gold runs in our blood

Just as the sandy man absorbed her scent, Scylla absorbed his as well. The brute smelled warm and clean; a very pleasing scent for the blue fae. She didn't like dirty wolves for anything other than experimentation. One that took time to bathe themselves had more worth in the fae's mismatched eyes. Scylla herself smelled of warm vanilla and woodsmoke, though not too strongly. Simple undertones which she had cultivated carefully.

As Rhysand spoke of his time in Elysium, the diminutive fae nodded. He'd spent his time setting up his home thus far. A perfectionist, he labeled himself. She could understand that. Scylla was a perfectionist as well, but in a different sense. When it came to her work, whether it was taxidermy or crafting poisons, sedatives and the like, the fae was never satisfied until she'd attained perfection. That was how it should be with all things, she believed. 'Good enough' just meant that one wasn't smart or skilled enough to reach complete quality.

The green eyed brute turned the question back onto her and a soft, sultry chuckle left the fae's dark lips. "Oh, Rhys," she began, mirth still in her tones, "I can find pleasure in any situation." With her tastes and her... less than savory proclivities, it was easy to enjoy situations that others might find distasteful.

Forelegs slid outward and soon Scylla was laying on her svelte belly. "What do you do, Rhys? What do you enjoy?" The fae's tail lashed languidly back and forth at her hips, her gaze locked upon his. Scylla had no fear of eye contact and she stared brazenly upon the big brute as though either sizing him up or preparing to eat him alive.

"Scylla"