Eli rolled over, his eyes slowly opening in the cold light of morning. He'd drank far, far too much, more than he'd ever had in his life. The fae threw some odd parties and the victory party they'd decided on in Vegas was probably the worst idea he'd heard of in ages.
Still, he was their champion; to refuse would be a grave insult to the fae.
He looks up at the woman in the bed, smiles and rolls over to continue his sleep.
Pause.
Woman?
He reaches down and grabs his sword, drawing it on the lady next to him. In doing so, two things become apparent.
One: This sword, while of excellent craft and make, is NOT his.
Two: This woman, while of excellent craft and make, is also NOT HIS.
"I'm very sorry, miss, but you've caught me with my pants down. Literally. Who in the bloody hell are you?" Eli asks with all of the grace an English lord (with a hangover) can muster.