His breath was scalding hot where it touched her skin, especially the bruises on her neck that hadn't healed from the night of Peitho's party. She shifted her thigh to brush it against his hand, remembering vividly what his fingers had done to her that night, as well. "Fuck it up," she whispered back. He could do whatever he liked to the dress; she knew the risks she was taking with it when she'd pulled it over her head.