Benedict is mid-word when Flint jabs at the paper, and it startles him enough to throw off his stroke, blotting onto the page. He frowns at it, and, as much as he dares, at Flint.

"Understood, ser," he says in a low voice, but his shoulders are tensed in the manner of a bristling cat, ready to flee but prepared to swat first.

"You could have just asked me," he says again, trace amounts of firmness in the quiet words, "I'm not a hostage." (anymore)