Brief Interlude

Elsewhere in the palace...

Emma Frost reclined face down on a plush massage table, her alabaster skin glowing in the soft light of the palace’s luxurious chamber. Two nude royal guardsmen, their dark, muscular forms glistening with oil, worked over her body with expert precision. Their hands kneaded the smoothness of her voluptuous form with the kind of skill that had not come naturally to them—no, it had been gifted to them by her, their minds downloaded with the techniques she preferred. She sighed in contentment, her body languid, her mind anything but.

A wicked smirk twisted her blue lipsticked lips.

She reached out with a mental finger, colossal compared to the diminutive version of Spyke in her Mindscape, chest puffed out as if he was the hero of his own story, and flicked.