Spilt Like Wine
Red goes well with the Queen of Attolia. Her reign was founded on bloodshed, and she spills it like wine as she must to keep her nation and protect her people.
“Invoking the goddess again?” Eugenides’ smile is in his voice as he trails his gaze over the ruby red, the burgundy hues of her attire.
He doesn’t comment that sometimes her reign has stained them with blood. No one can tell with just their eyes.
She puts her hand on his arm above the hook, and they both still. They are both ruthless and vicious in the service of their nations, she thinks.
“And you your god, my king?” she queries, a brow raised.
He laughs, and she loves him for it, for rising to the occasion of her.
Then he bows over her hand with a kiss, drawing heat to her cheeks. “Shall we?”
Hers are not the only clothes which hide blood well.0