There are three types of hostages: the quiet ones, the angry ones, and the ones who turn your entire operation into a goddamn circus. Eron Solandris had two of the third kind, and they were competing for the gold medal in professional pain-in-the-assery.
Kael's voice rang from the other side of the canvas."That was a ticking clock. Honey, what did I tell you about touching these things?"
"Finally," Eron grumbled. "The white magic will come now."
"You do realize she's dry heaving, right?" Kael asked. "No? Okay. Educational moment for all you brain-dead cunts, that's what puking looks like."
Guinevere's voice sounded next. "Permission to remove these cuffs while I puke."
"Denied," Eron snapped, "You need those cuffs off the way a prisoner needs a hole in the wall. You'll make a run for it."
"Why on earth would I want to leave," she fired back, voice dry as ash. "I'm having a fantastic time."
