Redana never wears her hair down. Even in the baths she's always insisted on tying it back or wrapping it into some little bun or hiding it under a towel. Every time that Bella's ever brushed it she's stood behind her princess with her gaze tastefully averted, even though Redana only ever had her hair tended or styled while wearing soft, clean robes or gowns worth more than nations. And she always, always complained about it. 

But it's loose now, tumbling every which way down her imperial shoulders and so perfectly, lusciously golden that even soaked with terror sweat it shines like a treasure from the deepest reaches of the vaults of Olympus. And this is the detail that catches her by such surprise that her defenses all come crumbling down at once. Aphrodite takes, and takes, and takes, and gives nothing back except Redana.

He steals the strength from her legs so that she's trapped lounging on her throne with a princess sprawled on the ground in front of her. He steals sense and humility from her until nothing holds her back from draining her glass of rich sweet wine with the gluttony of an Empress. As if she believed she deserved it and had no need to revere it. He fills the liquid raining down her throat with curses that fill Bella's body with heat. He steals her words from her so that she can't offer up her gift or advance her plan or even say hello. He takes her lips and peels them up until her smile shows teeth. He takes and he takes and he takes until her eyes are hollow and hungry. And she stares.

Redana. Redana, Redana, Redana. The line of her legs, taut like a bowstring. The luster of her skin that's so smooth that looking is enough to know how it feels to touch it, how fingers would brush across it like an ocean of cream in a bowl so strong it may as well be the true Aegis itself. The twitching of those exhausted muscles that whisper of training and dedication and Olympic glory, up now, further and further and further up, Redana, Redana, Redana, Redana, to the subtle curve of her waist and the perfect bones in her hips. To the washboard across her stomach that counts up all the way to her ribs, unburdened by the merest scrap of clothing until Bella's golden eyes meet the gentle, nearly invisible rise of the tiny mounds on her chest. 

That golden hair is on those breasts. Nothing is more lovely, except perhaps the grace of her neck that extends to her jaw. Her unpainted lips, the cheeks that she wants to... no. No. Fuck off, old man, Bella is good. She is a Good Girl. So she doesn't meet the eyes that even glazed over with exhaustion sparkle like jewels atop the most perfect crown ever created. She does not dare look there. She forces her gaze lower again, back across the perfection of Redana's body to drink in the loveliness and all the places where the Princess was too brave, too bright, too foolish, too [i]stupid[/i] to keep herself from being marred even in spite of the divine miracle that flits through her blood. Little idiot, how dare you do this to yourself? Don't you realize who you [i]are?[/i]

Bella rises.

Bella rises like a rushing tide.

Bella rises with the inexorability of a mountain.

Bella rises, and she sways as she walks slowly forward. There's hardly any space between them, but it takes eternity to cross. Her tail swishes, her hips swing seductively. There's a purring in her chest as she reaches out across the infinite space between them that's shrunken down to nothing. At last. At last.

And she reaches past her princess, as she casts her shadow over Redana with her arm outstretched with unreadable intensity drawn across her face. Her nose is full of the scents of sweat and fear... and the perfume that means everything is exactly as it should be.

"Bring me her belt!" she calls out in a voice on the verge of song, "The large one, where she keeps the pills."