Lance is holding a dagger, in his closed fist, handle up towards me. I don't immediately look down to the blade, but keep my eyes on his, noticing how the fires of the forge flicker in the blue orbs. The moment stretches.
"The forge is hot, Your Majesty." Lance pushes out his hand further. He doesn't like being stared at. He grows wary of my staring. But for a man who doesn't like to draw attention to himself, he sure has a lot of mystique on him. When we were kids, Lance would always turn away when his dear Attorney mom would hold up a Polaroid cam to his face during the many Saturday picnics both our families shared. I wasn't surprised to find most of his kiddie pics with his face in profile, gorgeous blue eyes turned away from the lens, one occasion when I'd leafed through the Grimm family photo album. Lance is the kind of man who'd take the Chefs backdoor into a Gala just to avoid the red carpet and flashing lights. It's ironic, given that he looks the way he does.
