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Summary
Billy knows a thing or two about scars, has a few himself. He knows what animal bites and claw marks look like, as well as some… less savory injuries, but in all his life, he’s never seen anything like that.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, unable to stop himself, and Harrington nearly slips on the tiled floor, he spins around so fast.
“What?” he spits when he sees Billy’s wide-eyed stare, like he’s issuing a challenge, like he’s bracing for impact.
And Billy’s never been able to leave well enough alone, so he gestures vaguely in Harrington’s direction, mouth curling halfway into a sneer, and asks, “How’d you get those, pretty boy?”
He curls in on himself, a defensive position, but his eyes are bright and flinty when he replies, “Fighting monsters.”
Series
- Part 8 of Harringrove Week
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