Vivian had bowed her head away from her Priscus. The Elizabethan tongue was odd. Did the Spaniard read Shakespeare in his spare time? If that was how the Invictus spoke around here, it reaffirmed her thoughts about the Covenant.
Part of the Daeva wanted to belong to something. That other part, her Id, kept telling her to wait. For what she didn’t know. Maybe the perfect invitation or a good reason no less.
And now, off to get a bite. The smell of maple syrup and diesel were calling her name.
Unless stopped, Viv is off like a prom dress.