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Summary
He seems to think that this is a game. But you see, the pretext for games is that they’re supposed to be fun.
“You’re late.” Someone presses her into the wall. Lumine can’t breathe and not for lack of trying; she reaches for the hand closed around her throat.
“Your note was late,” she manages, trying to make out his face in the dark.
In the faint light of the moon streaming through the solitary parted set of curtains, Scaramouche’s partially illuminated face twists into a mirthful smirk.
“Playing the blame game?” He gropes her breast roughly, and even over her dress, Lumine feels a twinge of panic. He’s always been direct. It’s always right down to business at the manor.
“Well then, may the best win.”