The movement from the girl offered no response, his attention flicking to her but his body remaining still. It was still like that when she prompted him, and only then, after a beat of pause, did he slowly raise his head to her; his expression blank, detached. Dangerous. "I was thinking," he said, in the melodic tones used more with others.

"I was considering," he corrected. "Whether or not to kill you." To keep her. It would kill something in him all the same. Dead was dead--he had no misconceptions on that. But it would cease this kind of--

Pain. He swallowed, expression hardening for a beat. And since when had he given himself over to be hurt by people that weren't blood? Since when had he begun to see someone that he didn't share genetics with as family?