"Don't make me regret playing nice."

He waited, and Vasari wonders if it was the best decision he's made.

It's not.

He can easily snatch her into his possession, force her to understand the length he'd go to keep her, and poison her heart with his questionable love.

He doesn't.

He has mercy, as much as his perversion can allow.

When he looks at her, he's not the intimidatingly unattainable Vasari. He's the incarnation of minacious evil—a volatile presence of calamity.

He has a murderous heart.