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The way she moved was so graceful.
She was a vision in her long, ladylike gowns that exposed the slightest amount of cleavage. Soft, dark brown curls framed her face perfectly. Though she was nearly a decade his senior, he was attracted to her, nonetheless.
She had a way with words, and a way without. She was able to charm any passing guard with twirl of her hair and a wave of her fingers. She could talk whatever words she wanted to hear right out of them. She played them like a harp and they would be none the wiser.
And when she fought it was like seeing an angel bringing down the wrath of the heavens down on Earth.
Her movements are fast and deliberate. Quick on her feet and an even quicker wit, she dodges blades like it's child's play. He himself was fast, but he paled in comparison to her speed.
Her whip was a fearsome weapon that she wielded without hesitation. Her braids lashed around her face as she moved, completely synchronized to the curves and ripples of her whip.
She was a beautiful, deadly woman. Independent, kind, and strong. Everything that was good in the world to him was in her.
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She felt guilt when she thought of Connor. He was nine years younger than she, and at times she felt she was taking advantage of him (though he assured her she wasn't, and that he wanted to be with her very much).
But how could she not be attracted to him?
She had visited him at his Homestead one month. She watched him interact with the small village of people, and he was starkly different from himself in battle.
Connor went out of his way to please and help these people, and asked nothing in return. He once defended the seamstress and her daughter from her abusive husband and his trash companions, and when asked why, he only said that she was one of his own, and he would defend his own with his life.
Such kindness and generosity to offer these people a safe home and friendship here.
Overly polite, caring, and doting to those he was close to, but merciless and convicting towards those who got in his way.
He was a large man, muscles pronounced on his body from head to toe. His fighting style was harsh and brutal, but precise.
She admitted to finding him more attractive in fights than otherwise. The way he slammed his tomahawk into his target with deadly precision and force was a beautiful display of his abilities, and the way his muscles flexed underneath the white Assassin coat always held her attention.
They had both sinned in their life, and they were lucky to find each other. They deserved each other, despite the differences in age and background.
After all, what better to accompany sin than itself?