The last time I’d seen him, I’d been scrambling out of his bed, clutching hold of my bundled clothes, swearing on the forgotten gods and all four winds that I’d rather die than stick around for a repeat performance of the show he’d just put on for me. He knew he’d won. The supercilious prick hadn’t been shy about it. He’d told me I’d be back for more, and I’d told him in very colorful language that I’d snap his cursed cock right off his body if he ever tried to come near me with it again. Or something to that effect, anyway.
