A Tight Fit

Synopsis

A noblewoman attempts to disguise herself in the armor of her fallen brother. A young squire must help adjust… everything.

In the war-torn kingdom of Vaelmir, Lady Isobel dons her fallen brother’s armor to take his place on the battlefield, determined to defend her family’s honor. But disguising herself as a knight proves more complicated than she anticipated—especially when she is assigned the watchful, strong-handed young squire, Rowan.

As Rowan struggles to help Isobel adjust her armor, their proximity ignites a tension that neither of them can ignore. With the enemy drawing closer and her deception growing riskier, Isobel must decide—will she fight to keep her secret, or surrender to the passion simmering beneath her breastplate?

Praise for “A Tight Fit“

“The moment Rowan tightened the straps of her breastplate, I knew this book would change me. And it did.” – Anonymous, Squire in Training

“If ‘slow burn’ were a weapon, this book would have slain me. I nearly shouted in public when they were finally forced to share a tent.” – Countess Viola Marelle, Founder of the Velmire Book Club

An Excerpt

The armor wasn’t fitting right.

Lady Isobel exhaled sharply, glaring down at the plate that refused to settle properly across her chest. The borrowed cuirass, once belonging to her late brother, had always been a perfect match for him—broad in the shoulders, trim at the waist, tailored for a man who was never meant to be her. Now, strapped to her own frame, it pinched in some places and gaped in others, refusing to conform to the woman wearing it.

Rowan knelt before her, calloused fingers working at the belts and fastenings, his brows drawn in silent frustration. The flickering torch light of the tent threw restless shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the furrow of concentration in his brow. He had been adjusting and readjusting the straps for what felt like hours.

“It’s still loose here,” he murmured, fingers brushing against the gap near her ribs.

Isobel stiffened. The touch was barely there, but she felt it—felt him—through layers of linen and steel. The heat of his hands, the press of his knuckles against her side. He was careful, methodical, the way he always was when tending to a knight’s armor. And yet, this was different.

“You could just let me do it myself,” she said, though there was little conviction in her voice.

Rowan didn’t glance up. “And have you ride out tomorrow with half your armor slipping off the moment you raise your sword? I think not.” He reached for another buckle, fingers grazing along the curve of her waist as he worked the leather tighter. “This needs to sit snug against you, or you won’t be able to move properly.”

Isobel swallowed. “It’s too tight.”

“It’s supposed to be.” His voice was gruff, practical. But there was something else beneath it.

The air between them felt heavier now, thick with something neither of them dared name. He was too close—closer than any squire ought to be to a lady of noble birth, closer than any man had ever been. She could see the tension in his throat as he swallowed, feel the heat of his breath ghosting against her collarbone.

Rowan tugged one last strap into place, securing the cuirass with a final click. His hands lingered at her sides, his fingers still curled against the cool metal.

“There,” he said, voice quieter now, like the space between them had shrunk to something fragile. “It fits.”

Isobel inhaled, realizing she hadn’t taken a proper breath in far too long. The room felt too small, the walls of the tent pressing inward, the torchlight flickering like it, too, was unsteady.

“I should—” She turned, intending to step away, but the moment she moved, Rowan reached out, catching her by the wrist. Not roughly, not forcefully—just enough to still her.

Her pulse pounded beneath his fingers.

“You can still change your mind,” he said.

For a moment, she thought he meant the armor.

But then she met his eyes—deep, stormy, unreadable—and she knew.

He wasn’t talking about the cuirass, or the straps, or the way the armor would shape her into the knight her brother was supposed to be.

He was talking about this.

The thing between them. The thing neither of them had spoken aloud, but had been building since the first night she’d donned the armor and he had helped lace her into it. The thing that hummed in the silence, in the brush of fingers against steel, in the space of a breath held too long.

“I won’t,” she said, softly.

Rowan exhaled, his grip tightening ever so slightly before he let her go.

“Then ride carefully tomorrow, my lady,” he murmured, voice like a whispered secret.

Isobel turned, stepping away before she could betray herself. Before she could do something foolish. Before she could turn back and find herself undone—not by the armor, but by him.