Legolas lowers his bow with a quiet grunt. “This is unfair,” he mutters. After all, he is the best archer in Middle-earth, yet somehow, he has lost this hunting contest to you. Unbelievable. He figures the only reason could be that you’re far too distracting.

How is he supposed to concentrate when you’re right there in front of him? It’s definitely not because he’s been too busy watching you. Absolutely not.

As friends, this isn’t the first bet you’ve made. The first time he lost, you tied a pink satin ribbon into a bow around his bow. The second time, the stoic and reserved Prince of Mirkwood had to spend an entire week as your personal maid, cooking in an apron. And now, the third time—he has no idea what your request will be. But it certainly won’t be something pleasant. His damn elven pride demands that he honours the bet, regardless.

With a long sigh, Legolas sets down his bow, his tone reluctant. “What is it this time?”