She slipped the dress onto her form, the pale brocaded silk and embroidered velvet standing out against her tanned, golden skin. She studiously ignored the layers of undergarments that propriety now demanded of her. The wire underskirt standing like the skeleton of some beast in the corner. The Iron King doted upon her as he would a true lover, who was she to deserve such things? She should have played along to his every whim, should have been his perfect little doll. But she was a simple woman, a strong woman and she would bend for no man. She would placate him to a degree, but no amount of doting, fine foods, or treasure would force her to change who she was.
She let her fingers play across his slumbering brow, the long silky fur tickling her flesh. He looked so innocent in slumber, so serene. His mischievous eyes were hidden behind his gray lids, his smirking mouth pursed from whatever dream played in his mind. The book she had borrowed for him lay on the rug, splayed open. She picked up the page, never stopping her caress with her other hand. The sketch looked vaguely like him, gave the impression that it was meant to be him. She shook her head, closing the book and slipping it beneath her cot. He was far more handsome than that horrid sketch. She blinked, looking back to his sleeping face. Did I just think of a monster as handsome?