There is a fire burning in the sweet scented valley between the mountains. The heart underneath it does not quicken, but it pounds. Nothing crumbles, heaves, flutters, or otherwise succumbs to kinds of things that would doom a fragile maiden. But the valley burns, and when she lifts Skotia off the ground to bring him level with her face, her golden eye burns too. 

Bella's smile is a thing of teeth and vengeance but somehow a polite and refined smirk all at once. If her hand is trembling, and it is, it is not with effort or embarrassment. Her stance is too firm, her heart is too steady (pounding into her ribs as it is). Every inch of her burns hotter than a fire, but her tail flicks with a posture of bemusement. 

Her eye flicks away once, then twice, looking for a clock. Her breathing slows a tiny bit. The sound of polite laughter bends her ear, and a shadow passes her face briefly, but her attention does not leave the mysterious young man again. Her ears flutter suddenly, as though shaking something out of them. She smiles again, and this time brushes Skotia's cheek with the back of her fingers. She is both warmer and colder, and that's the most warning she has to give.

"Another? No. You can't dance for shit."

Aphrodite is all about the room. He blows the smell of soup into Bella's nose, and the savory aroma softens her heart. He guides the breeze  the wafts through the room just so to lessen the sting of the venom filling the hall before it can distract her from the matter at hand. He winds the gramophone and picks the music that tightens all the muscles in Bella's stomach. His invisible fingers flick the button off the top of Skotia's jacket for good, and it drops to the floor with a tiny, sensuous clatter. And then he steps back to light a cigarette, and wait. 

Bella pulls Skotia close, so that their faces touch. She cranes her neck to put her lips by his ear. Her breath is hot and steamy and deliberate. So is the nip of her fang on his lobe. 

"This will be a [i]lesson[/i], fool. When I'm done with you, you'll be a master. Every twitching. Quivering. Inch of you."

This is the power of desire. This is what the stranger buys with his daring touches, though not because he dared to reach. An Imperial Pet endures a thousands touches a day, whether she welcomes them or not. But none of those were ever quite so soft or hesitant. None of those worshipped the curves they dared to touch. None of them begged. None of them treated her like a treasure that had to be earned and unlocked. Bella's throat rumbles with a sound called validation. 

She puts the young man on his feet. He needs to feel the ground beneath him so he'll understand how little he can do. Move where you will, fight if you want, Skotia. You'll end up where Bella wants you, in the end. Not that you will, you naughty thing. She could put you on a leash right now and you won't say a word of complaint. She could slip ornamental ears shaped like hers atop your head and slide her fingers through your hair and you'd mewl like a favorite pet. Don't deny it. You'd let her make a servitor out of you in a heartbeat, take your place beneath her and call it a dream come true. Wouldn't you?

The dance is a tango. Bella marches Skotia with her hand wrapped firmly around his hip, and where she squeezes... [i]riiip![/i] A slash of her beautiful talons leaves a tiny gash in his beautiful costume. Her fingers slip inside the hole and brush along the firm muscles and supple skin beneath. 

They march and spin, and she slashes two tiny lines across the shoulders down the arm, to give her a better view of those gorgeous, muscled arms. They move in a line as one and she sweeps him down lower and lower until his hair brushes the floor, and while he swoons her claws brush tenderly up the inside of his thigh. She lifts him in the air to buy a moment for her thumb to probe the new alteration and see what kind of soft and sweet fabrics he's hiding underneath. The pucker of his lips and the shuddering of his breath draws a purr from Bella's chest.

She slices a tiny line along the center of his chest, and several more in sharp diagonals where she touches his abs, which are worthy of a god. She never cuts enough fabric to ruin his careful outfit. Just enough to mark him. Just enough to give her secret access to the treasures hidden underneath, just enough that she can part the fabrics with a bow or a sweep and give herself a private, Praetor's-only glimpse of everything she wants.

And she does want everything. She is in command here. She, Bella, dances with the fluid grace of a... [i]person[/i] who feels trusted, and is free to trust in turn. She moves his hands where she wants them. When he next caresses her butt underneath her tail, it's because she tugged his arm there, and squeezed it tight until he had no choice but to obey.

"Good boy. Good. You do learn fast." She pressed a talon against his mask and flicks it down almost to his nose. But this alone she doesn't cut.

She should bend him over and bite his neck until he's marked so thoroughly there will be nothing left of him that isn't hers. She should tear his dignity away until he has no choice but to hide himself in her. She should take him, every bit of him, and not care who watches her do it. But she doesn't. She pulls him close and holds him gently, and finds this dark stranger the perfect size and shape to fit inside her embrace.

"I'm a busy woman," her voice is cold now, and heavy with the weight of a dozen burdens piled awkwardly on top of each other like a game board, "But until I tell you otherwise, you belong to me. Understand?"

Go on and nod, little pet. Go on and stand on your tiptoes to kiss her neck, if you understand and dare. Go on and trust her, if you're stupid enough to want that. Go on, then. Go on.

Or go.