“Your hips are sharp,” he grumbles, and I bash my fists against his back, knowing there’s next to no point. Doing it anyway. “I’ll show you something sharp.” “Every word that comes out of your mouth is sharp, Moonbeam.” He one-handedly unbuckles one of his saddlebags and tosses it over his other shoulder. “I’m half dead already, bleeding out at your feet. Can’t you see?” I scoff. Please.
