Ronan reached for the chair, seized by the impulsive need to throw it at Ivar. Luckily, though frustratingly, most of his body's resources now went toward dealing with a broken leg. The movement jostled his leg and pain spiked through him. Ronan gripped the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Threatening and wanting to kill him doesn't give me warm, fuzzy feelings either, shithead." He wanted to eviscerate Ivar with a look. He could almost see it now. His face cut into pieces by Ronan's fury alone. If this were a dream, it just might have happened. But in the real world, there was just this. Ronan glaring at an apparently baffled Ivar. "Jesus, I seriously need to explain this to you? Get fucked."