staring into the marble floored library, grace supposed that, after the wedding night she’d survived months ago, a little blood on the persian rug was just another tuesday in the danforth household.
grace looked down at the man - someone who had tried to slip a hand a little too far down her back during a business meeting, whispering something in her ear that made grace wince in disgust - and then she looked at titus. he looked like he was breathing hard. his knuckles were definitely bruised, something grace would begrudgingly want to take care of later. she’d have to clean him of whatever blood got on him, too. but she drew the line at cleaning the rug. 'little dramatic, don't you think?' she questioned, sarcasm dripping from her tongue as she reached into her pocket to pull out an ornate, silver lighter and a cigarette. she supposed it made sense. no one was going to touch a danforth’s property. she didn’t like calling herself that, but it wasn’t wrong, either. she took a long drag then blew smoke upward toward the ceiling, giving her husband a moment to cool down. ‘you probably don’t believe me, but i was fine handling him on my own,’ finally stepping over the growing pool of red, she gazed up at titus, unblinking. ‘you have too many fucking impulse control issues,’ she took another drag. ‘i’ll call someone to clean this up. go sit so i can look at your hands,’ @danfortheir.
