Logan looks horrified.
I must look terrible.
I blink away the stars dancing at the edges of my vision. My body tingles from head to toe like I've been struck by lightning, but Logan's expression is what sends ice through my veins. Not cautious. Not confused. Outright horrified. Like I have a pig's face and horse's ass.
Before I can ask what's wrong, Brynn snaps her fingers, smug satisfaction radiating from her like heat from a furnace. Despite being thoroughly human(ish), I can practically smell the victory wafting from her direction.
A full-length mirror materializes from thin air, its ornate frame hovering upright just a few feet away. If there was a museum for old things (so basically, any museum), it would fit right into something from the Renaissance era or something.
I'm no expert in historical genres, but you know—one of those. Heavy, overly-detailed, belongs in some castle somewhere and reflecting the images of ladies in silk gowns before they head to a ball.
