"Years!" he barks back. "Years I spent, waiting, before I sought something other than the misery of our home."

Something other than. Antoinette, dead on the floor, while they argue over her. Lestat steals a glance to her, it, to it, the object on the floor, braces against the sobbed feeling in his chest, willing it not to break. Someone who did love him, who was free to show it, dead now.

But that's not a sorrow he can reveal here. For all that Louis says he can't leave him, won't, wants and needs him.

"And that isn't true," comes out quieter. Forlorn. "I missed her as well. Not that you could look up for a moment to see it."