Stavanger Bay It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero

reverie wanted him, and lestan quaked in fear.
she had been too young! too young! to deliver blossom, and yet she had, to great detriment against her own body. there was no blood, and yet he could smell it, the metallic, thick fragrance of the suffering through which he had put her!
these conflicting thoughts killed the spike of ardor that spiraled through lestan, killed his flesh.
"i-i'm sorry," he whispered, shamefaced and miserable, glancing down instead of at her. "i c-can't."
the cornflower eyes willed her desperately to understand.