The voice was sharp. Female. The commanding, clipped, you-should-be-somewhere-else tone of a woman who had been looking for him and had found him sitting down.
Viktor looked up.
Berenga stood before him.
The commander — the woman he had fucked into the moss last night, the woman whose virgin blood was still dried on his shaft, the woman who had fled before dawn — was standing in front of him in full uniform.
The uniform was decent. The proper, military, Ktorian-family-regulation armor that she should have been wearing all along — the breastplate, the shoulder guards, the heavy skirt of leather strips. She was covered. Armored. Protected.
She also looked like she was trying to show off every curve she had.
