The sharp, gleaming tip of a sword was pointed straight at his face when he finally managed to pry his eyes open. Circe loomed over him where he lay sprawled across the bed, and even with his eyelids still heavy with sleep, he recognized the weapon instantly.
It was his sword.
Now he watched his wife gripping the hilt with the very same fingers that had clutched at his shoulders hours ago while he feasted on the tender, sensitive flesh between her thighs. She wielded the blade with an effortless, and frightening grace, like the weapon had been forged for her hand alone.
It wasn't the sword he used on a regular basis. This one was long and straight, the steel etched with delicate motifs that caught the morning light. It lacked the sturdiness of the blades he usually carried into battle. The hilt gleamed with elegant gold filigree, a sword suited more for ceremonial purposes.
A weapon like that would be out of place on a battlefield.
