If he could refuse. Or maybe it was a sharp poke in his stout ribs. Trying to keep her secret—and two of my men dead!—after you promised. I have no right— Seizing two handfuls of his hair, she pulled his mouth back down, and after a little while, he stopped righting.
Oh, you'll want to look at her, she added, pointing to a slender woman who went running by in a blue owl mask and rather fewer feathers than Riselle had worn. The Myrddraal had her chin in its hand, forcing her head up before her vision cleared enough to see the knife in its other hand. Dropping flat, he seized her wrist, just pushing it away from him, the curved Skadar Logoth blade sweeping out to lie against her slim white neck. The fog was thicker.
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