He blinked. Again.
He had been doing that a lot since meeting this strange woman. Blinking. Staring. Questioning his life choices.
There she was, standing in the middle of torn monster corpses, covered in black goo and dirt, her hair sticking to her face, fan in one hand, rag in the other, looking like a murderous goddess who'd just crawled out of the underworld.
And somehow—somehow—she was still pretty.
He blinked again, slower this time. "The spirits really do have a sense of humor," he muttered.
Then she looked at him.
Not gently. Not kindly.
More like… she was deciding whether his head would look better attached or rolling across the floor.
"What?" he blurted.
"I told you not to move," she said, voice low and dangerous. "But since you did, I'll deal with you now."
Deal with him?
He stiffened. That tone was the kind a hunter used before gutting a boar.
"Wait," he said, hands raised, "what do you mean you have time for me now?"
