The wet, rhythmic sounds of Iris's attempts to please him filled the space between them, but the sound drew a bark of cruel laughter from Rex. He looked down at her, his free hand gripping her hair as he watched her struggle to maintain any semblance of technique.
"You know, Iris," he mused, his voice laced with mockery, "for an experienced assassin who's killed men with nothing but a hairpin, you're an absolute amateur at this."
"There's something almost... pathetic about it. So clumsy. So hesitant." He laughed again, a dark, grating sound. "But I suppose it's not bad."
"In fact, the desperation makes it almost entertaining."
The insult stung worse than any blade, but before she could even process the humiliation, the atmosphere shifted from mockery to pure, unadulterated violence.
Rex's hand suddenly clamped around the back of her skull with crushing force. His fingers dug into her scalp, forcing her face upward.
