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"Such a filthy creature you are..."

He muttered breathlessly through the exposed part of his face. His palm slowly cascading from your bloodied cheek down to your throat.

His thumb pressed roughly against your jugular, not hard enough to cut off your breathing, but enough to make breathing a chore.

Yet even while degrading you he kept his touch gentle, a jarring contrast from how he brutally bombarded your companions with his long sword. The blade often found itself crunching viciously against bone, almost as if it were a battering ram.

Calling out for help would be meaningless, all of Your companions had long gone past their third strike. And as if to pluralize that thought, The clock rang 10 minutes.

He has dismantled what you thought to be the greatest team for you in mere minutes.

One hand lay still braced against the back of your head, the knight was knelt down, your lower back pressing into his knee, long sword discarded a few feet away as he continued to roughly move from your throat to admiring your under eye with his palm.

"... You're not him."

He muttered, an almost upset tone to his voice, a fact. Something he knew but wished to forget.

"Yet... In his likeness you lay."

The knight's helm pressed forwards against your forehead, his shielded eyes presumably boring through you as his breathing steadied.