Antigone flashed a smile to them both, quick as a bolt of lightning across her face. "He's been hurting my housemate," she said (though Ares' voice, confident, arrogant, disgusting but certain" I've seen her after you leave, begging for my cock thundered through her mind when she did.) "And you should have heard what he said to that girl in the bar. Won't stand for it anymore. Can't."
She wasn't looking at them as she spoke, though; Antigone was looking down at her hand. Slowly she used to good fingers to pull her wrist away from her chest, wincing sharply through her nose. She ran her fingers over her arm, from wrist (bad, hot, sore) down to her elbow (less bad, still hot, still sore) as if her eyes could not be trusted, and only her own fingers would prove that no skin had broken, no bones were jutting out of her flesh.
Her hand was the worst, he'd squeezed it so tightly (another pitchfork of fear at the memory, right through her stomach). Bracing herself for worse, she twitched each finger, and then bit down on a scream as hot pain washed down her arm when she straightened them. "Fuck," she whispered, turning her wrist (ow) to examine each side. It hurt and it was swollen and already discoloured, she didn't know enough to figure out what was broken.
"Can you pass me a tea towel?" she asked Asterion, feeling distant, but pragmatic. Ice would be easier to apply wrapped in something like a towel, more than a glass.