He did nothing for a moment, a stone statue of a man where she held him, trying to comprehend her. She was not smashing his brains into pulp, her small fists crunching the bullet-hole in to fold on itself. She was not running into the empty streets of Chicago, and she was not vanishing into the dark. For a moment, he was utter stillness, and then he wrapped arms around her and held her with a fierceness he had never before allowed himself, and he put his face into her hair and it was right and it was good.
His nose and lips nuzzled her hairline, left kisses at her temples, and for a few seconds he didn't worry about the inevitable moment it would all fall apart. He nuzzled her face, felt the blood of her tears on his own cheek, and smoothed them away. "We are all used by someone," he said into her skin, into the sweet dead scent. "Camarilla, Anarch or Sabbat. You choose who you believe will use you for what you want." He wanted to explain, to make her understand, but he doubted she could. She was too far gone in the Camarilla and Anarchs to hear with unbiased ears.
He cupped her face in scarred hands, for once forcing her, however gently, to look at him. Brown eyes were no more or less human than they had been half an hour ago, when ignorance had stretched amiably between them. "I told you, I never lied to you," he said, something desperate in him begging for understanding in her, for belief. He had never said it before, but, as he had known from the beginning of the evening, there was no other time. "I love you, Mila," he said simply, and it was no more demanding than it had ever been. His crooked, sad smile lifted his face. "But rats don't get to love princesses. It spoils the fairy tale."