He blinks, just for a second. A tiny flicker of annoyance.
Then he steps closer.
His cologne is the same. Musky, overconfident, and somehow both charming and nauseating. “So... new boyfriend?”
“What?”
“You’re glowing,” he says. “In a real post-orgasmic-sword-maiden kind of way. It’s not the protein, babe. Spill.”
I want to knee him in the jaw.
Instead, I say, “I’m seeing someone.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone I know?”
Before I can make up a convincing lie—before I can even think—heappears.
Kursk stands at the end of the aisle like a fantasy novel cover come to life.
Even with the illusion magic, he’s massive—broad shoulders, chiseled chest, impossibly handsome in that rugged, battle-hardened, might-have-strangled-a-bear-this-morning sort of way. He’s wearing jeans now, but no shirt. Apparently shirts “constrict his breath,” whatever that means. His illusion-magic "skin" is tan, but his eyes still burn gold, and the long braid down his back sways like a war banner when he walks.
He also has a large bag of beef jerky and a jug of chocolate milk in one hand.
“Kursk,” I say quickly, “this is… my ex. Chet.”
Chet extends a hand, smirking. “Hey, man. You from around here?”
Kursk looks down at the offered hand like it’s something that might explode. “I am not yourman,” he says.
“Oh-kay,” Chet mutters, withdrawing.
Kursk steps between us, just enough to make a point. He stares at Chet like he’s trying to decide whether to disembowel him or merely dislocate his arms.
Chet, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. Much.
“So... Kursk,” he says, drawing out the name like it’s something stuck in his teeth. “You a wrestler or something?”
“I am a hunter.”
“Oh yeah? Deer?”
“No.”
“Wild boar?”
“No.”
“…What then?”
Kursk leans in, voice low. “Monsters.”
Chet blinks.
I cough. “He’s Norwegian. Big into LARPing. You know how it is.”
