"If you want your throat torn out and your blood sucked dry, keep thrashing like a dead fish."
Jericho's lovely training flavor assaults my ears in a way that's way too comforting, considering the vitriol that comes out of his mouth.
"I like fish," I pant, giving up for a second. Lucas was right. Jericho's been drilling me on falls again.
This time, my arms and legs are tied.
Because, apparently, "I need practice."
Pretty sure Jericho's an old sadist, but at least he chose bodyguards who don't snicker and smirk the entire time they see their charge getting battered and bruised. Or, in this particular case, flopping like a fish.
Gritting my teeth, I thrash against the ropes digging into my wrists and ankles, chafing my skin raw. They'll be healed by tonight, but for now, it hurts like hell.
"Bend your knees!" Jericho barks. "Roll onto your side and use the momentum to sit up. Then bring your feet under you."
