"The precious few who manage." There's an undercurrent of emphasis to precious that isn't verbal at all. He has few friends in this city he deeply values, fewer yet he considers to be his in a proprietary way that far transcends any implications of objectification. He can count them on one hand with a digit left over. Fewer still he loves with a romanticism that surprises him anew every time he's brought face to face with it, such as now.

She questions, and he strokes her cheek, watches the play of light in the depths of her eyes so close to him. His smile is subtle but lifts into his own instantly, softening sharp watchfulness to abiding regard. "I didn't notice at first."

He shakes his head. Even in hindsight it's impossible for him to pick out the difference between unnatural command and anything he'd give her freely at any time for nothing more than the asking. "I'm not enamored of the idea of my will not my own, but nothing you asked of me was a burden. Nothing subverted my own desires. When I sired you, I determined that everything I am or have would also be yours. That designation had no power with us because there was nothing to transform, and you would never turn my devotion to a leash or a lash."

No more than he would hers. In this moment, he can acknowledge that he fears himself less than he sometimes believes. That history is not repeating itself. That it will not. He won't allow it.