Summer sprawls, half-on half-off, Mordred’s body, one finger tracing his druid tattoo idly, before pressing her lips to it. They’ll have to get dressed again and go down to dinner soon, but just now she’s feeling much too lazy to move. For now, the blankets are tucked up over their bodies, his hand is in her hair, and all is right with the world.
Her contented little world is abruptly upended when, after a perfunctory knock, the door is pushed open, and Edward looms there. Through clenched teeth, he hisses, “Perhaps I should have given my warning more clearly.” He stalks into the room, snatching Summer’s wrist, and jerks her to the floor. One of the coverlets is dumped atop her.
“Cover yourself, /sister/,” Edward spits. “I had hoped you were not so far gone as to shame our family so. As for you,” his gaze flicks to Mordred, “you are a villain and a liar and a coward and I will see you on the dueling ground.”