As the scene in the tent began to intensify, the first thing I noticed was that I was stiff. Stiff in the worst and most inconvenient way possible, stiff in a way that made my skirt feel like the world's cruelest joke, stiff in a way that told me my body had absolutely no intention of respecting my pride nor my delicate sense of timing.
It started as a little pulse, a heartbeat between my thighs, and then, as I gazed upon the vile display of domination sprawled before me—the chain yanking, the slobbering, the molten eyes glaring down at the whimpering man—it blossomed into something full and shameless.
I could feel it rising, straining, and suddenly every breath came out a little harder, sharper, as if the air itself were complicit in my humiliation. My chest fluttered, my pulse hammered, and my body—traitor that it was—decided to be entirely honest about what it wanted.
Of course, Brutus noticed. Brutus always noticed. He had the uncanny ability to sniff out weakness in me, not because he cared for it, but because it was his eternal punishment to act as my keeper.
His hand brushed against my back, warm, heavy, steady, and gods above, that did not help. In fact, it made everything worse.
The weight of it pressed me forward, a silent grounding that only fanned the fire already threatening to consume me. I think I even whimpered—just faintly, just for me—but the sound echoed in my skull like a scream.
Around us, other men crowded the tent, shadows and shapes pressed against the canvas walls. They weren't here for the ashdust, not entirely—they were here for her.
Every eye fixed on the woman, every jaw slack, every breath drawn shallow. Some men, emboldened by lust or stupidity, often the same thing, reached out to grope her from behind, seeking scraps of her body like beggars at a feast.
She turned on them with a snarl sharp enough to peel skin, golden eyes blazing like torches in the smoke. The look alone sent them scuttling back, hands raised, cocks tucked between thighs, muttering apologies that stank of desperation. I almost laughed—almost—until the pull of the chain snapped my gaze back to the center.
The man she had leashed was melting now. Literally, figuratively, spiritually—take your pick. His knees buckled, his mouth worked helplessly, his hands clawed at the dirt like he could bury himself alive rather than withstand another moment.
She pulled back then, releasing him for half a breath, and in that pause, he babbled, pleaded, begged in a slurry of pathetic syllables that would have been funny if they weren't so revolting.
"Please, Ma'am, I can't take any mo—" he began to say before he was cut off.
She shoved him down again, merciless, ramming his face back between her thighs with a force that echoed in the chain and the man's muffled cry.
Her scowl cracked—just barely—into something else. A twitch at the corner of her lips. A flicker of satisfaction.
I knew that look. That twitch was everything. It was the tiny glimmer of joy hidden beneath cruelty, the morsel of pleasure disguised as disdain. And when the man broke—when his whole body convulsed, when his hips jerked, when he let out a strangled moan and spilled himself in violent spurts across the dirt floor—it was not the sound of defeat, but of worship.
His cum splattered in obscene arcs, catching the lamplight, dripping into ash until the tent smelled of musk, smoke, and surrender. I swear the floor itself sighed in relief.
She leaned down then, whispering something in his ear that none of us could hear. Whatever it was, it drained the last of his strength.
He croaked "yes, ma'am," voice trembling, eyes glassy, before staggering upright and disappearing out the flap like a ghost released from haunting. The chain clattered behind him. The tent grew silent, heavy, every man holding his breath as if waiting for her next command.
That was when she turned.
Her smile wasn't sweet. It wasn't warm. It wasn't even human. It was feral, twisted, the kind of smile that promised broken bones and bitten lips, the kind of smile that could make saints sweat and sinners repent.
It cut through me, carved me open, and suddenly my heart wasn't just beating—it was sprinting, racing, clawing at my ribs like it wanted to escape my chest.
My knees wobbled. My throat tightened. I was so wound, so breathless, I thought I might combust right then and there in a blaze of shame and lust.
But she didn't look at me.
Her eyes, sharp and seething, locked instead on Brutus.
Then the smile evaporated. Anger replaced it—pure, searing, unfiltered rage. She snarled a single command, sharp as a whip: "Out. All of you."
