Yes. Abs. Plural. Excessive. Borderline offensive.
He stood in the center of the garden like some divine punishment sent to test my self-control. Bare skin gleaming under the newborn sun, muscles moving with every precise swing of his sword. Sweat traced slow, sinful paths down his torso, catching the light like the gods themselves had applied highlighter.
Heaven. No—correction.
Viking. The sword cut clean arcs through the air. Frosty mana shimmered faintly with each movement. Flowers swayed. Butterflies fluttered. Somewhere in the distance, the town was waking—construction workers shouting, carts rolling, life continuing like nothing monumental was happening.
Liars.
Something monumental was absolutely happening.
Behind me, I heard soft footsteps. Another maid. Then another. One pretended to adjust a vase. One pretended to open a window. None of us fooled anyone.
I leaned on the window frame, chin in my hand. "Well," I muttered, "good morning to me."
