What happens on one end hardly disrupts the other, unless there is a concerted attempt at an incursion. Well, sober , at least. Beware the men beyond the gates. Shirayuki can count on her hands the number of times the Virtuous Consort has betrayed her disgustβ saved, for the most part, for traitors, improperly prepared sea perch, and the antics of a particular foreign princeβ but her eyes narrowed with it then, contempt just barely concealed behind the wave of her fan.
And even thenβ¦. Shirayuki does not need the consort to finish the thought to take the warning. She knows only too well about men and their desires. And the sorts of things they might do to sate them, if they have the power. But it is strange to apply knowledge gleaned from the darkest shadows of the flower district to the outer court's gleaming pavilions.
But it never comes. Pencil-thin brows hike right up to his hairline, rumpling the scar that cuts across beneath it, both nothing and everything like Shirayuki had imagined. An idiot, by the looks of things. An easy dupe. Until Shirayuki bumps against his outstretch hand.
His palm burns through both skirt and petticoats, fingers fitted around the wide curve of her hip, holding her still. Or more likely: keeping her at bay. A few months ago he would have dug in his heels. Obi might not have the muscle Mister does, but but what he lacks in raw strength he makes up for with sheer cussedness. A hard thing for the Big Guy to handle, historically.
Not so much for Lady Seiran. That got the fucking Save-the-Date from Doc anteing up that whole dance across the carpet and has some real opinions about just how well her skin would hold a mark. Who is really stumping for him to test some hypotheses about how freckles taste. Well, so she hopes.
