> Whether or not I was aware of it, and whether or not I accepted it, I now know it was already too late. The first time that he had defeated me, something in my heart changed. I could no more deny that than I could deny my air lungs. He had placed a spell on me with his eyes, and ensnared me with his smile, and for all that it infuriated and enraged me—I was powerless to break free, even when the Galaxy began to burn and he stood silhouetted by the coronal death of billions.

Circe stood naked in her bathroom with her hair falling in blonde-streaked waves of glossy black around her face, and her jade eyes locked on her reflection in the smart mirror. Her hands were braced on either side of her true-marble basin, the knuckles of her hands white from her grip upon the solid stone while she regarded all six feet and singular inch of herself balefully.

She knew she was beautiful, at least from an empirical standpoint.

In truth, she knew that she defined the word by many standards.

Her face was perfectly symmetrical, her breasts were full and round, her nipples and areolas were the exact right shade of pink to match well with her fair skin, and her body was utterly devoid of blemishes, clogged pores, or unwanted hair below her eyebrows.

And the last she could modify to her whims with a simple visit to her family’s in-house physician, should she so desire it.

The control over her physical form that she possessed was absolute. She was the master of her body. She was the sole and presiding authority over every inch of herself, from the curve of her full hips—baby-bearing, so her mother often teased—to the planes of her muscled stomach and the buoyant expanse of her generous posterior.

Since childhood Circe had prided herself on being measured, on being utterly aware of her actions and calculating each step forward. She could be loose with her sense of humor and brash with her reactions when impassioned, certainly, but she had never been outside of her own control. Not until the previous day.

Not until her duel with Arthur bloody Magellan on the hilltop.

It was not a fairytale romance, or some great and noble love story. It was frustration, and forbidden desire, and the compulsion of her genes and subconscious need to seek a superior mate. It was her battle fervor conflating itself with lust, and a natural imperative to seek a partner that made her feel safe.

He had done that, damn him.

He had done it as naturally as breathing.

He had seen her at her most vulnerable and not only had he respected her vulnerability, he had protected her during it. Not by diminishing her strength, but by underscoring it and emboldening it. He had empowered her to feel safe in his presence, and in so doing, had taken her breath away.

He had proven to be both insightful and intelligent, both sensitive to her emotions and stoic enough to easily withstand the pressures of an Eupatridae’s life. He had proven to be everything she wanted in a man, and everything she needed in a companion.

He had proven to be someone she could trust to not take advantage of her.

And her idiot brain had decided that meant she wanted him to fuck her like the world was ending.

“I’m a warrior.” she said into the silence of the bathroom, and into the gaze of her stoic reflection.

“I’m not this person.” she continued with a scowl. “I’m Circe fucking Leos!”

Her voice echoed around the palatial bathroom, and she gnashed her teeth in frustration. All of her life she had been able to fight her way out of anything or away from anyone that bothered her. Be it the slimy, selfish, and grotesque suitors that had attempted to claim her as if she were a damsel to be rescued—or the filthy politicians that had sought to compel her into their marriage proposals with vague promises of power and safety.

All of them had been conquered, either by fist or by the roar of her Pallas Athena’s engines.

By might, and skill, and superior intellect she’d crushed them one and all.

So why was it that when she finally found what she wanted, her strength vanished?

Why was it that when someone appeared that respected her for her mind, her heart, and her passion… she fell apart like wet paper?

It was beyond comprehension.

Beyond acceptance.

It was maddening.

“Just once.” she muttered with quiet consideration while tracking her eyes over herself in the smartglass, and feeling her complex mess of emotions building again. The way he’d kissed her, held her, claimed her like a man and animal all at once. The taste of him, the feel of him, the warmth of his body against hers through his clothes, the clean smell of his perspiration.

The feel of his firm chest lingered in her mind when she thought of how good it felt to have her breasts pressed against him, and the sheer solidity of his hard abdominal muscles beneath her wandering nails. She thought about his biceps, his shoulders, and the way he’d held her like she’d weighed no more than a feather—like she were silk and he was steel holding her aloft.

Arthur had so much power that it left her breathless, awed and terrified at once.

She thought of his lips, his jaw, the perfect fall of his golden hair and the way his mouth on hers was hard, and warm, and somehow soft, and fierce, and gentle all at once. She flushed when she remembered his hands grasping at her posterior, and the way he’d squeezed her so hard with desire that he’d left bruises on her cheeks and thighs.

She thought of the calm, bewilderingly beautiful way he’d looked at her afterward.

Then she thought too of the slow build of pain at the realization it would be the last time, the shame at her wanting more of him, the recrimination she’d felt for how heart-breakingly attractive she found him, and the self-loathing that filled her over her own lack of ability to put him out of her mind.

She felt like a stupid child. Her ancestors must have been ashamed of her.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He had stopped things going further so nobly, so honorably, even when she’d been aching and wet and desperate for him to just take her. Even when the very genetic tailoring that made her so beautiful had screamed for him to ravish her, to claim her… he had resisted. He had resisted where she had succumbed.

And despite all knowledge that it was right of him to do so, that he had done the noble thing, the honorable thing, the moral thing… it had still been a rejection.

How could he so easily miss the effect he had on her?

How could he so readily resist the attraction she knew he shared?

How could he not understand the insanity he’d put into her heart and mind?

She had been designed with excruciating detail to be the ultimate warrior, perfect bride, and ideal mate by any definition to be found within Graecia or the Humanosphere at large. Her toned arms, muscled thighs, and powerful calves gave her the image of the classical Amazonian warrior.

