Amy Oakley hissed softly as the woman examining her injuries ruthlessly rubbed some kind of foul-smelling liniment into her aching ribs, the sickly-sweet smelling compound making her scrapes and scratches burn, even as her body worked to close the wounds she’d taken after being provoked into a fight for her life, to end her lover Amélie Orne’s trial.
“Stop whinging,” Ain Abdel chided her. “This will help. You are lucky that brute you fought was too slow and stupid to really hurt you.”
Amy wrinkled her nose. “Why do you even carry that stuff with you? It smells like rotting mint and olive oil mixed with cheap vodka.”
“It’s good for muscles and aches,” Ain explained as she carefully examined some of the scratches and cuts in Amy’s shoulders. Patrice, the bruiser that Marcel Charron had fo
