I tried to summon some cutting remark about his staring, but the words died in my throat as I caught my reflection in the polished bronze of a nearby shield.
Fuck.
The leathers fit like they’d been made for me. And knowing this place, they probably had. But it wasn’t just the craftsmanship that made my breath catch. It was the body wearing them.
The weeks of proper meals, of fae magic working through my system, had done what months of human recovery never could have. Where starvation had carved away every curve, leaving me thin and hollow, my fae transformation had restored what I’d lost with brutal speed.
My breasts filled the leather bodice in a way that made me acutely aware of every breath. My waist curved in before flaring to hips that the fitted pants showcased with almost indecent precision. Even my face had filled out, cheekbones less hollow, lips fuller.
I looked...aliveagain. Healthy. Like a woman instead of a scarecrow held together by spite and desperation.
Before—gods, before the running, before the year of terror and hunger—I’d been built like this. Soft where it mattered, strong where it counted. Navaire used to trace these curves with reverent hands, used to tell me I was built like a goddess of plenty.
Now here I stood, wearing a body that felt both familiar and foreign, under the burning stare of a High Lord whose silver eyes were molten.
“The leathers...” Varyth started, then stopped, his usual eloquence abandoning him entirely.
Darian whistled low under his breath. “Well,fuck me.”
Varyth’s head snapped toward his second with a look that could have melted steel. “Shut. Up.”
But the damage was done. Heat crawled up my neck as I realised I’d been standing there like an idiot, cataloguing my own body while they waited.
“They fit,” I said stiffly, shouldering my pack with more force than necessary.
“They... yes.” Varyth cleared his throat.
Was that a flush creeping across his pale cheekbones?
“The leather. It’s well-crafted. Quality. The cut is... it suits your...” He gestured vaguely at my general existence, then seemed to realise what he was doing and dropped his hand like it had caught fire.
Sweet bleeding gods.The High Lord of Luceren, master of political intrigue and casual murder, was stammering.
“My what?” I asked sweetly, because if he was going to suffer, he could do it properly.
His jaw worked for a moment, gaze darting everywhere except directly at me. “Your... form. The proportions are... architecturally sound.”
Darian choked on a laugh. “Architecturally sound? Did you just compare her to a fucking building?”
“It’s a compliment,” Varyth said defensively. “Not that you’re... I didn’t mean to imply...” He dragged a hand through his silver hair, destroying its perfect arrangement. “You look?—”
“Deadly in leather?” I suggested, taking pity on him.
Relief flooded his features. “Exactly. Deadly.”
But the way he said it, low and rough around the edges, made dangerous sound like something else entirely. Something that had nothing to do with weapons and everything to do with the way his focus kept drifting to the curve of my waist, the leather that hugged my thighs.
Something that made my own pulse quicken in response, magic stirring restlessly beneath my skin like it recognised the heat building between us.
“Are we riding or are you going to keep cataloguing my architectural merits?” I asked, because standing here much longer was going to result in either violence or something infinitely more dangerous.
Varyth straightened, composure sliding back into place like armour. “We’re riding.”
But as he turned to lead us toward the stables, I caught the way his wings twitched beneath the leather harness designed to accommodate them. The way his hands clenched briefly at his sides before relaxing into calculated stillness.
Architecturally sound, my ass.
“Where are the horses?” I managed, glancing around the empty space.
