His uniform had the name Hastings sewn onto the lapel and I made a mental note of it, wondering if I could mould him into the weak link I needed. “I don’t speak Faetalian,” he replied, raising his chin as he kept a hand on his baton. So the idiota couldn’t figure out what idiota meant? How sad. “Ti farò diventare la mia cagna, ragazzo del coro,” I purred, twisting my fingers through a lock of my ebony hair and widening my eyes seductively. I’m going to make you my bitch, choir boy.
