The pleasure built into an unbearable, searing point of light behind her eyes. Her vision went white. The muscles of her cunt clamped down on his cock in a series of violent, ecstatic spasms. A scream, raw and ragged, was torn from her lungs as her first-ever orgasm ripped through her body. It was not a gentle release; it was a detonation, a cataclysm that erased thought and sensation, leaving only a blinding, shuddering void. Through it all, she could feel the last of his energy pouring into her, not just the physical release of his seed, but a current of pure vitality. His own orgasm triggered scant seconds after hers, a final, desperate surge that sent a hot flood of semen deep inside her, bathing her cervix.
When her vision cleared, she was slumped over him, her body trembling with aftershocks. The pain was gone, replaced by a profound, humming warmth that spread from her core all the way to her fingertips. She pushed herself up, her limbs feeling strangely light, powerful. The lingering ache in her palm from the letter opener incident days ago had vanished completely. She flexed her hand, the skin flawless, smooth, and utterly healed. It worked. The regeneration, so absent before, was now a nascent thrum beneath her skin. This was the key.
Thomas lay beneath her, utterly spent. His eyes were closed, a faint, blissful smile on his lips. He was hers now, body and soul. A tool. A chalice she had drained. A wave of disgust washed over her, quickly suppressed by the intoxicating hum of her newfound strength. She slid off him, a slick mess of sweat, seed, and blood. The rug was ruined. Evidence. The hunter's mindset, cold and pragmatic, took over.
"Get up," she said. Her voice was calm, devoid of the earlier lust-fueled rage.
Thomas's eyes snapped open, clear and placid. He scrambled to his feet, making no move to cover his nakedness. He looked at her with the unquestioning devotion of a dog awaiting its master's command. "Your Grace?"
"Clean this," she commanded, gesturing to the ruin on the rug. "Then burn your uniform. Bathe. Put on fresh livery and return here. You will speak of this to no one. You will remember it only when I wish you to. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Your Grace," he said, his voice a monotone. He moved to obey with an eerie, robotic efficiency.
As he gathered his discarded, stained uniform from the floor, something small and metallic fell from the trouser pocket, clattering softly on the wood floorboards. Isabella's eyes, now unnaturally sharp, darted to the object. It was a cheap tin medallion, the kind a servant might buy at a street fair.
"What is that?" she asked, her tone sharp.
Thomas paused. "It is my pledge token, Your Grace. For the Benevolent Circle."
Isabella knelt, picking up the small disk. It was cool to the touch. On its surface, crudely stamped, was a familiar design: a circle, intersected by a sharp, vertical line, with two smaller lines branching from the top like horns. The exact same symbol she had seen carved into the clock tower and the library. Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn't a mason's mark. It was an emblem.
"The Benevolent Circle?" she asked, keeping her voice level. "What is that? A charity?"
"A society, Your Grace," Thomas replied blandly, his enchantment preventing him from sensing her sudden, intense interest. "For the betterment of the city's working men. We look after our own. We meet in the old tannery district."
A society. A secret one, apparently, with members scattered throughout the city, from the footmen in her own household to the stonemasons working on the grandest buildings. A chill, colder than her own dead skin, ran down her spine. The hunters were not the only secret society in this city. She had stumbled, quite literally, into another. Were they connected? Or was this something else entirely? A new threat? Or... a potential resource?
She pocketed the medallion. "Very well. Continue with your duties."
He bowed and left the room, leaving her alone with the flickering fire and the ghost of his scent. She had what she wanted. The first taste of regeneration, the confirmation that her path to power was real. But she had found something else, too. A thread. A loose string on the grand tapestry of the city, and she had an overwhelming, predatory urge to pull on it and see what would unravel. Her double life had just become infinitely more complicated. She needed to get stronger, faster. One footman would not be enough. She needed an army of thralls, an ocean of seed and blood. And she needed answers.
