[He doesn't ken pendejo. To Susan, who's lived her whole life among vaqueros and ranchers and heard plenty of what they say among themselves, that's one of the more promising things he's said - a whole unfurling of potential for petty jabs that he won't understand, curses her aunt would slap her for using that she can, if she wishes, just slip into what she says and have him none the wiser. It's childish, sure, but she can't help but feel, after everything, she might have earned a little childish spite.]

[Any brief satisfaction, though, is quickly punctured as he goes on talking. (Gods, will he ever stop talking?) Her lips pinch, her shoulders tensing a little. He's close now, too close. She can smell his sweat, and has to force herself not to lean away.]

Fuck the gods, and while we're at it, fuck ka besides. [And you, of course, sai Jaime. Fuck you.] I never asked 'em for tenderness or aught else. And I never begged, nor ever will.

Ye've proved well enough already ye don't know me. Why not let it lie, and give me some peace for half a minute?