Lira stood at the tent's entrance like the final judge in a play gone wickedly off-script—straight spine, gloved hands resting on the doorflap, black ponytail gleaming in lantern haze. The dusky glow painted soft gold along her cheekbones, but her eyes were twin obsidian mirrors. They traveled the cramped interior one slow inch at a time, absorbing tangled limbs, half-fastened buttons, spit-slick skin, and the heady perfume of incense now hopelessly mingled with sex.
A heartbeat of silence.
Another.
Mikhailis felt each one thud against his ribs. Say something. Anything. His tongue flicked against dry lips. "L-Lira… I can explain—"
The explanation died when Serelith's elbow slipped off the cluttered table. She yelped, grabbing the edge with one hand while the other tried to yank her bodice up. Her violet hair stuck to her forehead in damp curls, and every tug at the laces only made the fabric bunch worse. Graceful court magician? Not tonight.
