Seraphina Sterling drew the fruit knife, its sharp blade glinting with a cold light in the frigid night. "I've just had a thought. Letting you off with a broken arm is too merciful. How about you leave your tongues behind, too?"
The moment they heard her, the men bolted. A broken arm could be set, but a severed tongue meant they'd never speak again. The thugs had arrived in a flash, and they vanished just as quickly.
Genevieve Churchill's admiration for Seraphina Sterling reached a new peak. "Seraphina, you're so damn cool! How did you do that? Do you have a secret technique? Teach me!"
'A secret technique?' An image of Terrence Grant flashed through Seraphina Sterling's mind. During training, he had been ruthless and unsparing. She would always end up covered in bruises, black and blue. Sometimes, it was so bad she couldn't get out of bed for three days. 'So, is there a secret technique?'
"Getting beaten."
