ground below. Finding strength in adrenaline and determination, she hoisted herself to the opening and balanced steadily on the ledge. She gave a very brief glance toward the pavement, speculating on the distance she was about to drop.
"Fuck it."
She jumped.
Too late, Buffy realized the descent would have an unpleasant end. Disappointment flooded her, but was soon overshadowed by intense pain as a rough landing caused the ligaments in her right ankle to overstretch.
Shaking with the force of her suffering, she rolled onto her side and clutched the swelling joint.
A familiar scoff sounded in her ears; she looked up to find Spike looming over her, an expression of disgust darkening his features.
"Bad move, Doctor," he snarled coldly, "Really, not wise at all."
He carried her under one arm as one would a petulant child who'd been throwing a fit. From her horizontal position, she examined the ground passing below and grew more panicked with each step Spike took. He'd said nothing more since discovering her. She was accustomed to his usual—extremely vocal—rage, but this change was foreign and intimidating.
She watched him grind his teeth and knew at once the gravity of what she'd done. A fragile calm had finally settled between them, and in one fell swoop she had destroyed it. Everything about him was hard and cold and violent again; she could feel fury coming off him in thick waves.
He refused to look at her, and she was glad for it. Buffy didn't want to see her death playing out in his eyes.
But it couldn't end this way…she'd done too much damage.
"Spike," she tried, not knowing what it would accomplish, but needing to stall him. They were nearing the car and she was becoming frantic.
He jostled her cruelly, "Silence is fucking golden right now."
She twisted in his grasp and swung her gaze backward, hoping for help from the store clerk, surprised to find the shop dark and abandoned.
"Long gone," Spike cut into her confusion, "Had a feeling you were pulling some daft shit…waited for him to bugger off."
With that he placed Buffy on her feet facing the DeSoto and opened the passenger door, "In."
Setting her jaw against the pain of suddenly supporting her own weight, she gathered her courage for the clash that was soon to commence, "Do you honestly expect it to be that easy?"
"Worth a shot," he replied, shrugging and stepping behind her.
Powerful arms encircled her waist and she was hoisted off the ground. Anticipating his next move, Buffy readied herself. When he attempted to shove her into the car, she braced her feet on either side of the door.
"C'mon, Summers, you're acting like a toddler!"
"It's Daly," she countered, for no other reason than to aggravate him.
But the remark may have been a blessing, for it seemed to distract him. Using the short diversion to her advantage, she brought her elbow back forcefully, jabbing him in the ribs. His grunt was barely audible, but encouraging all the same; she followed up the blow by snapping her head back and relishing the sound of popping cartilage. Though his hold did not loosen, Spike cursed loudly, and Buffy turned her head to glare over her shoulder. At the sight of blood flowing freely from his nostrils, she cooed sarcastically,
"Oh, I'm sorry. Did that hurt?"
"I don't know," he said before dragging her backward a few yards and hurling her against the car's side, "You tell me."
Dazedly, she slumped to the ground. Her head buzzed; her ears rang. Nausea and darkness threatened to engulf her. She tasted copper from a split lip. She felt a deep throb where her left arm had jammed in its socket; attempting to move it caused her nerves to momentarily catch fire, and then numbness began to creep along the limb.
Through vision blurred by the impact, she focused on Spike. Assuming he'd subdued her for a time, he'd turned his attention to his nose, checking for a break and staring bemusedly at his fingers when they came away red.
Steeling herself, Buffy ignored all physical objections and rushed him.
Thankfully, she caught him off guard; her momentum brought them both to the pavement. Before he could recover, she was straddling him, employing a vice-like grip between his legs.
Despite his obvious discomfort, a lascivious leer spread his mouth and he quirked an eyebrow, "Not exactly how I'd pictured it, sweetheart, but I'll try anything once."
She squeezed him until his grin turned to a grimace and he groaned in disapproval, "Shut up, Spike," she ordered, adding a bit more pressure for emphasis, "You talk too much."
Scowling, he retorted, "If you're not going to get me off, I suggest you get off."
One hand moved to her hip, the other fisted in her shirt, and he threw her from him like she was no more than a rag doll. She traveled in an arc, coming to rest gracelessly on gravel several feet away. Her back took the brunt, which in turn took the air from her lungs. Struggling for oxygen, she didn't notice his advancement until he was crouching at her side.
Dispassionately, he watched her splutter and choke, "What? Can't you breathe, baby?"
Forcing herself to relax, Buffy inhaled deeply, relieved when the feeling and fear of suffocating left her. Still, she was weak, hurt, and apprehensive of what Spike might do next, so she remained lying; but knowing she was far too vulnerable, and he was far too close, she searched for something to defend herself with.
Enjoying her agony, Spike seemed unaware of her hands as they skimmed along the ground's surface, alighting on a large rock stuck in the dirt and pebbles she was sprawled upon. Curling her fingers around the smooth-surfaced stone, she tried to coax it from the soil.
So employed, she forgot the man beside her, and flinched when he stroked her cheek. There was condescension in the gesture; she wanted badly to pull away.
"While I have you here, there is something I'm curious to know," Spike stated, sounding business-like, "What did you think was going to happen? That you'd beat me? Kill me, even? Do you have that in you?"
