Lucien
The lunatic was half-naked--
in my shirt, no less. My custom silk, tailored to perfection, now clinging to her damp skin like it was made for her instead. Her hair was soaked, dripping down her neck, ruining the fabric, and she was eating like a starved beast. The maids had barely turned their backs before she'd devoured half the tray meant to feed a small battalion.
I watched, equal parts horrified and intrigued, as she inhaled a pie whole, crumbs at her lips, not a shred of shame in sight. No decorum. No restraint.
Graceful as a mountain cat, wild as a heathen.
"Is your name really Lyra?"
"Hm-hmm," she hummed with a mouthful, scarcely sparing me a glance.
"You are no mercenary, are you?"
She shook her head. "Fighting was the only way to get rid of the anger. Spent three days knocking men around and getting paid for it, and I decided, why not?"
