Do Me Good

The kiss was two seconds of bliss before Shanka planted the hilt of her dagger in his sternum and shoved. Hard.

Rastaban staggered back, one hand pressed to his chest, eyes wide. She was strong. And she looked angry, more angry than Rastaban had ever seen someone look, which was impressive, given how often Shruti had glared at him when he was a child.

“I’d kill you now if it would do me any good, but it wouldn’t.” Shanka sheathed her dagger and sword, drew herself up proudly. “It would do me much good, however, to kill you very slowly.”