High Inquisitor Celeste pressed her forehead against the cold stone wall of her chambers, fighting the tremors that wracked her body. Dawn light filtered through the narrow window, illuminating tear-stained cheeks and the wreckage of a sleepless night.
Her white robes lay discarded on the floor—soaked through with sweat and shame. The holy garments that once brought her comfort now felt like mockery against her fevered skin.
She'd tried everything. Prayer. Meditation. Cold water. Flagellation with blessed chains.
Nothing stopped the ache between her legs.
"Forgive me," she whispered to the morning light, even as her hand drifted downward for the dozenth time. "Forgive me, forgive me, forgive—"
Her fingers found slick heat. She was soaked, had been since fleeing the sanctum. Every time she tried to sleep, she saw that mirror. Saw herself kneeling. Saw the collar around her throat.
Saw how much she wanted it.
"I want to fall," she gasped, echoing her own shameful words as she rubbed her clit in desperate circles. The orgasm built quickly—she'd grown efficient at this overnight. When it crashed over her, she bit her lip bloody to keep from screaming his name.
*Damien.*
She collapsed against the wall, panting. The relief lasted mere minutes before the need returned, stronger than before. Her body was learning to crave what he'd awakened.
A knock at the door made her freeze.
"High Inquisitor?" A young acolyte's voice. "The morning prayers..."
"I'll be along shortly," she managed, voice steady despite her state. "Begin without me."
Footsteps retreated. Celeste stared at her reflection in the washbasin—hair wild, lips swollen from biting, pupils dilated with lust. She looked exactly like what she was becoming.
A whore in holy robes.
---
An hour later, Celeste walked the palace corridors with measured steps, every inch the composed Inquisitor. Her robes were pristine white silk, her silver hair braided with holy beads. Only the slight tremor in her hands betrayed the storm within.
She'd convinced herself this was investigative duty. She needed to understand the corruption to fight it. Study the enemy's methods. Gather evidence.
All lies, of course. But necessary ones.
The sanctum door stood open, as if expecting her.
Damien waited inside, leaning against the ivory mirror with casual confidence. His black tunic was unlaced at the throat, revealing the strong column of his neck. When he smiled, her thighs clenched involuntarily.
"Back so soon?" he asked. "I thought you'd last at least a day."
"This is an investigation," she said, stepping inside. The door swung shut behind her with a soft click. "I need to understand your methods to counter them."
"Of course." His eyes gleamed with amusement. "Very thorough of you."
The sanctum felt different in daylight. Less mysterious, more intimate. Candles burned with steady flame instead of flickering shadows. The corruption runes around the mirror seemed to pulse with her heartbeat.
"Tell me how you did it," she demanded, maintaining distance between them. "The magic circle. The mirror. All of it."
"Magic?" Damien laughed. "There was no magic, Celeste. Just truth."
"Lies. My purity seal cracked. That requires—"
"Your purity seal cracked because it was already broken." He pushed off from the mirror, taking a single step forward. "How many times did you touch yourself last night? Thinking of kneeling for me?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" Another step. "Tell me, when you came—and we both know you did—whose name did you whisper?"
"I didn't—"
"Whose name, Celeste?"
The question hung between them like a blade. She opened her mouth to deny it, but the lie died in her throat. Instead, a different truth spilled out.
"Yours," she whispered. "I said your name."
His smile was gentle, almost kind. "Good girl."
Those two words sent lightning through her nerves. Her knees weakened, and she grabbed the nearest stone pillar for support.
"What did you do to me?" she gasped.
"Nothing you didn't want." He was close now, close enough that she could smell his skin. "But I can show you more. If you ask."
"I'm here to investigate—"
"Then investigate." He gestured to the mirror. "Look at yourself. Tell me what you see."
Against her better judgment, she turned. The mirror showed her exactly as she was—trembling, flushed, breathing hard. But as she watched, the image shifted. Showed her on her knees, collar around her throat, eyes glazed with submission.
"That's not real," she protested weakly.
"It's the realest thing in this room." His hand ghosted over her shoulder, not quite touching. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind won't admit it."
The almost-touch sent shockwaves through her. She was so sensitive, so primed from the sleepless night of self-torture. When his fingers finally made contact—just a brush against her neck—she moaned aloud.
"Please," she whispered, not sure if she was begging him to stop or continue.
"Please what?"
"I... I can't..."
"You can't what? Think? The great Inquisitor, reduced to stammering?" His thumb traced her pulse, feeling how it raced. "What would your acolytes think, seeing you like this?"
"They'd be horrified," she admitted.
"Would they? Or would they be aroused? Watching their pure leader revealed as just another needy woman?"
The thought hit her like a physical blow. She imagined Sister Margaret, young and earnest, watching her High Inquisitor beg to be fucked. The shame and arousal crashed together, indistinguishable.
"You're sick," she gasped, even as her body arched toward his touch.
"I'm honest. There's a difference." His other hand joined the first, framing her face. "Look in the mirror, Celeste. Look at what you really are."
She looked. Saw herself pressed against him, panting, desperate. Saw the truth she'd been running from.
"I'm corrupt," she whispered.
"You're free."
"Same thing."
"Exactly."
When he kissed her, she didn't fight. Couldn't fight. Her mouth opened under his, accepting his tongue like a communion wafer. Holy and profane merged into pure sensation.
Her hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer. Twenty-eight years of enforced purity shattered in that kiss. She kissed back with desperate hunger, making soft sounds of need.
When he pulled away, she followed, lips seeking his.
"More," she breathed.
"Then kneel."
The word hit her like cold water. She stepped back, shaking her head. "No. I won't. I can't."
"You will." His voice was patient, certain. "Because you want to more than you want to breathe."
"I'm the High Inquisitor—"
"You're a woman who's been denying herself for decades. Look at yourself, Celeste. Look how beautiful you are when you stop pretending."
She looked. In the mirror, her reflection was already kneeling, collar gleaming at her throat. Peaceful. Complete.
"That's not me," she said, but her knees were bending.
"It's the only real you."
She sank down, white robes pooling around her like spilled milk. The stone was cold against her knees, grounding her in the moment.
"Good girl," he said again, and her whole body shuddered with pleasure.
His hand stroked her hair, gentle as a benediction. "Tell me what you want."
"I want to fall," she whispered, the words coming easier this time. "I want to stop fighting. I want..."
"What?"
She looked up at him through tear-bright eyes. "I want you to make me yours."
Damien smiled, reaching into his tunic. When his hand emerged, it held a collar—black leather inscribed with silver runes. Not the heavy chain she'd imagined, but something elegant. Beautiful.
"This was made for you," he said, fastening it around her throat with gentle care. "From the moment I saw you, I knew you'd wear it eventually."
The collar settled against her skin like it belonged there. Like it had always been there, hidden beneath holy vestments and rigid control. The weight was minimal, but she felt its presence in every heartbeat.
"How does it feel?" he asked.
"Like coming home," she admitted.
"Then welcome home, my pet."
The word *pet* should have outraged her. Instead, it sent warmth flooding through her chest. She was his. Finally, completely his.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"Now? Now you serve." His hand cupped her chin, thumb brushing her lips. "Starting with your fellow Inquisitors. They'll need... guidance."
Understanding bloomed in her mind. The corruption wouldn't stop with her. It would spread through the entire religious hierarchy, carried by her own hands.
The thought should have horrified her.
Instead, she smiled.
"Yes, Master."