The scar had been laid upon her by the Mother who had taught her use of the sword - a lesson to sink securely into her how to press her attack without losing her own guard in the process. To feel the scrape of a knife following the whiter line that cut through the ivory plane of her skin made her stomach twist. She had lost her guard indeed.<br/><br/>Then the touch on her was not mere gaze, nor the knife, but his fingers, questing with knowing care through folds of intimate skin; she felt him part her and slide one digit in a warm, but unwet passage, soon meeting with something that created a warming pressure low in her abdomen, and her teeth clenched to stop a soft hiss. "Quintus...?" she glanced at the ceiling, calling to mind the other man, the one who had carried her to the boat, and looked at this one with question in her tense expression.