With a deep and unyielding sense of solicitude coursing through me, I race over to the mirror, tearing the vestiges of human modesty from my torso and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My brows furrow, the complete maelstrom of my thoughts clear on my face as with a faltering hand I touch my chest – searching – but there’s nothing.
How did she do it?
Outside of the Gods, no being has ever willingly touched me. No being ever dared. Is she that vacuous or just ruled by a sense of self-abandonment, lacking in any notions of self-preservation? More importantly…nothing came of her touch. She showed no fear or hesitation as she placed her hand upon my chest. I saw no hatred or disgust in those prism eyes. She looked upon me, pleading, beseeching; her voice soft, confident and firm, yet the