The rock finally gave way. With a hollow sucking sound, it dislodged from the filth and was sitting heavy and cool in her hand. She said a quick thanks to the Powers That Be.
He said, "Do you really think you'll win?"
"I just wanted to run."
"Hardly an option at the moment. Answer the question."
"Okay." She flashed a small but triumphant smile, "Yes."
He looked puzzled, then affronted, and as signs of the inevitable and familiar fury appeared, Buffy swung.
A crack accompanied the stone's collision with Spike's cheek, overwhelming all other sounds. But its viciousness guaranteed nothing; she knew he would not be deterred for long, and so didn't bother assessing whatever harm she'd caused, opting instead to put some distance between them and fast.
Eagerness made her neglectful. She rose quickly only to crumple to the ground again: her entire body pulsing while her mind rebelled against the suggestion that physical pain could prevent her escape. Resorting to an alternative pride would never have allowed had the situation not been so desperate, she pushed herself onto all fours and began to crawl.
Too soon, he was behind her—a fact she didn't hear or know so much as feel.
"Fightin' dirty, Elizabeth?" he spat in her direction, heated.
She said nothing, every ounce of her attention engaged in moving forward.
"Not that I mind, of course," he continued conversationally, and Buffy marveled at the adjustment even as she dragged herself along, "Just wish I'd realized."
What he did next…really, it was absurd to expect anything else.
Taking hold of her injured ankle, he gave it a sickening wrench, and however much she would have liked to deny him the satisfaction, she couldn't swallow the howl that ripped through her. As her wail abated with his mean-spirited chuckle chasing after, she wanted nothing more than to erase the smirk she knew without looking would be on his lips. Striking out with her other foot, she enjoyed a grin of her own as her heel connected with his chin.
A snarl. And then, "For the love of—lay off the face!"
Again capitalizing upon his irritation, Buffy shook him off and scrambled forward, resolving to attempt standing once more. This time prepared for distress, she lifted herself cautiously, each move deliberate and careful until she managed to remain more or less upright.
The satisfaction of accomplishment was short-lived; there could be no celebrating with Spike still at her back. He had yet to overtake her, leaving Buffy with the sense that he was waiting, strangely enough.
Gingerly she faced him, leaning her weight on the side which was in slightly less anguish. He stood unwavering before her, cocksure despite the swelling and mottled bruises marring his countenance.
"What now?" he asked, "Personally, I'd recommend forfeit."
She just stared; he went on like she'd offered a rebuttal.
"Don't mistake me, I applaud the effort. Done a bit differently, you might've made a clean break—disappeared into the woods and been rid of me before I even knew you'd gone. But this's become a losing battle…an' a pointless one at that. Jus' look at you: tremblin', you're in such pain."
So he was right, what did it matter?
"You're not exactly walking away unscathed," she responded after a beat.
"Yeah. Thing is, I'm walkin'. How 'bout you?"
"I'll live."
"Will you," his contemplative reply, as if the opinion was debatable.
He brightened in the next second, clapping his hands together sharply, "All right, then. Shall we finish this?"
Buffy faltered. Because he was right…and it did matter. She was in constant danger of collapse; simply maintaining her position took exertion she didn't have the energy for. If she couldn't find a way to make a quick victory of this fight, she wasn't going to last much longer.
As she hurriedly scanned her surroundings for aid, dumb luck seemed to smile on her yet again. Spike's dagger lay unfolded and unheeded on the ground beside them, having escaped his duster pocket sometime during their skirmish—along with a near-empty pack of cigarettes and the silver Zippo he was never without.
"Well, let's have it."
For a quick moment she wondered if he'd noticed where her gaze had landed, but a glance at his expression spoke more of impatience than anything else. He saw her revolt as a nuisance, a distraction to be dealt with and permanently put to rest.
Fine.
Trying not to focus on how sudden movement would fully revive the ache that had only just begun to diminish, she lunged for the weapon. As her fingers gripped the handle, Spike barreled into her, sending them both rolling. Clambering to her feet, Buffy lashed out, and though Spike's evasion was timely enough to avoid serious injury, she made contact all the same, slicing through shirt and skin to leave an angry gash along his abdomen.
A silence followed in which they squared off and she held her breath. True to his unpredictable nature, however…he laughed.
"You're not half playing, are you? I'll admit, I had my doubts."
While undeniably preferable to the alternative, his amusement offended her, "The time is long past for empty threats, Spike."
"Quite."
Launching himself at her, he seized her wrist, turning it so she had no choice but to drop the knife, which he caught before twisting her arm behind her and using it to pull her against him in some demented form of an embrace.
"Show me your throat."
When she didn't comply, he barked, "Want me to fucking gut you? Do it."
Reluctantly she cocked her head to the side, feeling her pulse quicken as sharp steel met her carotid.
"Now," he continued, bearing down until she winced, "give me one good reason why I shouldn't end you right here."
"You can't," she said it and believed it in the same moment, despite her anxiety, "You won't."
"That so?"
"You need me."
A growl rumbled through him and Buffy looked heavenward, awaiting the opening of her arteries as punishment for presuming to know him.
