The air was thick with the scent of wet stone, sulfur, and the unspoken agreement that 'no one' would ever speak of the "cockhead incident" ever again.
Or at least, Kaida wouldn't.
She sat cross-legged on the cold floor, her arms folded tightly over her chest, glaring daggers at Viktor.
Viktor, for his part, looked ridiculous.
He sat opposite her, also naked, but with a strip of torn fabric from his own ruined shirt tied firmly around his eyes.
"Are you done staring?" he asked, his head tilted slightly.
"I'm not staring," Kaida lied, her eyes tracing the lines of his body.
He wasn't like the warriors she was used to. The men in her family were granite—hard lines, veins like ropes, skin weathered by sun and scars. Viktor was... different. His skin was unblemished, almost infuriatingly smooth for a man.
There was a softness to him—not fat, exactly, but a layer of healthy, well-fed flesh that spoke of noble dinners and soft beds rather than training grounds.