The other men didn't hesitate. They scattered like roaches when the light comes on, scrambling, tripping, vanishing into the courtyard beyond. In seconds, it was only us: Brutus, Dregan, Atticus, myself, and her, standing in the haze of ash and sweat.
Brutus sighed. It was that long-suffering sigh of his, the one that said he'd rather be anywhere else, the one that made me want to giggle just to spite him.
"Hello Freya," he said finally, his voice flat but respectful.
Her head snapped, hair swinging, eyes burning. She bolted forward with the fury of a thunderstorm, chains rattling in her grip. "What the hell are you doing here, Brutus? You think you can just walk into my tent, into my space, after everything? After the orders, after the mess you left behind?"
Brutus held his ground, though his shoulders tensed. "The Boss assigned you to us. Said you'd help."
"Help?" she spat, stepping so close her nose almost touched his chest. "Help you? After you abandon me? After you vanished without a word?!"
I opened my mouth. Of course I did. There are times to stay silent, and then there are times to save the day with charm, wit, and inappropriate timing.
"Now, now children," I said, slinking between them, raising my hands as though I were mediating two feuding nobles instead of two beasts about to bite each other's throats. "Let's not get violent. At least not without letting me watch first. Preferably with popcorn."
Her gaze dropped, sharp and sudden, pinning me instead. For the first time, she seemed to notice me, and gods, I almost wished she hadn't. Her expression softened—no, not softened, shifted—into quiet discontent. Like I was a stain on her shoe. Like she'd just found a worm wriggling in her wine.
"Well," she said slowly, voice dripping disdain. "And what are you supposed to be?"
I grinned. Always grin. Grin until the world crumbles. "Loona," I purred, giving a little bow, my skirt fluttering dangerously. "Succubus, gutterslut, entertainer extraordinaire. At your service."
Her lip curled. "Pathetic."
Pathetic. The word landed like a slap, sharp and stinging. My pride reared instantly, teeth bared, tongue sharpened.
"Pathetic? Darling, I've been called many things, but never by someone who keeps pets on chains for dinner theater."
Her eyes narrowed. She stepped closer. The air grew heavier, tighter, like she was pressing her will against mine. Every word she spoke pushed harder, sharper, until I found myself actually… squirming.
Yes, squirming like the poor bastard she'd just drained dry. I tried to snap back with clever lines, but she pressed harder each time, her words sinking under my skin, making my voice falter, my bravado crack.
Gods, I hated it. Gods, Iloved it.
Dregan, of course, didn't help. He leaned against a tent pole, roaring with laughter, tossing in lewd jokes like kindling to a fire. "Careful there, Loona! She'll break you in half before you even get your skirt off! Not that you'd mind, eh?"
"Shut up," I hissed, though the heat in my cheeks betrayed me.
And then her eyes trailed lower.
I felt it before she saw it—the way my bulge strained against the thin fabric of my underwear, obscene, throbbing, impossible to ignore.
Her gaze caught it. My breath hitched. My knees trembled. And for the briefest second, her expression cracked.
That anger—so sharp, so brutal—slid away, and in its place came a smile. A wicked, sharp, knowing smile that carved straight into my soul. It lasted only a heartbeat before the mask slammed back down, her fury restored. But I'd seen it. I knew.
She pulled away, turning her back, her voice tight. "Fine, I'll follow this time. But don't think this means anything."
Brutus rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "always the same." Dregan howled with fresh laughter, clapping me on the back so hard I nearly toppled. I just stood there, panting, trembling, grinning like a fool who'd just survived drowning in molten gold.
And just like that, our little collection was complete. Brutus, stoic and suffering. Dregan, filthy and fearless. Atticus, sharp as a knife. And now her—Freya, the golden storm. Together we were something dangerous. Together we were something divine.
The real game was about to begin.
Suddenly, just as that thought glittered in my skull, a scream tore through the courtyard.
Not the kind of scream you hear in a fight. Not the grunt of pain, or the howl of anger, or the moan of pleasure that often masquerades as both. No—this was sharp, shrill, and full of horror, slicing through the cavern like a blade coated in death.