Lucien
Zyra Duskharrow extends her gift to me--a crystal vial of perfume. Her blue ringlets sway with unseen breeze as she lowers herself into a courtesy that lowers the neckline of her corset. "For you, my King, made with my heart's blood. One drop is enough to have a room enthralled with you."
Soft 'oohs' and 'aahs' of appreciation fills the air.
Leaning forward, I take the crystal, dark amusement curving my lips as her fingers deliberately run along mine. Perhaps, if she knew the last woman who touched me without my permission was nailed to my bedpost, she would desist from it.
Can you blame her? Beauty is catching; it's a plague I happily suffer. When I look in the mirror, I do, in fact, gasp. Call it pride if you will, but what use is a pretty face if not for the pleasure of adoration?
