Something about her reminds him of Sabriel. They look nothing alike, hold themselves nothing alike - this mare does not echo a bone-deep sadness and self-loathing that poured off of his mysterious mare, but there is something all the same. Perhaps that something is only in him - upon both meetings, he had fled from something in the Badlands, tangling with his own hateful actions. Even the careful approach, the teasing touch, that is the same. Here, of course, the power balance is different than it ever was with Sabriel - outside the Commons, he has no leverage to bring her back with him. And at this moment, has little desire to cage another fiery mare in his home. This bay’s quiet confidence, easy dismissal of his confession is enough to let him know she is no wallflower.
Her lips brush his neck, perhaps a tease or a threat, and her whispered words make him smirk. The expression falls off his face when she asks what has drawn him here, and he turns to look at her. His icy gaze is assessing, and finally he shrugs. “I won a fight,” Rafe murmurs. This, in itself, is not so uncommon - he’s won every serious fight he’s been in. What has him so conflicted is that it was against Vela. Holding a mare captive, well, that was one thing. But beating her? Making her bleed to get his way? It’s a line Rafe has never crossed. It’s a line his own brothers were thrashed for crossing.
So what she has picked up on is the conflict warring beneath his skin. Rafe was confronted with the harsh reality of his own hypocrisy. A claim on a mare is a vow of protection; he would not have dragged Viveka from her own death, nor spared her harsh treatment after her indiscretion if this wasn’t a closely-held value. But he also cannot be weak; no one can be allowed to cross him. Retribution must be swift and complete. Vela’s desperate bid for freedom had placed him in an untenable position. He could not let her demand to meet him in battle go unanswered. He could not let her win. But the image of her limping away, bleeding from wounds of his own making had made him sick. Sick enough that he ran, left the care of the Badlands to Dill for at least this night.
“I beat a mare I had taken under my protection,” he clarifies, voice soft. “For the simple crime of wanting her freedom, I thrashed her on the beach of our home and left her limping back into the wastes.” He knows the words will likely not be well-received; he is, afterall, still uncertain about how he feels about himself. He’d not been this conflicted when he had killed his own grandfather; Rafe is floundering, and hates that he is. There is no room for weakness in this world, no time for indecision or doubt. When the sun rises, his conflict will be burned out. Rafe cannot let this last beyond the dark of the night - to falter now is to fail.
He flicks a glance back to the mare, watching her carefully. “Does your depravity match mine, then, woman?” He could speak of more; of murdering his own blood. Of deposing his own father. Of abandoning his family to save his own skin. Oath after oath broken, all in pursuit of his own selfish desires. But bleeding the poison will not help, and so Rafe falls silent, lets this spectre of a woman judge him. By morning, it will all be pushed from his mind.