There is nothing small or plain about the man before her. His mere presence demands attention, all eyes turning to him, and, while he is not muscular by any means, he has a dark stare that sends shivers up all mortals' spines.
He lounges on his gleaming throne, his eyes locked on her, as his finger traces the edge of the goblet, filled to the brim with the godly drink that all immortals drink. An almost angry, stiff smile spreads across his thin lips.
"Come." With his free hand, he beckons her and she finds herself walking forward, head held high; she won't show him the slightest ounce of fear. He will have her respect when he earns it.
His eyebrows raise at the blatant lack of respect from her. "You little she-devil." He runs his tongue along his lips slowly as though he's had the most decadent delicacy, and she briefly wonders what use would his tongue be good for.
"You will do well as my consort."
when her breathing picks up and her heart hammers, blood thumping in her ears. Waving his hand, she's jerked forward by a thin sliver of magic, forced to kneel before him, and then his face is before hers. His eyes are wide-set, and there's a spray of freckles across his crooked nose.
This god is not handsome, but his voice speaks velvet sin, and his eyes are heavy with a tainted darkness but are kind. "This will hurt only a second," he murmurs against her temple and his hand glows, a shimmery gold light, and her side is burning, stuck in open coals, raked through by a heated sword, and she's sweating with the effort not to scream.
He will not
see her break down by his hand as easily as the other.