Page 8

Soon, commotion from outside the shop carries inside to us as an annoyed male voice rises over my guard’s grating timbre.

Some unfortunate soul is arguing with Brutus.

Cress and I exchange a single look and creep to the bay window on silent feet, nosy as ever. With our faces close to the glass, we watch the exchange between my guard and… I cannot distinguish the stranger’s features to try and identify him in the barely lit shopfront. There’s only his silhouette towering over Brutus.

He holds something up. Shakes it. “As I said, I desperately need a tailor.”

Brutus merely folds his meaty arms across his equally meaty chest. “There’s another tailor in the West Quarter.”

“I don’t want to go to the West Quarter when I’m already here.” There’s a pause, then an annoyed huff. “Would you ask the seamstress if she’d consider tailoring my shirt? I have a pouch full of gold for the inconvenience.”

“Can’t.” He widens his stance to further block the door. “Shop’s closed for the night.”

“The witchlights are still lit”—he points to the window where Cress and I are snooping—“and the seamstress is standing right there.”

We spin away, dissolving into a fit of laughter.

“I’m going to pee myself,” Cress gasps between laughs, one hand on her stomach. She takes a few deep breaths. “In all seriousness, I could use the money, Ro. Mind if I let him in?”

I lift a shoulder. “I think we both know I’m not in any sort of rush to go home.”

She wrinkles her nose at me before bounding for the entrance. The brass bell above the door tinkles as she wrenches it open, welcoming in a rush of crisp night air. My heated cheeks instantly cool.

“Step aside, Brutus,” Cress demands. “My parents never turned away a paying customer, and nor will I.”

“I’m under strict orders⁠—”

“Search him for weapons if you must. Then let him in. Unless you’re willing to pay me the gold he’s proffered out of your handsome salary from working for Lord Alarie?”

Brutus turns to the stranger and grumbles. “Arms out, legs spread.” There’s the sound of hands patting against clothing before a hushed, “I can assure you there are no weapons stored there.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. The bell tinkles again as the door closes, and I busy myself with the first distraction I can find. Which is… color-sorting a tin of buttons.

“Come with me,” says Cress, plucking pins loose from her wristband as she leads the man through the threshold and⁠—

Heaven and stars eternal.

My gaze trails from his polished black boots up his tall, muscular frame and across his broad shoulders to his indigo eyes. The silvery moonlight slipping through the fogged-up window’s glass seems enchanted by him, kissing his high cheekbones, full lips, and even the rounded tips of his ears.

“Sorry to interrupt your private party,” he says, voice deep and rich. “I’m in desperate need of a last-minute tailor.”

“So you said—” Cress stops abruptly as if she too is awestruck by his beauty, for when she gets a good look at him, her hand freezes in mid-air, pins forgotten between her fingertips. She hastily pokes them back into the cupcake-shaped pincushion I’d knitted for her last winter. “What is it you need help with?”

“Would it be possible to finish tailoring this tonight?” He holds up a finely made suit jacket embroidered with shimmering golden thread. One would not find something so fine in Adelphi, but maybe in one of the other kingdoms? “It’s a bit too tight around my arms.”

I glance at said arms involuntarily. In what world would any non-tailored jackets contain such muscle?

“We’ll see.” She gestures for him to step onto the raised platform. “Come in, come in. Rory, tuck yourself into a corner somewhere.”

I glare at her and drop the crimson buttons back into the tin.

His massive form immediately gobbles up the space as he steps onto the riser. Up close, I notice his fair skin is as flawless as the statues erected in honor of fallen hunters. Even his dark, thick hair is perfectly in place. At the reminder of what my own hair must look like in comparison, I run my hands through my wind-swept locks.

“I’ll need to grab your measurements right quick,” Cress says, rummaging around in the basket for her tape.

He reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one fell swoop. There’s a light dusting of hair across his broad, muscular chest and under his navel that disappears beneath his leather pants. However, this skin is not without flaw. Several scars of varying shapes and sizes mar him in a way that is both ridiculously sexy and utterly horrifying.

Here is a man who’s seen battle.