section7mfu | The Breach of Promise Affair

Faustina stood between him and his own pistol, her palpable frustration tempered by a familiar amusement. This time Illya was sure of its cause. With flashing eyes she had stormed, ‘Not so vainglorious that I longed to die at the end of your Special.’ An imperfect metaphor but worthy of exploration. A sleep dart would postpone what he hoped would be an impassioned literary debate.

With a quick squeeze of her arm, Illya stepped away from the telephone and to her side.

“Get your hands off her.”

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