He's fun.
Okay, so he's fun and unreasonably gorgeous, but there are plenty of unreasonably gorgeous men to be found across Thedas.
He's fun, unreasonably gorgeous, and loyal.
For now.
Isabela looks back at the dark smudge on the horizon and sighs.
He's fun, unreasonably gorgeous, loyal for now, and in deep shit.
That dark smudge would be Kirkwall burning. Her imagination fills in the grey giants on an ordered rampage through the streets, the smell of blood, the screams.
Not her problem.
Her imagination fills in his face, blood-spattered and twisted, betrayed. She pictures his face (lips just full enough to be kissable, not so full as to be feminine) slack in death, those (long-fingered, clever on her body) hands of his limp, never to touch another man or (lying back letting her direct him as she pleases, moving just so) woman again. She imagines his voice (perfect when lost in a moan) never quipping when he should be placating again.
Her stomach clenches, and for the first time in more years than she cares to consider, the pitching deck under her feet feels truly unstable.
Until she calls the order to turn back toward Kirkwall.
He so owes her for this. He so owes her for making her feel.
Bastard.