Pain still throbbed in my throat. It was a slow burning ache that refused to subside. Blood slicked my hands, my clothes, and the floor.
My body quivered from the aftershock, muscles still spasming from the near-decapitation. And through it all, Rosario, saintly, panicked, and absolutely infuriating… was hovering.
"Dios mío, niño, what did I do?" she fretted, her hands fluttering near my wound but not quite touching. "How do I start? For the love of the Moon, this shouldn't have happened here! Ay, Virgen Santísima, your poor mother would faint if she saw you like this!"
Damn right, she would. That's why she wouldn't.
I groaned, barely suppressing an eye-roll. "Not helping, Rosario."
"Not helping? Not helping?!" Her voice went shrill. "I find you bleeding out like a slaughtered pig and you say I'm not helping?! Should I just leave you here to soak in your own blood, then?"
That sounded ideal, honestly.
