He looked at her with a raised eyebrow when she mentioned tenderness.  To hear others talk of it, witches were capable of great tenderness.  He'd never seen it, not directed towards him.  Even when they healed him of his sickness or wounds, they did it perfunctorily, the way someone might fix a broken tool.  He gave a half-smile.<br/><br/>"Don't worry about it.  Why shouldn't they find out about it?  I lie to them all the time," he said, looking straight into her eyes when she squeezed his shoulder.  It was something of a misdirection.  The witches could catch him at his lies - and if they bothered to do it, they could compel him to tell the truth (though it was getting harder as his own power grew - no<i>one </i>of them could handle it, anymore, but he suspected they'd be willing to work together if they doubted his words in something this important.  He reached out, still seated, and put his hand on her hip, then ran it down the curve to her thigh.<br/><br/>"Look, Vara, I'm not a hero.  You shouldn't be one, either.  There's nothing for you back in Tar Hollow.  The best you could hope for is a quick death."