"Merlin's balls, you're a pretty little thing," the man says to her, ironic considering her face is already so terribly swollen from his blows – she can feel it puffing up even more, the skin going painfully taut. He grasps her more securely by her shirt and slams her up against the cell bars, the cold iron sending agony shooting through her spine and throughout her limbs, her head knocking into a bar and making hurt ring in her skull like a bell. The man's mouth dips to her throat in a mockery of a lover, suckling hard and painful at the skin there, raising marks that she knows will bloom in vivid bruises in the hours to come, if she lives that long.