Her stare shifted from the key to his face. His bitter, laughing eye. “On your knees.”
He hesitated.
She pointed the tip of the sword at his heart. She knew where to strike to wound him, regardless of the chainmail he wore. “On. Your. Knees,” she repeated.
He reached out.
Wary of his intention, she backed a step away from him.
He grinned as he grasped the bed and lowered himself to his knees.
“Slide the key to me,” she ordered.
He slowly bent forward to put the key on the ground. Then he shoved it. Hard. It glided across the room, away from her and toward the door. “Oops,” he taunted.
Her gaze never wavered from him. He was not to be underestimated. At least he didn’t have the key. She could look for it when he was dead. Her arm shook as she held her sword.
He had killed her father. Her father hadn’t even been able to defend himself. Boucher had run him through.
Boucher glared at her from his kneeling position, his upper lip twisted into a grimace of loathing.
Her fingers convulsed over the handle of her weapon. It was time for him to die. It was time for her to avenge her father. She lifted her weapon over her head.
