Nergal was surprised to see his sword skidding across the floor. It had been his own fault. He had not actually underestimated her – he knew she was a force to e reckoned with. It was more that he had thought that the battle was ended. He had obviously defeated her; his sword had been at her throat. No one ever fought back from that position.
But she had. Nergal was crushed that she had turned out to be as bossy and fond of screeching as other women. He loved the fierce, independent woman he had spent those six glorious nights with. If only she knew how close he had come to giving up his freedom for her.
He looked over at his sword, judging it too far from his reach to easily recover. But she was a fool to think that was the only weapon he carried. Battle was his forte. One he excelled at. He pulled the dagger out from behind his back and turned back towards her, ready to show her the folly of fighting the Beast of War.
He snarled as he raised his weapon at her. She could not think that she was going to be allowed to order him around. He was not planning on killing her, just wounding her slightly.
Nergal’s hand froze and he blinked. He already had wounded her. He had hurt her. Blood flowed down her neck from a small cut that had obviously come from his sword. It was not much, hardly worth noticing. But he noticed.