Reynard woke to the point of a blade.
It was pointing, very, ah, pointedly, right between his eyes, and it was very clearly wood. He found it held his attention very… sharply.
The blade moved, although not in a way that he found at all comforting; it shifted from eye-crossingly close to his nose to ball-tighteningly close to his throat.
“The next word out of your mouth….” The voice warred for his attention with the blade. It was what had been called a whisky voice, throaty and husky. Definitely female, though. “…had better be yes.”
Reynard swallowed, forcing his throat against the blade. Bad idea. He shifted – tried to shift. Something pricked into his wrists, which were, it appeared, tied behind his back.
Ah, it was all coming back to him. Yes, she had him in a very… tight… position.
“You Belong to me.”
Yes, yes, that had been what he’d thought she’d say. He swallowed, reminding himself forcefully of the blade at his throat. “Yes.”
He waited for the air pop, for the feeling of falling. It didn’t come.
Still, the blade stopped poking him. He tried, hard, to bring his vision into focus.
She was putting the blade away. She was sheathing the blade, on her belt. That might be important later. Reynard swallowed. “Ah…?”
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