"The problem is there is no difference between the two when your answer is always to break yourself to pieces for them," Lucifer-- snapped? Said? Something with both desperation and anger in it. "But they don't have to handle the clean-up, do they? They don't have to watch you stumble about for months, trying to be fine, failing to be fine. They don't have to feed you when you're struggling to find your appetite, they don't have to calm you and wipe your bloody brow when you're mired in nightmares, they don't have to wake up every morning wondering if this is a day you'll actually get off the ship or it's going to be a day when you can't get out of bed."

He took a sip. Lowered the bottle. Looked Duke in the eye. "They can just make their demands, get their pound of flesh, and trust that you'll wander back in, ready to give more, the next time they need you. Meanwhile I can't even bloody say I want to burn that place to the ground without you jumping down my throat for wanting to change you. Or implying I want to murder a woman who, may I remind you, has had every chance to leave the town that has done nothing but kill her friends and family for the past few years."