His face was smarting something awful. Whatever other awful things might (and should) be said about Chester Scabior, the power of his knuckles ought not to be underestimated, the bony bastard. Not that he'd dreamed of admitting, on the off chance that Bess had actually wished to stay longer at the wedding reception, but he was quite happy to have escaped off to his own flat, and manage to keep the company of his date. And, he mused, it also helped that both children had been sent off to Penelope, though he wouldn't be surprised if Bess felt like punching him once or twice, given his testosterone-ruled display. Remembering one or two well-placed blows, Drystan distended his jaw experimentally, to see whether or not there was any extreme damage done. In the middle of this, he glanced at Bess in some surprise as she blathered on something about not wanting to do this.
He didn't understand.
"What in Circe's name are you talking about?" Drystan asked, steadying his hands on her waist as a means of keeping her in his direction. "Do you—think I'm mad, about this whole—Chester pillock thing?"
(Read comments)
Post a comment in response:
scribbld is part of the horse.13 network
Design by Jimmy B.
Logo created by 
hitsuzen.
Scribbld System Status
