He stood stock-still, perfectly composed.
Behind it--suppressed, for now, but waiting--lay his deep, intense grief at first seeing, and then again losing, his friends. Wilder was not speaking to a calm Pride, a Pride who'd contentedly awoken from a nap at home, a Pride who bore patience and a level head. She was speaking to a Pride mired in a dozen disparate feelings--that grief, rage at the Masters who had taken the once-living, a deep concern for his family and what they, too, must have just experienced.
And her-? What did she see?
He could not bring himself to care. It wasn't just disdain for Wilder; he was simply too distracted by all else. But he did listen, or try. It was in silence, with a cold and distant stare, his mind half elsewhere. But he listened, and he paid as much attention as he could to her mind. There was turmoil there, honest pain, but it was difficult to pick through her emotions when he was already wrestling with his own. She was hurting. She was trying to fix that pain. And is that why she is apologizing? Not for those she harmed, but to suit herself? He didn't care. He wanted to be off with Alek, with Casimir, reassuring them. This was nothing more than a delay. Even her attempt at magic, at manipulation--whatever she thought her motivations were--was met with nothing more than a slight raise of his chin, as if he felt his faintest suspicions confirmed.
He didn't mention it.
He wanted to simply say "noted" and walk away; to leave it at that. Let her think whatever she wanted, so long as she stayed the hell away from Orion and his family. But one lingering, almost malicious thought prompted him to ask: "Why?" It was a quiet, flat question, empty of inflection or even interest. It was almost a challenge, though there was no challenge in the blank tone. "Why are you apologizing?"