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A ripped piece of his chiton, long forgotten, turns up under Megaera's bed one day-or-night. She's rearranging the equipment she stores in leather cases under there when she notices it: a peek of red where it doesn't belong. It figures. Somehow, after all the trouble she went to in order to purge every trace of him from her chambers, he's still worming his way back in.
The fabric, when she fishes it out, still smells like him.
She ought to throw the damned thing out. Burn it, or throw it in a pit, or dump it in the Styx and watch it sink. He has no use for it. And she most certainly does not, either. There is nothing they need from each other anymore.
The solution to this discovery is simple. The problem is that she takes too long contemplating it, and the fabric is in her hand the whole time, and it really does smell like him. Like his body, to some extent, but more than that it smells of him: of the desire he used to bleed into the air when he was looking for her approval, and the frisson of fear and excitement when she took out her tools and told him how to earn it.
That scent has no right to affect her the way it does. When she sits back on the bed and slips her hand underneath her waistband, she does it out of vengeance, because he owes her. He owes her. An orgasm or two with his scent in her nostrils is a cheap price for reparations, after everything he put her through.
She holds the fabric against her nose and mouth and every breath makes her relive their encounters. How tense he always got when she approached, a bowstring pulled taut with every order she gave. Then, when he let himself submit, how pliant he became, how happy to be of use. He's being of use now. Megaera's fingers slide easily over herself, wet as she is. Zagreus would be begging her to have his mouth, if he could see her.
"That brat," she hisses, to remind herself where they stand now. But it's all too easy to remember how he'd shiver at that tone.
Her orgasm rushes through her with unexpected intensity, leaving her gasping into the cloth. Her fingers have warmed some from the friction, and she imagines it's Zagreus' tongue spreading her instead, making grateful little sounds when she grinds against it. She comes twice more like that, with a shudder from head to toe. It takes her a while to recover.
When she does, and cleans up, she realizes how foolish it would be to get rid of the cloth. He won't be missing it, and it wouldn't matter to her if he did. He still owes her, after all.