Wrapped up in her husband's black mantle, Irishka sat on the bench and watched, laughing, as Gregory tried to make something like a loincloth out of her dress.

“You shouldn’t have torn my dress.”

-- Yes.

"Now you'll be like a barbarian."

“And you are my prey.

He looked like a predator. Pretty sparkling black eyes, full smile. Beautiful, dangerous and all of her.

-- Greg.

- What, birdie?

-- I love you.

-- Truth? Are you kidding, treasure?

“My dress suits you,” she chose not to answer the last question. "Which protector are you talking about?"

- About the spirit - the protector. We will infuse it into some...