Not a kick. A nudge. A statement of intent.
Rigo’s knees buckled. The scepter clattered to the cobblestones. His hands flew to his groin, cupping nothing but the echo of sudden, volcanic pain. His face, once a masterpiece of roguish charm, now resembled a freshly stepped-on pastry. knave ballbust
Rigo managed a laugh—high, hysterical, broken. “You wouldn’t. Captain of the Watch. Above reproach.” Not a kick
She took one step closer. Rigo’s bravado held—for about half a second. Then her steel-toed boot swung in a low, precise arc. volcanic pain. His face