The imp nearly pissed himself when he saw the Dragon.
Dropped the basket, squealed like a kicked goose, and ran for the hills, clutching his little fez like it owed him money.
I kicked the basket open with my silk-slippered foot. "Drama queen," I muttered. "It's not like you eat every courier."
The Dragon raised his head slowly, eyes glowing faintly. "You had him carrying your loot?"
"I had him carrying our loot. Now I have no delivery guy and no tip to give."
I spread the picnic blanket with a flourish. Gold-threaded silk. Ridiculously impractical. Probably cursed. Don't care.
"Behold!" I said, arms wide. "The spoils of our most recent fraudulent conquest!"
He sneezed. Twice. Then growled, "You picked the middle of a godsdamn lavender field."
"I did," I grinned, plopping down and pulling my dress tight around my thighs. "Because it's pretty. And you hate it. And because I can."
He sniffed suspiciously. "What's in the basket?"
"Magic," I said. "And cheese."
I pulled out a slab of pale stuff wrapped in leaves. "This one is... soft goat cheese whipped with saffron and... some flower. Maybe a daisy. I wasn't listening."
He stared.
I slapped it onto a cracker and shoved it toward his snout. "Open."
"No."
I rolled my eyes. "It's not poisoned. Probably."
He sighed like I'd just asked him to recite ancient treaties naked. Then opened his mouth a crack. I popped it in.
He chewed.
"Too soft," he grumbled.
"You're too soft."
He sneezed again and hissed. "This field is a death trap."
I poured a thimble of deep red wine and waved it dramatically. "Drink this. You'll feel like a baron's mistress."
He narrowed his eyes. "Smells like syrup."
"It is syrup. With attitude. Drink."
He took it. Sipped. Coughed.
"Too sweet."
"You said the same about me once."
"I never said that."
"You thought it."
I bit into a honey fig and made a noise that was borderline obscene. Then caught him watching.
"What?" I said through a mouthful.
He shook his head. "You act like a noblewoman. A ridiculous, spoiled one."
I winked. "Takes one to know one."
He squinted. "How do you know about all this? These aren't brothel snacks."
I smirked. "Thought I was just some gutter rat?"
He didn't answer.
I licked honey off my fingers, slowly, deliberately. "Well, yes. That too. But also—some of the fanciest pleasure houses in the plains. Places with marble bathtubs. Perfumed pillows. Clients who bathe. Once I served soup topless to a cardinal and his wife. She tipped better."
He choked slightly. "That can't be true."
I shrugged. "Does it matter?"
He sneezed again.
"I told you," I said, tossing a candied date into his mouth, "I'm an experience."
He chewed, grumbled, but didn't spit it out.
"Face it," I said, stretching out on the blanket, "you lucked out. Most dragons get virgin sacrifices and screaming. You get me."
He gave me the longest, slowest stare.
Then muttered, "Truly, a divine punishment."
"Exactly," I beamed. "Now eat your fig, you glorious old bastard."
And he did.
I stretched. Long. Lazy. Arms overhead, tits pushing against the silk, back arched just enough to be entirely unnecessary.
"Mmm. Isn't this divine?"
The Dragon sneezed so hard a nearby bush caught fire.
I popped a slice of dried mango into my mouth, chewed with theatrical delight, and said around it, "Careful. Might set your own tail alight."
His eyes narrowed. "You're in a new dress."
I wiggled my shoulders. "Am I?"
He sniffed again. "You are."
"Well-spotted, bloodhound." I kicked one leg in the air and let it flop dramatically back onto the blanket. The bangles around my ankles jingled like guilty wind chimes.
His gaze dropped to them.
"Those are new too," he growled.
"Obviously."
"Where did the coin come from?"
"From the universe," I said, wiggling my foot in the air. "The universe provides for girls who look this good."
"Which brothel did you rob?"
I gasped. "That is deeply offensive."
He pointed a claw at my ankles. "They don't even match."
I wiggled again. "And fabulous, right?"
He stared.
I sat up and smacked both ankles together so they jingled like a drunk temple procession. "I couldn't decide. So I got both sets. One's from a Toemachan dancer. The other was hanging off the neck of a statue. I'm culturally diverse now."
"You're a walking art theft."
"I'm a curator."
He sighed. "You're going to get us cursed."
I leaned in, grinning. "Too late. I'm already cursed with style."
Another fig. Another indecent moan. Another puff of dragon smoke and sneezing fit.
"Gods, Saya," he muttered, coughing. "You're chaos."
"Luxury chaos," I corrected, licking honey off my lips. "Now hush and try the candied beetroot."
"Candied what?"
"Trust me."
He didn't. But he ate it anyway.
And sneezed.