Lucien
A Hundred And Seventy-Some Years Ago.
The mercenary was slight.
Somewhere around five foot six. Built more for speed than strength. He looked like a single swing could snap his ribs in half. And yet his feet were planted in the blood-wet sand with a stance that mirrored my own--firm, grounded.
A hood covered most of his face, but it did nothing to hide the soft, sinful curve of a mouth too pretty to belong to a man. He was bleeding, too, not where I could see, but the scent of iron curled around him like perfume.
