He exhaled smoke– slowly and deliberately– then took another drag. Barely capable of focusing on the book in front of him due to how loudly his heart was beating in his ears, adrenaline tugged at the edges of his mind, desire taking place of any and all logic and reason.
The same part that had rejoiced in the rain of Cordelia’s blood, so enthralled by the prospect of “winning”– the thrill of the chase, the kill, becoming so detached from his own body that safety, health, self preservation, all had become secondary– No. Stop saying that. There was no winning.
He’d lost. Even if he’d defeated the opponent in front of him, his father– beloved, blessed father– was still dead. His community had lost a wonderful teacher, Kickboxing coach, friend, son, uncle, and he himself had lost his only support system. He had to keep a grasp on the wider perspective; doing otherwise was the first step to madness.
But it was hard, sometimes, to remember that what had happened had been more than Cordelia. He’d made that mistake somewhere in the middle of their 11 year song and dance; he’d become too focused on her. Moreso than he’d been in years for any mortal woman.