She stood there near the window, watching him. He had not known for how long. She was more skilled than most at concealing her presence. She could probably have him at her mercy as he slept. But instead, she stood before him defiantly, even after what he had just done. It seemed a shame, that such a beauty as he had never seen before, would be here to kill him. But she was no ordinary assassin. the way she dressed, the exquisite craftsmanship of her sword and daggers, the arcs of green manna riding along her right hand and fore arm. She was a Spell-Sword of some kind, perhaps of a wealthy family. Perhaps he could attempt a parlay, turn things to his favor. After all, it would be a waste not to take his chances with such a woman.

“Let us set aside our swords, keep only the daggers, and if I can remove your clothes before you can cut my throat… you allow me to make love to you. After which, we can resume our fight at your leisure.” He proposed, already disarming himself.

He was an amazing man, one which she had long been fascinated with. He was indeed attractive to the eyes, though he was not her kind. His skin was a golden brown, as if gently kissed by the sun, nearly the color of rich caramel. Hers was the color of lavender, under the moonlight. His skill was well known. He had bested numerous skilled opponents on various occasions. She had just sent her own group of hand picked assassins, known as the three thorns of death, to test his skill for herself. even if they hadn’t landed a fatal blow, he should be dead from poison by now. But here he stood, his clothes tattered from a few near misses, but no wounds to be seen. She’d long thought of having him, perhaps as much as she’d thought of killing him. If she chose, she imagined she could use her magic to paralyze him, and cut the throat he had so generously offered her. She set aside her sword, belt and all, as he approached her. His dagger hanging from his belt, he was removing what was left of his shirt. She’d come to see his corpse, in only the most gentle of silk gowns, which felt like flower petals draped over the skin. The layers gave it a complete and elegant look. But it was clearly designed with freedom of movement in mind. She had a dagger in her right hand, and at least two more strapped to her boots. He reached out to her with one hand, as he closed in, touching her face along the jaw line. Before she could react, he’d kissed her and laid her on the nearby bed. She had invade his private chambers after all. As did the assassins she had sent before her. She clutched her dagger firmly, and went to cut away his sword belt. He did not stop her, but rather continued to trace along the contours of her body with his hands. Slipping his fingers between garment and skin as if he wished himself to trade places with them. As she pulled away his belt, and blade, she finally took note that he had cut away her loin cloth. She flashed her dagger towards his throat, only to be intercepted by a small curved blade, which had been hidden in the palm of his left hand. He wielded it with great dexterity and familiarity, even the simplest of skills seemed masterful in his hands. Though she was beginning to feel slighted that he had managed to deceive her. He used his other hand to disarm her, and lift her from the bed. Pulling her away from her clothing as he did so. He had turned her about in the process, her back to him. But as he attempted to embrace her, she used the momentum of the turn to throw him over her shoulder onto the bed. So he yanked her down on top of him, catching her with his free hand.

“You’ll respect our wager, wont you?” He asked, with a mischievous smile which made his cunning hard to fault, and him even harder to resist. “You can kill me later, after all.”

She lay into him, realizing that she had lost this round, but that she might as well have some fun before the next one began. “I’ll allow it…” she resigned. For whatever reason, her heart was beating as it never had before, not even in battle. She could feel her own wetness overcoming her, and they had only just begun. As he turned her to the bed, and positioned himself dominantly on top of her, as if she were prey set to be devoured. His kisses came accompanied by shock, like lightning erupting in her body, as he acquainted himself with every inch of her. His tongue, his lips, venturing places she had never allowed a man to know before. until finally reaching the flower of her garden. What sorcery he next unleashed she could not understand, but soon she was giving her strength to him in waves upon waves. As if a dam had broken, she found herself unable to stop the flow. As her body convulsed, she began to forget herself, her past, her ambitions, her identity. She felt as if she had been freed from the cares of the world, of who she had been. She could not know how much time had passed, though it had only been moments since she lost her bearings, but now he was inside of her. His thrust, like thunder washing over the heavens, another loss of control began to creep over her, though she was not sure she had strength to give. She simply surrendered to him. even if she died in this moment, she would be okay with it. when she finally began to come to, she felt more relaxed, more at ease, and more satisfied than she had ever been. She struggled to remember how things ended up this way, but had trouble even finding her own name. Perhaps she had died, she thought, and somehow found herself in the arms of a god. For a moment she wondered about it, but soon found herself asleep.

When she woke up, she felt only the comfort of her own skin. The man lying next to her seemed like the sun must feel to a flower. But her old self was returning as well, and he was her prey after all. She only wanted to lay there in that moment a little longer.

He looked at her, knowing he could not take life from such a woman… a woman who had taken his heart. “You have my blood, our child will be beautiful and strong, and you have defeated me even in my own conquest. My life is yours, to take or keep as your own.” he offered, as he placed the small curved blade, which he had manipulated so masterfully, into her right hand. Had he been holding it this whole time, she wondered, when had he picked it back up. He’d closed his eyes, and exposed his throat to her. Her other arm was draped over one of his shoulders, so she moved her hand to the back of his head. As she sank her finger into his hair, and moved her other hand towards his throat, he opened his eyes and began to speak. She stayed the blade, wandering if he might say something to taunt her, or perhaps she was simply curious what his last words might be. He was holding her even now, firmly yet gently, with one arm and a comforting hand… as if she belonged to him. As he spoke, he gazed unerringly into her eyes, as if he had been holding them in his mind this whole time, without doubt, hesitation, reservation, or insincerity. “In truth, there is nothing of you I do not wish to see. So let my last sight be of whatever face you wish to show me, my beauty.”