Whenever the world went to hell you didn't really get to be picky with your allies. All things considered, Dorian figured that there were worse people he could find himself enjoying the company of. Well, not many. You were pretty damn terrible. It wasn't his fault that he found himself falling for one of the silver haired Blackbeak witches.

He watched you from across the room. It was impossible for him to keep his eyes away from you. From the way your riding leathers stretched across your skin to the way that your silver hair gleamed in the moonlight. He stared. Everytime you would catch him he acted like he had been staring out the open window that you were sitting on the ledge of.

After the umpteenth time he had been caught staring, you shot him a harsh glare. He chuckled.

"It's not my fault you're sitting in front of the window," he said with a shrug. The grin stretched across his face made it obvious that his words were the opposite of the truth. "Or, maybe," he began. His smile stretched even wider. "I'm staring at you, witchling."