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Summary
“He’s going to wind up killing you.”
Nefer tried to appear nonchalant, picking at her nails as she spoke, not that it could hide the way her brow furrowed. Or the spite in her voice she spoke of Rerir with.
Flins pressed his tongue against his split lip, tasting the blood that beaded along the wound and swirled a glass of firewater as, briefly, he wondered how much she knew—too much, all the likely knowing her.
“Perhaps I’ve become clumsy in my old age.”
“Next, you’re going to tell me you fell down the stairs you don’t have, I presume?”