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Summary
It doesn’t really happen a lot in their line of work.
That’s what he keeps telling himself, when her hands are on his chest, gliding over smooth skin and gnarled scars, when his head is yanked back so hard he swears they’ve ripped the hair from the roots, barely able to breathe, neck strained so far back.
They’d figured out fairly quickly that the standard doesn’t work on him. He hadn’t broken at the knife, at the way they’d carved his skin and dug deep, weeping wounds into hot flesh. Hadn’t broken at the hammer, the torch, anything.
It’s logical, then, that this be their next approach.