DEADLY SEVEN

DEADLY SEVEN - .SIX.

♈
.SIX.

"SEND MY REGARDS TO YOUR HIGHNESS." A deep British voice resonated through Galileo's ears that almost made him spring his eyes open and be ready for another ear-gasm, but didn't.

"As always," replied by another man who sounds the same, but his accent was wealthier in comparison. "Good day! Seven blessings to you and your son."

People are speaking weirdly today. The last time he checked, he was in Seattle partying and not in London, sleeping.

Speaking of "partying" where's the annoying sound of Damon and the eternal raucous of Natalie?

Even with closed eyelids, Galileo knows the first man gave a small smile. "Seven blessings to you, too, m'lord."

After a short pause—in which Galileo predicted it to be a short passing of parting farewell nods—the door closes, leaving a sigh from the homeowner's lips. And from the outside, the rattling and hooves of the horses, pulling at—what seemed like—a carriage fading in the distance.

Another knock on the wooden door was all it needed to boom the young lad into a wakeful start. His bloodshot eyes popped open, begging for more rest; his eyelids heavy, insisting.

But the raucous did not end and it made him pissed so he shot up to sit straight. Oblivious to the fact that he was shirtless and only wearing a thin fabric of black boxer briefs, he quickly rushed to the door while rubbing his tired eyes.

He opened the door and screamed "WHAT!"

The girl in front of him—who's wearing a seemingly weird medieval era outfit of dull colored dress and a rag-like headdress—was stunned at the aggressive greeting with bulging, beautiful green-grass eyes and thin pink lips in an O shape.

Unable to speak at the demanding lad—and even acknowledge the smooth, heaving, sweaty, lean chest of his—she blushed and looked down to give privacy.

However, Galileo mistook her meek personality as to be ashamed for disturbing an early morning. But because the silent grew, this made Galileo miss his bed more. So unintentionally, he snapped: "Are you just gonna stand there or what?"

Finally, she had the courage to look up to meet his boring gaze and, with a shaky soft voice, she muttered, "P-Pardon, but y-you're quite aware of your, um, err . . . lack of clothing, are you not?"

Puzzled, he looked down at his body when the sixteen-year-old girl motioned him to look closely.

Ashamed and guilty at the same time, he quickly cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head to apologize, but it seemed more like a seductive gesture to act sexier that's why the lady hastily shoved a thick book with both shaky hands as she bowed her head; afraid to look at him and sin.

It was her time to clear her throat as she wiped her cold and shaky hands to her dull apron dress in awkwardness. "I, err, came to return the book."

Awkward silence.

"It's, um, a nice one. Err, indeed."

Galileo's thoughts were floating so his head bounced a nod on its own and waited for her upcoming reply, even though she was shy enough to show her face, her body movements were shouting for more messages.

"And I, uh, was told by Sister Teresa—the nun who takes care of us—that I should talk to Sir Dorion."

Galileo squints his eyes in confusion as she looked up. "Who?"

The lady gave the same expression. "Your father?"

His father? But he doesn't live with his family anymore—since he's living in a dorm with Benedict to be closer at school—or even have a father whose weirdly named "Dorion" why the hell is he talking to this girl!