For all the time he had known her, he had never seen his Goddess express such a wonderfully mundane, human little emotions.
Not anger in the usual ugly way, envy or insecurity and most importantly, not jealousy.
He had almost convinced himself that perhaps she simply did not possess such thoughts, that jealousy was beneath her, a lower emotion reserved for people unsure of their beauty, their place or their power.
It made sense in the dangerous, ridiculous way logic sometimes did when a man was too busy worshiping a woman to remember she was still a woman and not a marble statue carved by heaven's most obsessive artisan.
When she saw Catherine's shirt signed by Phei over the breast area, she had only laughed and called him a naughty dragon. When Catherine cherished it like a religious relic made of fabric and questionable dignity, the Goddess had seemed amused, even fond.
