Every instinct pulled toward her daughter--except the black, violent rage that threatened the forces that had done this to her. And so Regina sat, likewise trembling, caught between the softest throngings of maternal love and the fiercest of primal urges, not to mention the twist of empathy, deep in her chest, for the loss those tears represented.

Snow had shook off her touch earlier, so Regina didn't immediately pull her into an embrace. Instead, she reached for one of those raw, bleeding hands, and held it gently in her own, resting on her own thigh, where Snow's blood dripped and stained her clothes. A visual statement of her feelings, that when you cut Snow, she bled.