"What the fuck." Artemis' lip curled in revulsion. Unbelievable. To deliver a mortal like a wrapped gift into the hands of a murdering asshole like Caravaggio? But of course Peitho wouldn't see anything wrong with that picture.
Artemis was under no illusions about her brother's purity of character, but something about his wife grated at her on a visceral level. It wasn't the carnality of what Peitho embodied: Artemis was the goddess of maidens, but unmarried girls had ever desired and acted on desire, even if men were uncomfortable admitting it. Sex held no shame for Artemis. But for the huntress who scorned all fetters and refused to surrender her power to any god, there was something particularly repulsive in Peitho's style of seduction, the way she insinuated herself into people's heads, built golden cages with her words and bent their desires to her own will.
"Is she alright?" she demanded, her thoughts jumping back to Luna. She didn't know the girl, but she could recall the face from the Symposium, the way it had shone literally and figuratively when Hecate had worked her magic.