He knew this was a bad idea.
The only dancing Bull had been used to in the past couple of years involved poles, Orlesian ticklers, or both. Fine music and formal shirts were a little unusual for both him and the Inquisitor, after weeks and months of armour and blades and wading through demon crap calf-high.
But when they stepped onto the dance floor as the song swelled to its crescendo, it all came more easily than expected. Sure, it was still awkward and they stepped on each other’s toes a few times, but the boss’ hand was warm in his—even through the gloves—and their cheeks were flushed and their eyes were laughing, laughing, laughing as they never had in battle.
This was obviously the best bad idea ever.