The blade left her throat.
This was only a small comfort. Spike's hand replaced the weapon, crushing her windpipe and propelling her backward—slamming her atop the DeSoto's hood.
Her mouth fell open to form a scream she could not voice. Hazel orbs watered and bulged as slow seconds ticked by without air. The rubber soles of her tennis shoes slid across the car's smooth surface, searching for purchase where there was none. Digging her nails into his flesh, she knew it would do nothing, and knew that was the crux of it, always: there was nothing she could do.
He allowed her to thrash about awhile longer, then covered her body with his own, pinning her down, "Killing you won't do me any immediate good, true…but don't push it, honey."
Point made, he loosed his hold, but kept her trapped beneath him, taking her face in his hands.
"See now," he said with a wink that was not remotely good-natured, "This I've pictured."
Chest heaving and throat raw, she managed a disdainful rasp of, "Prick."
He pressed his lips to her forehead, "Gotta work on your pet names, Elizabeth."
And then he released her, moving off in the direction of his fallen property.
Drawing her knees up, Buffy curled in on herself, letting her attention drift until the whole world was white noise. She remained static even upon Spike's return, merely watching as he tugged her into a sitting position, grabbed her forearm, and pulled her pliant figure over his shoulder. She was carried to the car's back end; she heard a key turn and the trunk open, but it was only when she was dumped in that Buffy's senses awoke.
Her shock must have been evident, for Spike regarded her oddly before saying, "Don't give me that look. You can't be trusted."
A sluggish mind could think of nothing to say to persuade him to reconsider. It wouldn't have mattered; he slammed the door shut in the next moment, plunging her into a vacuum. She was helpless in this new captivity, but several minutes of unbearable nothingness later, the car rumbled to life beneath her, and with it so did she: beating on the walls of her prison.
He should have hogtied the bitch.
The racket she was making had been working his nerves for the past fifteen minutes; they were beginning to fray.
Punching the roof of the car, Spike roared, "Belt up back there!"
She can't hear you.
"Great. Exactly what I need," he muttered, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
All right, mate? You seem to be having a spot of trouble.
"Trouble? She's driving me insane!"
A gruff laugh sounded in his ears and his ears only. Good one.
"Leave me alone. My temper's been tested enough for one night."
So calm down.
He didn't want to respond, didn't want to acknowledge this new aggravation. But ignoring one's own mind is a damn near impossible feat, so he said, "Like hell. Don't you see what she's done?"
Exactly what you expected. Wouldn't have chosen her if she didn't pose a challenge; never liked 'em meek. You picked well.
He resigned himself to the argument. If that's what was needed, let it be. "I fucked up is what I did. I have to end it."
You can't. You're not finished yet. Let's keep a clear head about this.
"Fuckin' hilarious, coming from you."
She's not too far gone. I'm saying you can fix it.
"And how do you suggest I do that?"
Up to you. Whatever you decide, though, make it quick. As much fun as rebellion can be, time's wasting.
"No shit," he shot back with an accompanying snort, "I wish you wouldn't bother me if you're going to be so bloody useless."
Only here to motivate. This is your show.
"Is it? Wouldn't even be in this mess if not for you and yours."
Bollocks. Not the reason you are the way you are. You know that.
"Yeah, well you don't help matters. Be glad to be rid of you."
She keeps fightin' you, you never will.
Tensely he waited: on pins and needles and hoping he was alone again. The only sounds were coming from Elizabeth's steady attempts to escape the boot, but just as he was ready to relax, that voice bounced around his skull once more,
How's that for motivation?
An automatic sharp rebuke very nearly fell from his tongue, until an idea began to form. Not bothering to decelerate, he veered to the right and roared onto an exit ramp.
"Pretty damn good," he replied belatedly.
The vehicle's sudden stop jolted her; she was certain Spike had slammed on the brakes for exactly that purpose. Though she didn't have long to fume, for soon the trunk door was opened and she was dragged out by her hair.
Carelessly, he deposited her on the ground and stalked away from her sprawled body. Pain that was fast becoming common enveloped her yet again, but too weary of this never-ending night to protest any longer, she lay still.
Spike leaned against the DeSoto's frame, looking at her as if he was coming to some sort of conclusion. Fierce gaze never wavering, he pulled fresh cigarettes from his duster, packing the tobacco by pounding the box against the flat of his hand. Fingers accustomed to this routine, he removed the cellophane, flipped the top and tore away a layer of foil before shaking out a stick. Watching him unnerved her somehow; his delay seemed meant to make her squirm.
He exchanged the pack he held for his Zippo, but left the cigarette unlit and resting between his fingertips.
"Can you stand?" Not a question, a command.
She did, albeit slowly. Finding her balance, she took note of their location: parked beside a deserted and neglected backroad.
"What are we doing here?" she asked, sounding more accusatory than was probably wise.
"Heading into the woods," he responded with a sweeping gesture that indicated the trees crowded together on either side of the path, "'S what you wanted, right?"
Any answer would be the wrong one, so she didn't bother, knowing he would continue whether she reacted or not. And he did.
"You want away from me so badly? You're free to go."