"Sorry." Isolde's said softly just before the special stone, warm and smooth, was pressed against Jareth's lower back.
The gentle touch ignited agony.
A guttural grunt escaped Jareth's lips lips, followed by a long, vicious string of curses.
His hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists, tightened their grip on the edges of the table he lay upon.
The wood groaned under the pressure, much like Jareth himself.
If his jaw wasn't already a throbbing, broken mess, he would have sunk his teeth into the very wood to find an anchor against the pain.
"Sorry," Isolde repeated, her voice laced with a genuine ache as she reached for another stone. But this time, Jareth's eyes, wild with pain and fury, caught her movement. With a sudden, violent shove, he knocked her hand away. The stone clattered to the floor, its soft glow extinguished as it hit the cold ground.
