[It was less a new aversion to his blood than her own unhallowed appetite for it, and worse yet, some atavistic compulsion to touch, to mark. To leave the imprint of her fingers feathered over him like he has left his own unexpected mark on her. She wants to slide her hands up to circle his neck and bring it back to her, an unfinished itch of a thing not quite finished.

She has always found a certain pleasure in self-denial. And she wasn't lying about hating waste. You simply don't eat a man like this all at once.]

It's even more reckless to admire me. [A breath close to wry and bent to be near laughter.] I have a habit of disappointing.

[An admission she makes in her own continued recklessness, but with contradictory pride. It might be something to disappoint someone again, even for a moment; to have an opinion left to fall it. Admiration is only ever the decline to contempt, but once-

Once people looked at he does now. As someone to reckon with, not cosset or condemn or cast away.]

You have me twice. I wanted nothing more than to crack it beneath him...to tear the crown from his head and stomp it beneath my least favorite boots.

[The why - to pry the man out of the God, and set him free. But she won't give everything to Lazarus; it doesn't strike her as an interesting thing to do. Let him wonder at that.]

Sometimes one must be reckless for their prize...did you find winning this one satisfactory?

[She leaves her meaning deliberately ambiguous, of course.]