Whether or not the man wanted to admit it, Mag's words had affected him on a level deeper than he would have wanted them to.

"Nathan, what has become of you? You've turned this house into her tomb. Marni wouldn't want this for you!"

The thought infuriated him. Who did she think she was, criticizing his methods of honoring his late wife's memory, and in his own home of all places. His baser instinct was yearning to abandon all restraints and take Rotti up on his offer; to not only take her eyes, but explore her every inch with his scalpel, right then and there. Yet something in the back of his mind, perhaps out of some sick new sensation of curiosity, wanted more. Her words struck a chord that hadn't been touched in seventeen years. Years of isolation left him wanting someone, anyone, to connect to, though he'd somehow convinced himself otherwise. And one Miss Magdalene Defoe unknowingly tugged at that fine string.

The fine string that kept him sane; that bit of worldly attachment, other than Shilo, that kept him from becoming a full-fledged killing machine The fine string that grew thinner and more weak with every day that passed in isolation and mourning.

Still, thinking on it shook him to his very core, yet he couldn't stop. Again, his mind raced back to thoughts of taking his menacing scalpel to her creamy white skin. His hands trembled, sweat trickled down his narrowed brow, and he chewed at his lip anxiously. Against his will, his mind put a tamer spin on the images: Instead of his scalpel, it was his hands that caressed her silken flesh. Blood seeped to the woman's cheeks, and a soft gasp escaped her slightly parted rogue lips. His breath caught in his throat as he found himself captivated by the thought.

"Such perverse thoughts, Nathan Wallace..." he scolded himself, gnashing his teeth. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to rid his tortured brain of the woman altogether. But as he turned his eyes to the screen and saw Mag's lifeless body impaled on that metal fence, he felt a bit more of his humanity slipping away. Another burden of death on his shoulders, another weight added to that frail thread, that was on the verge of breaking.