“Fucking hell, that hurt!” he yelled, rubbing the spot where the stick had hit.

“When you’ve had your knees knocked out from under you or been thrown down onto the concrete floor a few times you can complain about it hurting, now are you coming at me, or did I kill you?”

“Assuming that was the blade and not the handle that hit, you killed me,” he said.

“You weren’t prepared for everything,” I pointed out, careful to keep my face neutral.

“No, I was not,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Good, now show me how to use the crossbow.”


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