on humbled, bended knee

WESSEX out of the night that covers me Oh. It’s you. Wessex almost blanches at both the recognition and the condemnation, but forces herself to level her gaze up at the strapping young man who looks like he’d rather spit on her than say her name. Almost. So maybe feelings haven’t tempered in the twenty years since the incident. And isn’t that just like a man to hold a grudge about his dick for that long? “Lanoch,” she says in greeting. “I’m sure you get this all the time, but you’ve certainly grown.” Smooth, Wessex. Very smooth. She can remember him as a much smaller, energetic little boy who used to run around naked, despite his mother’s best attempts to keep him away from the glass oven. That was before she died, though… before she 'preyed' on his father. Eyeroll. It didn’t even occur to her until now that his father might be dead, too. But she daren’t ask that right then, not with such a frosty greeting. “I’ve got a project I’m working on and need two small things made. Name your price.” black as the pit from pole to pole i thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul