Griffin Hale towering at well over six feet, muscles bulging under frilly fabric, was dressed in the most tragically accurate French maid outfit any of them had ever seen.
Black satin and white lace clung to his broad frame, the puffed sleeves pitifully trying to contain his biceps. A tiny apron was then tied around his waist, while a frilly headband was clipped onto his buzz cut.
If that wasn't enough, he had on thigh-high stockings that stretched over his thick calves like they were holding on for dear life, and on his feet, he wore glossy black Mary Jane shoes. How in the world did the store even have that size?
"I think I'm going to die." Alaric was practically choking on his own breath, bent over in laughter.
Roman slid off the couch in tears. "Why are your legs shinier than Violet's? Griffin, what the hell is this?!"
Griffin stood there, his arms at his sides, and his face blank.
"I will kill you one day," he said darkly. "I swear it."
