After Ana finished her bath and I dried her hair like the gentleman I absolutely was, we both strolled back toward the clearing.
And there he stood—Steve, still frozen mid-swing, his sword inches from where my neck used to be.
Ana blinked. "He's still like that?"
I crossed my arms and nodded solemnly. "Yes. Such is the path of true dedication."
She tilted her head. "You said he was practicing something?"
I nodded again, more seriously. "The Art of the Frozen Sword. It's a long-lost technique. Only those with incredible willpower and an inability to take a joke can perform it."
Steve's eye twitched. A lot.
Ana stifled a laugh. "Is he... conscious?"
"Oh, absolutely," I said. "He's meditating. Letting the killing intent simmer until it becomes soup."
Steve's lips moved slightly, mouthing words I refused to read. They were probably rated R anyway.
