She stopped crying and glared at him. "I could make you listen to me if you won't talk," she sniffed, grabbing the rum as she poured it on his back to be mean. She poked at the wounds with the cloth simply but wouldn't do it correctly because she was pouting. She was like confused with herself and how she felt about him. She wanted him read but she didn't want his death on her hands. She'd never killed anyone... Not yet at least.<br/><br/>She wasn't an idiot. He was just stubborn and she was confused. Sometimes she wanted to be dead... It's not like anyone would ever allow her some sympathy or the act of doing something normal for once. She was dumb yet smart, a spectacle yet a rusty trophy on her father's wall. "I could lie that you told me something useful and make them lock you in the high tower for as long as it pleases me." She said thoughtfully, but she stopped and smacked the bottle on his head roughly, "But I could only hope. My father doesn't like live trophies. He just likes their skin." She snarled in disgust.