The mystery of the horned circle could wait. It was a cold knot of intrigue, but the warmth spreading through her limbs—the undeniable proof of her growing power—was a far more compelling siren song. Strength first. Answers later. Secrets were useless to the dead.
After Thomas had silently and efficiently erased all traces of their violent congress, the room was once again a pristine cage of silks and velvets. Isabella had bathed, the hot water a pleasant, grounding sensation against her newly healed skin. She now wore a chemise of the thinnest lawn, a garment that was more suggestion than fabric, and draped a heavy velvet robe over it, leaving it untied. She needed to look vulnerable, a grieving widow seeking comfort and protection. The predator must first appear as prey.
She sent a formal summons via a different footman, one whose mind was still his own. *The Duchess requests an urgent, private audience with the Captain of the Guard regarding a matter of personal security.* The pretext was thin, but her authority was absolute. It would bring him.
An hour later, Captain Valerius was announced. He was not a man easily summoned. He was carved from granite and cynicism, a veteran of border skirmishes who had earned his position through blood and strategy, not courtly favours. When he entered, he filled the doorway, his black-and-silver uniform immaculate, his presence a stark, martial intrusion into the soft femininity of her chambers. His eyes, the colour of chipped flint, swept the room once, assessing, dismissing. They were not the eyes of a doe-headed footman; they were the eyes of a wolf.
"Your Grace," he said, his voice a low gravelly rumble. He gave a short, correct bow that held no real deference. "You summoned me. You have concerns about your security?"
Isabella remained seated on a chaise longue, one hand pressed theatrically to her chest. "Captain. Thank you for coming so promptly. Please, close the door. What I have to say is... for your ears only."
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, his instincts warring with her command. The wolf in him smelled a trap. But the soldier obeyed the Duchess. He shut the heavy oak door, the latch clicking shut with a sound of finality. The room suddenly felt much smaller.
"I am... afraid, Captain," she began, letting her voice tremble. She hated the feigned weakness, but she knew this man would not be broken by overt commands like Thomas was. He required a more delicate poison. "Since the Duke's passing, I feel... exposed. There are whispers in the city. Unsavory elements."
Valerius stood stiffly a few feet away, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He was a fortress. "The city is always full of whispers, Your Grace. My men have a firm grip on things. There have been some... disputes. A few bodies in the tannery district, some brawls near the docks attributed to a new worker's guild causing trouble. Nothing that hasn't been handled."
The tannery district. The meeting place of the Benevolent Circle. Her mind latched onto the detail. So, their "betterment" sometimes involved brawls and bodies. Another piece of the puzzle she was determined to ignore for now.
"It is not common crime I fear," she said, rising from the chaise. She let the velvet robe slip from one shoulder, revealing the delicate lace of her chemise strap against her pale skin. She saw his eyes flicker to the exposed flesh before snapping back to her face. A tiny crack in the fortress wall. "I fear a more specific threat. Have you heard the tales of the Night-Walkers? The Blood-Drinkers?"
His expression hardened. A mask of professional disdain slid into place. "Folklore, Your Grace. Ghost stories to frighten children. The only monsters in this city are men, and I am very good at hunting them."
"Are you?" she murmured, closing the distance between them. She reached out, her fingers tracing the silver embroidery on his uniform's cuff. His arm was corded with muscle, radiating a warmth that felt like a furnace against her cold skin. The enchantment began to flow, not a flood as with Thomas, but a gentle, insistent tide, lapping at the foundations of his will. "But these stories... they say the hunters have returned. Men who fight these supposed monsters. Tell me, Captain, if you were to find a monster in my court, in my very-own household, what would you do?"
His eyes narrowed. The flinty gaze sharpened, trying to see past the grieving Duchess to the woman beneath. The enchantment was meeting resistance, a wall of discipline and suspicion. It wasn't failing, but it wasn't working either. He was not a simple boy. He was a veteran, a killer, and his will was a thing of iron. This would require more than a whisper and a touch.
He would have to be shattered before he could be remade.