He nurses his hand to himself, examining the reddened skin to assure there's no damage beyond the surface level. His glare flits to Xichen. He wants to rage as much as he wants to cry, to lash out with words, or tears, or weapons he doesn't have any longer.

Guangyao inhales sharply through his nose, holds the breath for a beat too long and then exhales slowly.

"What do you want of me, Lan Xichen." He gestures around the house. "Am I an ornament now? A war trophy? A prisoner? You treat me like none of these things, so what do you want from me? Am I to play the part of your wife now?"

He knows, because of course he does, what this place was so long ago. If he just the next in a line of wives imprisoned by their sect leader husband? What a legacy to continue on. "Would you have me bearing your children, be that I could? Why am I here?"

What is the end goal here? Not knowing his place or what role he should play or where he should fit in chafes at him more than anything else.