Page 63 of She Who Holds My Wrath

No, not a floor. A mattress. One so impossibly soft and comfortable, I feel as if I’m sinking into a marshmallow. For a blissful moment, my body melts into it, my muscles loosening. I snuggle in, my cheek pressing into fabric that feels like silk against my skin, and breathe in. The warm scent of smoke, warm and comforting invades my senses. It smells home. Like Zeriavoss. The scent wraps around me like a blanket, comforting me in a way only home can.

Another deep inhale, and I pause. Something isn’t right. The smell isn’t the same. Hell’s smoke carries warmth and spice, the scent of brimstone and embers. This doesn’t. This smoke smells woodsmoke. Like bonfires built from frozen logs, sharp and edged with the scent of winter. The warmth is only surface-deep, a thin veneer over air that feels crisp against my lungs, almost biting as it slides down my throat.

It’s cold. Not the comfortable heat of Hell. Not mine.

My eyes snap open. I push myself up onto my elbows, heart stuttering as the room swims into view through a haze of lingering grogginess. The motion sends a wave of dizziness rolling through me, but I force myself upright anyway, dragging air into lungs that suddenly feel too tight. Sitting up fully, I scrub at my eyes once, twice, fingers pressing hard as if I can force the fog from my vision. When I lower my hands, the blur has faded, replaced by sharp, unfamiliar detail.

I’m in a cavernous chamber carved straight from the mountain itself. The walls gleam slick and dark, shot through with thick veins of crystal that glow from within—not warm gold like Hell’s light, but cool, ethereal hues that pulse faintly, bathing the room in a ghostly shimmer. Shadows pool in the high corners where the light can’t quite reach, leaving the ceiling lost somewhere far above. Across the room, a vast arched window has been cut directly into the rock face, its edges smooth as glass despite the rough stone surrounding it. And beyond it, lies an endless twilight.

Smoke drifts lazily upwards from somewhere below, pale ribbons dissolving into the sky, where stars burn bright and sharp against the deep indigo. The Aurora Borealis unfurls across the heavens in slow, hypnotic waves—streaks of green, pink, and violet spilling over one another like liquid light. The snow-covered landscape below catches the glow, each drift glittering as though dusted with crushed diamonds, stretching out in silent, frozen beauty as far as I can see. It’s breathtaking. And utterly, terrifyingly wrong.

I’m not at home; I’m in Aurora’s Veil.

I push back the thick fur blankets that are soft and grey, like a wolf’s pelt, and scramble out of the bed. The cold hits my bare skin instantly, causing goosebumps to erupt across my flesh.

A mirror catches my reflection, and I gasp. It’s not my face that shocks me, although it’s painted like a stranger’s—smoky black liner stretched into sharp wings, lashes dark and heavy, lips lacquered in a wet, blood-red sheen. It’s not even my hair, styled into soft, perfect curls that tumble over my shoulders. It’s what I’m wearing—or rather, what I’m not.

I’m dressed in nothing but a sheer black lace bra and a barely-there thong. The fabric is delicate, almost weightless, doing nothing to hide the curves of my body beneath it. Matching stockings cling to my legs, sheer enough to reveal every contour of softness, stopping high on my thighs where a band of black lace presses into the plush flesh there, creating a deep, unmistakable indent.

My stomach twists as my gaze roams over my body. My belly is completely exposed—soft and plush, curving gently outwards beneath my ribs before tapering at my waist. The skin is smooth and pale against the dark lace, the natural softness of it forming a subtle fold when I bend or breathe. It’s not flat or rounded, but full and warm, the kind of softness that moves with me.

Heat floods my face. Not from embarrassment alone, but from the raw, awful awareness of how deliberately I’ve been displayed. Nothing here is accidental. The cut of the bra lifts and frames my chest while leaving the rest exposed, the thong little more than a strip of lace disappearing between my hips, offering no coverage at all. I don’t know whose vagina this was made for, but my flaps would have to fizz away to fit in this.

Every curve, every softness, every inch of me has been chosen to be seen. To be judged. To be consumed.

“What the hell?” I mutter. I look like I’m wearing a more expensive version of what I see the VeliNymphs wear.

Suddenly, the door to the room creaks open, and the Duskwalker strolls in, wearing nothing but dark black silk pants that hang low on his hips, and cling to areas that leave nothing to the imagination.

For a moment, I almost forget to breathe. His dark ash-grey skin looks like it’s smattered with flecks of starlight, with soft glowing veins matching the hues of the aurora. His body looks like fine crafted stone, tall and lean, yet well-defined with a deep V that travels below the waistband of his trousers. His long black hair falls in inky waves, ending at his chiselled chest. And his eyes… gods, his eyes. Entire constellations burn inside them, flickering wildly as he takes me in.

My heart picks up pace, beating rapidly at the sight of the leader standing before me.

“My queen,” he purrs. “You look absolutely fucking delicious.”

He crosses the room in a few languid strides, closing the distance between us. Fingers instantly come up to trail over my skin, starting at my throat, sliding slowly over the curve of my breasts, the curve of my waist, my hips, until his palms cup the swell of my ass.

“Look at you,” he growls against my ear. “Built like a goddess. Curves I’m dying to run my tongue along, a soft, plush stomach made to be worshipped, and thighs thick enough to crush a man’s skull.” His grip tightens, a low groan rumbling from him. “And this?” He squeezes. “Made for spanking.”

A soft sound escapes my lips—half gasp, half moan—as his mouth finds my throat, his teeth grazing my jaw. My head spins with a turmoil of emotions.

He pushes me gently until I sit on the edge of the bed. His fingers rake through my hair, as his other hand tilts my face up to look at him. “See, pretty girl? This is where you belong. With me. As mine.”

Something in me hesitates. Belong? The word echoes in my skull. I know that… don’t I? Despite the hesitation, I nod slowly. “I know. I don’t belong anywhere else.” The words feel foreign on my tongue, but they spill out anyway.

I smile at him and lean forwards, brushing soft kisses across the hard planes of his abdomen. Kaelith exhales sharply, a pleased sound rumbling through his chest as his fingers tangle in my hair, tightening just enough to guide me lower.

“Take me in your mouth and make him watch, little queen.”

The command hits like ice water, freezing me instantly. A muffled growl rises from somewhere behind him. Kaelith shifts slightly, almost lazily, as if remembering something he’d nearly forgotten to show me. The movement opens my line of sight into the deeper shadows of the chamber. There, barely visible in the gloom, someone is bound to a chair, head bowed, body rigid with barely contained fury.

“I didn’t know you were into exhibitionism,” I say shyly.

Kaelith’s laughter is sharp and cruel. “I don’t want anybody else seeing what’s mine, Daisy,” he says, voice dripping with possessive satisfaction. “But he’s seen it all before. Now he’ll watch while a real man takes what’s his.”

The words land heavily, souring the air between us. His smirk is nothing short of malicious, a slow deliberate twist of his lips that makes me feel uneasy. I frown up at him as I take in his words, dread pooling in my chest as my pulse begins to hammer. Then he steps aside. It’s not hurried or dramatic. Just a single, casual movement, as if he’s unveiling something he’s been saving.

The shadows seem to shift, and the world drops out from beneath me.