Dress

Lily scowled at her reflection in the mirror, standing in her chamber with her back turned awkwardly, fingers twisting at the narrow ties of her gown. The fabric was beautiful. The silk was the color of cream, cut to flatter, chosen for its elegance at council. Clio had helped her pick it out, insisting on the shade and cut, a reminder that even in politics appearance mattered as much as words.

The fabric glided over her curves, smooth and fluid, catching the light as she shifted. It was beautiful, refined, impossible to ignore. It was also currently winning the battle.

The silken ties at her back were out of reach and currently lopsided, mocking her every attempt at correction. She gritted her teeth, muttering beneath her breath. Control. Composure. Perfection. That was what Hera expected. That was what all of Olympus demanded. And yet here she was, defeated by a ribbon lacing up her back.

She exhaled sharply, tried again, arms straining behind her. The tie slipped loose, and her cheeks flushed hot with frustration. She leaned closer to the mirror, as if glowering at herself would fix it. Her jaw tightened and she felt her teeth clench hard enough that it began to ache.

The door creaked.

She thought it might be Clio, ready with some dry remark, or Erato, eager to tease. “Go away. I don’t need help,” she started, her voice brittle with annoyance. Her eyes squeezed shut as she said it in a mix of frustration and embarrassment, retreating into darkness where she felt only the sharp drum of her pulse and the air shifting behind her.

But the answer wasn’t words. It was warmth pressed to her back, a solid wall of heat and presence, his scent of embers and cedar wrapping around her. She froze, breath caught in her throat.

Large hands brushed hers aside, unhurried, certain, their roughness a sharp contrast to the silk of her dress. The fabric shifted with a low whisper as he took the ties, the scrape of calloused fingertips grazing the bare skin where the gown dipped low in the back, lingering just enough to make her shiver. His chest hovered so near it nearly brushed her spine, the steady rise and fall of his breath stirring the loose hairs at her neck. She could feel the breadth of his shoulders around her, the strength coiled in every movement, crowding her in. 

Lily went utterly still, her pulse stuttering, lungs tight, knees threatening to buckle beneath her, every muscle caught between tension and surrender. Heat radiated off him in waves, seeping through silk, sinking into her belly, her thighs, leaving every inch of her skin prickling with awareness. The silk clung tighter where her skin flushed hot, each breath shallow and uneven.

Her mind screamed at her to move, to protest, but her body betrayed her. She was rooted to the floor. His hands worked in silence. They were steady and precise, the pads of his fingers sliding against the tender skin of her spine with each measured adjustment. He had fastened armor a thousand times, yet this was different. Her silk instead of his bronze, delicate woven ribbon instead of buckles, her bare body yielding beneath his touch instead of the press of cold steel. Each of his movements carried the weight of discipline and the whisper of possession, his knuckles grazing her again and again, until she felt marked by every brush of skin against skin. He treated each motion with reverence, as though the gown were sacred battle gear. His closeness stole her breath.

Her eyes opened, locking on the mirror. Shock jolted through her chest. His reflection loomed behind hers, tall, dark, and inevitable. His head bent as he focused, platinum hair falling forward over the top of his gleaming grey eyes, jaw set in concentration.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. He’ll notice. Her stomach tightened, her breath catching high in her chest.

She tried to look anywhere else. At her jewelry resting on the table, at the books stacked neatly by the wall, but her gaze kept slipping back to the mirror, to the sight of him standing so close she could feel every inch of his presence.

When he leaned forward to fasten the clasp of the cloth draped at her shoulder, his breath grazed the back of her neck, and the barest brush of his lips ghosted against her shoulder, skimming higher as if by accident toward the side of her neck. She closed her eyes again, pulse hammering, her whole body giving a tremor. If he noticed the shiver that ran through her, he gave no sign.

One by one, the ties fell into place. Order imposed, composure restored, but nothing about her felt steady.

Finally, he reached for the gilded laurel crown sitting on the table beside her. She saw it in the mirror as his hand hovered above it, then lifted it with care.

He set it gently into her hair, his fingers brushing through her curls to settle the leaves. Too careful. Too intimate. The pads of his fingers lingered a moment, sliding from her hair down the side of her neck, and she swore she felt him breathe her in, slow and reverent.

Her eyes flicked up, met his in the mirror.

Grey locked with blue. The world seemed to still around them, silence heavy as stone. Yearning pressed between them like a hand at her throat. A spark shot through her chest, down her belly, her legs tightening as if to hold herself steady. She wanted...oh, she wanted...but the weight of duty sat on her shoulders, heavier even than his touch.

And then, too abruptly, he stepped back.

“There,” he said, his voice low, almost rough. “You’re ready.”

Air rushed back into her lungs. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it. Her fingers curled against her sides, holding in the thoughts of what she hadn’t let herself do. Turn, lean, fall into him.

He was already at the door, his stride steady, his expression unreadable. The faint heat of his magic still clung to her skin, ember-warm, where his hands had been.

Lily looked at her reflection. Every turn of the ribbon up her back was aligned perfectly, the gown flawless, the crown gleaming. She looked every inch the Muse of epic poetry: composed, unshaken, prepared.

But she knew better.

It wasn’t the crown she felt, nor the ties snug at her back. It was the ghost of his hands, the warmth of his breath at her neck, the silence where a word might have been.

And as the door clicked shut behind him, she let herself tremble.