She had never lacked for admirers. She had never been bereft of attention.

For twenty-three of her thirty-five years of life men had pursued her. Since the age of twelve they had wanted to secure her hand, her desire, her love. They had sought her like the greatest prize in the nation, or even the Rim. It was vainglorious, perhaps, to think in such a way—but that had been her perceived reality. They had come in the dozens, and she had rejected them all.

Still she had remained pure and disciplined. She had not dishonored her family.

The customs of Graecia demanded she save her virtue for the man that would be her husband, as a sign of dedication. It was an offering of fidelity and self-control, one that she had chosen to retain. Aristocracy be damned, she had saved her innocence for her own reasons.

Once that barrier was finally broken, though, and she became a claimed woman—she knew society would care little for her proclivities.

She could matriculate the entire Lion Guard through her bed after her wedding night and, so long as her future husband paid it no mind, nobody would bat an eyelash.

It was a kind of measured insanity that she had simply accepted as her reality.

Circe was, after all, as close to the ideal as a mortal woman could be.

Physically. Mentally. Psionically. Her body, her mind, and her psion density combined together to make her one of the most sought after maidens for the eligible men of the Eupatridae families.

And yet like the goddess in whose name she rode to battle, she was a true maiden.

She had never even felt a great compulsion for the act of sex, outside of her more turbulent times of hormonal imbalance.

Resonance had ruined everything, she realized. It had undermined every layer of self-control they had built. Because of it she had taken a full Hellenic week of friendship, companionship, and achingly slow-built trust between them and jeapordized it completely. She had given in to her weakness, to her emotion, to her connection to him—and in the act, she had violated the agreement they’d made those thousands of hours earlier at the Lion’s Pride.

Her father had called Arthur a force of nature contained within a man.

Circe didn’t know if she agreed, but certainly she could not deny he was special.

Special in a way that made it hard for her to compose herself around him.

Special in a way that made her desire his touch with a fervor she’d never felt before.

She could no more help the unbound explosion of desire she had for him than Hellas could stop its orbit of Apollo. Like a sun he’d compelled her into his orbit, and she had no means of escaping. He was to be her family’s Hetairoi, even now being prepared for his final test, and she was to be his liege-lady by extension of his oath to her father.

It was infuriating. It was frustrating. It was utterly humiliating.

She felt like she’d lost control of her mind, of her consciousness, and her good sense.

So she’d avoided him. His eyes. His voice. His calm and powerful presence.

How had she never realized how warm his hands were until he’d lifted her up?

Why could she not stop thinking about how large and strong they had been?

“Why is this a problem, Circe?” she demanded of her reflection angrily. “He’s just a man. You’ve met a thousand of them. Just because you experienced some psion-centric mind-sync doesn’t mean you need to lose your gods damned head!”

Her hand snapped out and smashed a bottle of moisturizer off the vanity.

She listened to it hit the floor with flaring nostrils and a dour glare at her reflection.

She had no need for beauty products, of course. They were simply cathartic in a way she could not properly explain, and gave her a sense of calm and soothing focus when applying them to her flesh. The slight increase in suppleness she experienced was less about the benefits of her skincare—which her superior genetics took care of regardless—and more about the act itself.

It was almost a means of meditation after a wearying day.

The only time she truly felt a desire or need for such things was when she indulged in her massage oils, and brought the rare woman that caught her eye into her bed.

The quiet affairs were an unobtrusive distraction more than anything, of course, but also a balm for her loneliest and most desperate moments. It satisfied her lusts, and simultaneously preserved her purity. She had no husband. She hadn’t needed one. She was a daughter of the ancient and venerable House of Leos, and descended from Leonidas the Lion himself.

Other women might have already buckled and taken a man to bed a decade earlier.

Circe Leos was made of far, far sterner material. Hers was the blood of Kings.

So why was it that after thirty-five years of life, it was now that someone shattered her control?

Her eyes tracked back down to the defined sets of abdominal muscles upon her stomach, light enough to be feminine but clear enough to show her athleticism, and she reached down to idly brush her fingernails over the smooth planes of her tanned stomach.

Like the rest of her, her stomach muscles had been genetically-crafted to be as visually appealing as possible, and even her belly-button was a perfectly formed oval ideal for the single gold chain hanging from the piercing thereupon.

“Our lives are nothing more than the whims of a vain and spoiled collective.” she muttered while looking back across her reflection in the mirror. “So much emphasis on flesh…”

It meant nothing. Her face, her tits, her ass. It meant nothing.

It was shallow, empty, and pointless.

So why did she care so much?

Why could she not stop wanting him to look at her the way she looked at him?

After their fight atop the hill had resolved, she realized what her outbursts during their week together had meant. She understood in a way she had not before. She realized that, for all the truths in his argument about their genes and the psionic amplification of their attraction and how it made things seem more than they were, it didn’t matter.

She realized that for all his talk of duty and obligation, and despite only knowing him for just under a Terran month, it had taken but a mere few conversations and a single, absolute and unequivocal mental connection for him to solidify something immutable within her very core.

Arthur had staked a claim in her heart that she could not remove.

He had, in the span of a single Hellenic week, done what men had failed to do over the course of years. She was infatuated with him. Reason be damned.

She could no more deny the fact than she could stop the seas from flowing.

And she was furious at herself for it.

Just as she was furious with him for not admitting he felt the same.

“You’re better than this.” she growled at her reflection. “Get your shit together, Circe.”

His blue eyes and easy smile flashed into her mind when she said it.

She slammed her forehead against the smartglass in response.

Unsurprisingly, it did nothing to help.