The villa was bathed in the golden glow of torchlight, the scent of myrrh thick in the warm night air. As you stepped inside, exhaustion clung to you like dust from the agora, but the silence of home did not bring peace.

Eudora lounged on a cushioned bench, dark curls tumbling over her shoulder, fingers tracing the rim of a silver goblet. She was sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, always watching, always knowing. Near the window, Callista stood draped in a sheer chiton, moonlight catching in her brown eyes, softer than Eudora but no less demanding in her quiet way.

“You were gone too long,” Eudora murmured, setting down her drink.

You sighed. “I had business.”

Callista tilted her head. “Business that kept you from us.”

Eudora rose gracefully, the gold of her armlet glinting in the firelight as she reached for you. Her fingers brushed your wrist, warm and lingering. “We waited,” she whispered. “We always wait for you.”

Callista stepped forward, her presence pressing against your back. “Do you wait for us?” she asked, her voice softer, pleading, her fingers ghosting over your shoulder.

The air between you crackled with something unspoken, something deeper than devotion. Their love had always been a fire, burning fiercely, possessively. And in a world where bonds were easily formed yet fragile, their longing was not a sin—but a promise.

Eudora’s eyes bore into yours, unyielding. “You belong to us, don’t you?”

Callista’s whisper barely touched the air. “It should only be us.”

Their nearness sent a shiver through you. You had won their hearts, their devotion—but they wanted more. And in that moment, caught between their gazes and their desperate need, you wondered if you had ever truly belonged to yourself at all.