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Summary
“I would gouge my eyes out with my own hands if you wished me to stop looking at you,” Rook stated simply while Vil lifted her arms, slipping the gown over the latter’s head with practiced ease. The housewarden responded only with a hum of acknowledgement that did not reflect the flutter in her stomach, never able to stop herself from the internal preening that resulted from Rook’s common and oft-gruesome sentiments. Vil was more than acquainted with empty flattery, but this was not that.
Vil tries to carry out her nightly routine. Rook can’t control herself at the sight of her queen, and Vil loses a little bit of control, too.
