a young woman, when my cleavage had blossomed into fullness, I discovered that my breasts had the power to bend men to my will or render them drooling idiots. At the very least, my charms blanked men’s minds long enough to give me an advantage. As magic powers went, mine proved pretty useful for a journeyman-at-best sell-sword.
But as the first blush of my youth faded—okay, the second blush of my youth—my breasts seemed to have a tiny bit less magic than before.
I first noticed a difference when I returned to the city of Callum, where I’d trained as a mercenary in Lord Barlin’s company, years ago. I entered my favorite haunt, the Randy Rogue Tavern, accompanied by my black cat, Saber. I wore a fox-fur cape over my brass bra and chainmail. It was frosty outside, and I didn’t want my nipples to freeze to the metal. Plus, it allowed for a more dramatic revelation of my glory.
I sauntered to the crowded bar and set down my shield, which my mercenary friends had dubbed Nosehammer for reasons which escape me. When I whipped off my cape, a dangling fox tail struck a hapless teenage lad in the face as he took a swig. Beer spilled down his chin, drawing laughter from his friends.
In the past, when such mishaps occurred, a flash of my bosom garnered instant forgiveness—and drooling.
“Watch what you’re doing, ya hag,” the lad snapped.
My cheeks heated. Hag? His friends guffawed again—but this time at me!
Saber jumped onto the bar stool and hissed at the lot of them. I picked up my shield and “accidentally” slammed the rim into the little snot’s nose. Blood spurted in a satisfying stream. Okay, perhaps I do recall how the shield earned its name.
I turned back to the bar. The bartender stood a few feet down, washing mugs with a rag of suspect cleanliness. I waited for my cleavage to penetrate his consciousness—such as it was.
He kept washing.
“Ahem,” I said.
Nothing.
I pressed my arms against the sides of my breasts to deepen my cleavage and leaned forward to give him a better view.
Nothing.
A middle-aged man next to me whistled, and then said, “If she’s not getting served, none of us have a chance.”
I felt better—until I considered his age relative to the boy who called me hag. I glanced down at my breasts, plumped up by the brass cups. In the soft lamp light, they looked the same as ever to me.
Sighing, I turned to my cat, with whom I shared a magical link.
The cat licked his paw. Saber is nothing if not discreet. His non-answer made me scowl.
Then I remembered that scowling would cause lines around my mouth. I forced a smile. Who cared what some wet-behind-the-ears boy thought? He probably couldn’t even see straight in the state he was in.
How he’d gotten drunk was a mystery, since apparently no one could get a bloody drink in this bar.
A hand planted itself on my mail-clad buttocks. “Keara, my girl,” a familiar voice said. “It’s been an age!”
I turned slowly to let my breasts make a grand entrance. “Trystan!”
Trystan—handsome and athletic—was good for a fun tumble whenever I came to Callum. By the glassy sheen in his blue eyes, I could tell he’d had a few pints.
Saber’s ears flattened.
Saber jumped off the stool, flicked his tail, and sauntered to a corner near the fireplace.
Trystan didn’t even try to charm me, just went straight to a proposition. But considering how the evening had gone—and the fact that I couldn’t get a bloody drink—I didn’t make him woo me before letting him take me to his room.
Trystan’s performance seemed a little less . . . satisfying than the last time we’d tussled. Perhaps it was the beer. Or his age. Such things happened.
Sunlight streaming through the window woke me. As soon as I stood, Trystan stirred. His muscles rippled under his skin as he stretched and yawned. When his gaze fell on me, nude and bathed in golden light, his eyelids, half-closed by sleep, flew open wide. Ah, I still had it.
“Gods, what was I drinking last night?” he muttered, putting a hand over his eyes.
I winced. But maybe I was being overly sensitive.