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Preposterous that Reyna thought Visk was vicious. By all standards, he was an itty bitty buddy and a good boy.
“The Magicary can fight me.” Kianthe rolled her eyes. “It won’t go well.”
She snuggled close, and Kianthe breathed in her scent. “You need a rinse.” “I was unconscious.” And life went on.
“Six knives?” Kianthe squinted, studying every piece of her attire. “Where?” “Darling, please stay focused.”
“Our bedroom is done, by the way. We can move in anytime,” Reyna said, changing the subject. In response, Kianthe squinted harder. “Seriously. Where are the knives?” Reyna just laughed.
His expression twisted into irritation. “That fraud’s signature hardly holds weight—” “Watch your tongue,” Kianthe said curtly as she gathered leftover mugs from the empty tables. “That fraud is a friend.”
Although she was much shorter, her stern look stopped him in his tracks. It was hot. If Kianthe were feeling better, she’d kiss her girlfriend. Maybe tomorrow.
There was an alchemical equivalent—ish—to the Arcandor, but they were historically… ah, how to put this delicately? Reclusive jackasses.
They scratched something into the circle, then held out a hand. “Girlfriend, your knife, if you will?” Reyna rolled her eyes. “I won’t.” “Her name is Cya,” Lord Wylan said stiffly. “Actually, her name is Reyna, but it’s wholly unimportant to this topic,” Diarn Feo retorted,
Kianthe reached for one, and Reyna slapped her hand. “Let them cool.” “I’m the Arcandor.” “As far as I can tell, your magic doesn’t extend to cookies.” Reyna pinched her brow. “Gods, you have the patience of a five-year-old.
