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Summary
The white-braided woman leaned forward, her fingers steepled beneath her chin.
“Maybe we need more motivation,” she mused, voice like soft cloth moving over grass.
Her eyes dragged over Fount’s form. “Lest this turn into a celebration for Major Recluse.” She tilted her head, smiling faintly. “Something should be on the line to make this a real match, hm?”
Her gaze lingered. Fount’s skin prickled. Truthless’ fingers stilled against his waist. The air thickened just from Truthless' side of the table.
Truthless exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening until the embroidery bit into Fount’s skin. “White Lily,” he said, low and warning. “We are not gambling for him.”