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Summary
Phainon plants her palms on either side of Mydei's head to crowd over her once more. "I've proven myself enough, haven't I?"
Mydei licks the blood from her split lip, eyes growing heavy. "You have, yes," she says, lifting her thigh until it presses up between Phainon's legs. "But I think you enjoyed this fight, too."
Phainon stares down at her, mouth wide. It would be so easy to give in—to rock down against Mydei's thick thigh, blessedly free of greaves today. To kiss the smirk off her face. Instead, her hand finds its way to Mydei's throat, fingers circling it to the feel the rabbiting of her pulse.
"You are terrible, Mydei," she whispers.
Mydei sneers up at her, nose crooked from years of fights. "As if you're any better, Deliverer."
