Zander and I share a look before we both bellow a laugh, Tristan joining in with his own quiet chuckle as everyone watches on in various states of confusion. Except for a snickering Kace, of course. Since crazy always recognizes crazy, Kace doesn't need to be told how foolish Griffin's question is.
Zander wipes tears from his eyes and leans against Kace. “Now Griffin, if I were to intervene, Amara would not only get angrier, but she would then direct that anger at me.”
“We try very hard to avoid being the object of Amara’s rage,” Tristan adds, Zander and I nodding in agreement.
Griffin huffs a laugh and gives each of us a disbelieving look. “It can't be that bad.”
“Oh,” Zander says, smirking at me. “He's adorable.”
I cock my head to the side. “Isn’t he?”
Griffin is right, though. Amara is getting angrier. Much angrier. Her muscles are tense and her chin tilts downward, her hair curtaining forward to partially conceal the glare beneath. But don’t forget that smile. That terrifying, deranged smile that no sane person is capable of producing is directed at a male even more foolish than Griffin. A male who should be backing away from that smile, but is instead, visibly irritated by it.
“Just,” Amara says slowly, “make me a pair of trousers.”
“I told you,” he replies with a droll look, leaning against the partition that separates the two. “The dressmaker's shop is across the street.”
“And I told you, I don’t wear dresses,” she growls, fisting her hands at her sides. “I wear trousers.”
“A lady should not wear trousers.”
“Do I look like a fucking lady to you?’
“Sure don't sound like one,” he mumbles to himself, rubbing his eyes.
Amara expels a long breath, her cheeks stretching into what I’m sure she believes is a charming smile, but in actuality, is even more horrifying than the first. “It's really not that difficult. Just measure me.” She raises her arms out and spreads her legs, expecting him to take her measurement just as he would for any other customer.
“I would have to touch you.” The fae cringes, pointing at her pussy. “There.”
“I'm aware,” Amara states dryly.
He sucks in a shocked breath. “That's not appropriate.”
“It doesn't bite,” she snaps, but he shakes his head, refusing. “Fine, you big prude.” She turns to face me, her arms out and legs spread once again. “Lena, come cup me.”
“As much as I'd love to play with your lady bits…”
“Godsdamnit, Lena,”' Darius groans. “You can't say shit like that!”
I arch a brow toward Darius and then at Amara. “I don't know how to measure a pussy.”
Kace stabs his hand into the air. “I'll measure your lady bits.”
Amara nods and turns to face him, but Griffin intercepts the overly enthusiastic Kace with a palm to his chest, shoving him back. “Don’t even think about it.”
Giving a now visibly sour Kace a parting glare, Griffin moves to stand by Amara. “Can’t you just do what you normally would for a male,” he says to the leathersmith, steepling his fingers into an upside-down V, cringing, “but shape the groin area like this?”
The leathersmith shakes his head. “I'm sorry, Commander. I don't make trousers for females or women.” He lifts a finger over their heads, pointing to the stall across the street. “She should go buy a dress.”
“I can’t fight in a dress,” Amara spews through gritted teeth.
“You shouldn't be fighting at all,” the male replies, shaking his head disdainfully. “You should be at home taking care of your babies and husband like a proper woman, not playing warrior.” The leathersmith must have a death wish, because instead of leaving it at that, he leans across the partition and pats Amara’s shoulder. “You're not a male, sweetheart.”
That’ll do it.
Amara’s eyes widen and an odd, strangled sound tears from her throat.
The leathersmith foolishly turns his back on her, I’m sure believing that will be the end of it. That is, until Amara’s eyes narrow to slits, her face mottles red, features contorting into fury, and she sucks in an audible breath and screams. Not one of those feminine shrieking screams, either, but a feral, rage-filled, realm shattering, never-ending scream that has everyone who's not familiar with the sound jolting away from the psycho. Including the leathersmith, who I suspect is now thinking, judging off how his eyebrows now mesh with his hairline, that maybe he should’ve just made her the godsdamn trousers. Or at least been more mindful of his words. Especially if you consider the look of horror on his face when Amara’s features twist into a murderous snarl and she catapults herself over the partition.
Fortunately for him, the instant her feet touch down on the other side, Griffin snatches her by the waist and drags her back over. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“I’ll kill you, you sexist son of a bitch!” she seethes, death in her gaze and spittle flying from her lips. “I'll carve your skin from your bones! Cut off your cock and shove it up your ass! Gut you like a stuck pig and bathe in your blood!”
“That was very descriptive,” Darius murmurs, watching the show with an almost morbid fascination.
“She's quite poetic when she’s enraged,” I agree.
“Amara, calm down.”
A collective groan fills the tent at Griffin's foolish choice of words. The males in disbelief and the females in outrage, but all present wait with bated breath for Amara’s fury to divert to him. Of course, Amara is never one to disappoint.
She stills, her feet hovering above the ground where she dangles from Griffin’s grip. “Put me down, Griffin.”
“If I do,” he replies, his gaze drilling into the side of her cheek, “do you promise not to kill him?”
“Fuck no!”
“Then I can't put you down.” He shrugs, lifting Amara with the motion.
