Revas had not been joking about the leather.
Mirabelle stood in front of the tall mirror in the dressing room, studying her reflection. The silks and velvets of the court were gone. Now she wore a riding outfit made of midnight-black leather, fitting her like a second skin. Armor covered her shoulders and corset, built for movement, speed, and battle.
Revas stood behind her, his hands on her waist and his chin resting on her shoulder. He wore matching clothes: a long black duster coat over a high-collared shirt and dark breeches tucked into knee-high boots. He looked less like a guardian and more like a highwayman who stole souls instead of money.
"Lethal," Revas murmured, his eyes tracking the line of her throat. "You look like a knife blade wrapped in shadow."
"It's tight," Mirabelle noted, adjusting the gloves.
"Good," Revas grinned. "It holds you together when the killing starts. And it squeaks when you move. I like the squeak."
