Page 123 of Haunted Spurs

As we get into position, a voiceover recorded by an actress from Mrs. Lacey's academy introduces our performance. But the words echoing through the barn aren't hers. They're mine.

I wrote a monologue for this moment. A story, to exorcise my demons. The female narrator's voice, low and velvety, fills the air as a red light shines down on me.

"They always told us Persephone was kidnapped. That she was dragged by force into the darkness by the Lord of the Underworld. But the one who writes the story is often too afraid to admit the truth."

I step toward the throne. I'm wearing a gown of black lace and dark tulle, structured like armor, with a crown of black brambles woven into my hair, framing my white streaks.

"The truth is that the Queen of Spring was tired of the light. She craved the shadows. She wanted a world where she no longer had to be perfect, but where she could be worshipped for her sins."

I sit on the obsidian throne. I cross my legs, letting the dress's plunging slit fall open slightly, and display a blood-red pomegranate resting in the palm of my hand.

"And Hades... the God feared by all, the ruthless monster of the Underworld... turned out to be the only one willing to offer her the entire world."

From the scarlet smoke, Ron emerges.

And my breath truly catches. He isn't acting; he is the King of the Underworld.

"While others fled from sin, he dragged it onto his own throne and crowned it pleasure. He didn't fear it—he worshipped it, turning damnation into his darkest delight."

He is shirtless. A heavy mantle of black wolf fur drapes over his broad shoulders, fastened by two dark chains cutting across his chiseled pecs.

"He wore it like a second skin and tasted it like the sweetest ruin. He had turned temptation into an art, an obsession, the most dangerous form of pleasure."

The darkness in his blue eyes is dense, palpable. He strides toward the throne with a lethal presence.

"Because the greatest secret of the Underworld," my pre-recorded voice whispers, as the music shifts to a low, hypnotic hum, "is not that he held her prisoner. The secret is that he was completely, hopelessly at her mercy."

Ron reaches the foot of the throne. Our eyes lock.

And then, under the wide eyes of the entire cast and the cameras... Ron Willers... drops.

He slowly drops to his knees. A God bowing solely and exclusively for his Queen.

The room holds its breath. Ron lifts his face to me, submissive in his pose but fiercely dominant in his gaze. He rests his hands, adorned with dark silver rings, on my knees. He slowly slides them up my thighs exposed by the slit, parting them slightly.

My heart skips a beat.

This forcefully reminds me of him on his knees between my thighs... back in the bedroom.

The heat of his fingers burns.

I lower the hand holding the pomegranate, offering it to him.

Never breaking eye contact, he leans forward. His lips graze the split fruit. He sinks his teeth into the red seeds, eating directly from my palm, the scarlet juice staining his lips like blood, a vow of eternal devotion and sin.

As the darkness falls to seal our performance, his deep voice vibrates against my ear, invisible to everyone, meant only for me.

"My Queen, I want to fuck you on this throne with that crown on your head."

The music of the Ball of the Damned echoes through the house. The party has been going on for hours, but Ron and I are only just now deigning to make our appearance in the living room.

We have an excellent excuse, actually.

We were pleasantly, sinfully busy on the obsidian throne.

I walk beside him down the dimly lit hallway, and every single muscle in my body, every nerve, is a bundle of pulsing sensations. I feel the fabric of my dress rubbing against my skin, which is suddenly way too sensitive, and I feel a pleasant, dull ache between my thighs.

We did it without a condom for the first time.