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Her hands weave through my golden silky hair, threading strands between her thumb and forefinger as if she would use them to create beautiful tapestries like I’ve seen her do so often before.
Pyrrha, she calls me. Fire-hair. It sounds so different when it falls from her sweet, pink lips, with the melodic Skyrive accent I have since grown accustomed to. I like it; it feels right, coming from her. That is all I am, and all I am meant to be in this moment. Her soft voice repeats over and over in my mind, like an echo in a cave.
She presses her face to my neck, and I can feel her soft breaths against my collarbone, warm and steady. “Did you use my essential oils in your bath?” She asks me, her voice laden with suspicion.
“No.” I lie.
She scoffs, not believing my false words for a second. “Yet you smell so strongly of rose and myrrh. Those were a gift from Father, Pyrrha!” She scolds me, lifting her head to glare at me.
Her clear blue eyes meet my gaze, and she puffs up her cheeks adorably in indignation. “You will purchase me a new bottle.” She demands, poking my chest. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, and I have to resist the urge to laugh at her cute expression, for then she’ll truly get mad at me.
“That’s rather harsh.” I respond teasingly. “Have I really committed such a grave offense? I only used one or two drops..”
“One or two drops too many.” She scoffs. I sigh, drawing out the exhalation of breath, acting as though this troubled me. In truth, presenting her with gifts was “Pity,” I say. “Those are expensive. It'll take some time for a new shipment to dock in Skyros.”
“A pity.” She agrees, but her hands are running through my hair once more, gently massaging my scalp with her gentle finger pads. I close my eyes. Had I not known better, I would've sworn that the touch that graced my skin were of heavenly Aphrodite herself.
“Come.” She murmurs. “We’ll be late for dinner.”
I don’t feel like moving, let alone leaving the room, but I know she will not be swayed. Lounging in her chambers all day, hidden from the scrutiny and glares of others is a rare luxury, but it can’t last forever.
Unwilling to break the immersion of the bubble we seem to have wrapped ourselves in, I shift my head, craning my neck upwards. My lips press against the soft flesh of her cheek, the dark red coat of paint staining her face.
“Of course, my lady.”