Mikhail's body felt like one massive bruise. Which, in his opinion, was glorious. He stumbled forward as Medusa pulled him by the collar, her boots dragging his half-limp frame down the dirt path just outside the now shattered tavern.
"Careful!" he barked. "I'm a fucking warlord, not some sack of grain!"
"You're a sack of something," she muttered, not breaking stride. "Definitely not dignity."
Mikhail's head lolled back as he grinned at the stars overhead. A cut just above his eyebrow was bleeding into one eye, and he couldn't tell if his ribs were cracked or just spectacularly bruised.
Didn't matter.
He felt amazing.
The tavern fight played in his mind on repeat—every swing, every shout, every glorious punch to the jaw. That woman had been divine. Strong. Mean. Beautifully violent.
His lip split open again as he smiled. "I need to marry her."
Medusa stopped walking. "What?"
He snorted. "I'm kidding. Mostly."
She kept dragging him.
