In the doorway. Her thick body. Her dark blue gown. Her piled hair. Her dark brown eyes. She looked at the scene. She looked at the man. She did not move.
Her eyes were furious.
Not at the women. Not at the debauchery. Not at the nakedness. At him. At the man who had fucked her and who had not come back. Who had given her one night and who had then— disappeared. Who had left her. Who had left her in the palace. With the king. With the man who tied her to bedposts. Who had not returned. Who had not saved her.
Who was now here. On a throne. With other women.
Her eyes found his.
Dark brown met violet. The gaze was direct. Unwavering. The gaze of a woman who has been fucked by a king and fucked by a devil and who knows the difference and who is furious at both.
Raven stood.
From the throne. His movement was slow. Deliberate. The movement of a man who is aware of every eye in the room. His coat was open. His chest was bare. His trousers were tented — the cock, half-hard, visible through the fabric.
He walked.
Toward her. Across the throne room. Past the women — who looked up, who stopped, who watched. Past Vivian — who lifted her mouth from his cock, the saliva on her chin, her green eyes wide. Past Ada — whose yellow eyes tracked him, whose scaled body tensed.
He walked toward Revaone.
Revaone did not step back.
Her body wanted to. Her legs wanted to. The instinct — the deep, primal instinct of a prey animal facing a predator — screamed at her to run. To turn. To flee.
She did not.
She stood. Her chin lifted. Her eyes stayed on his. Her hands — at her sides — clenched into fists. The nails dug into her palms.
"You..." she said. Her voice was low. Controlled. The voice of a queen. Not the voice of the woman who had moaned beneath his hands. "You."
Raven stopped.
Before her. Close. A foot away. His violet eyes looked down at her. He was taller. By six inches. She had to look up. Her chin lifted higher. The neck arched. The tendons visible.
"You know me," he said. Not a question. A statement. His voice was low. Warm. The voice she remembered. The voice from the massage table. The voice that had said "relax" and "breathe" and "you are beautiful."
Revaone’s jaw clenched.
"I know you," she said. The words were through her teeth. "I know what you did. I know what you—"
His hand went to her thigh.
Not a grab. A touch. His fingers found the fabric of her gown. The dark blue silk. He lifted. The hem came up. Her ankle. Her calf. Her knee. Her thigh. The skin — olive, smooth, the flesh thick and warm — was exposed. Her garter. Her stocking — dark, sheer. The top of her thigh.
She stumbled.
"What—" she gasped. Her body jerked. Her hands went to his chest. To push. To resist. "What are you doing?"
His cock was warm.
She felt it. Through his trousers. Against her thigh. The fabric of his trousers and the fabric of her gown and the thin barrier of her stocking and beneath all of it — the cock. Hard. Erect. Twelve inches. The heat of it. Through the layers. On her skin.
"Come on," he said. His voice was the same. Low. Warm. Conversational. "Soon your pussy."
Revaone’s face flushed.
The color — red, deep, the blush of a woman who has been propositioned and who is furious and who is aroused and who cannot separate the two — hit her cheeks. Her neck. Her chest. The skin above her bodice.
"What kind of nonsense is this?!" she hissed. Her hands pushed against his chest. Her fingers pressed into the muscle. The muscle did not move. "I am the first queen! I am— you cannot—"
His eyes.
The violet. Not black. Violet. The color that was not human. The color that glowed. The color that — when she looked into them — made her body respond. Made her pussy clench. Made her nipples stiffen. Made her breath catch.
The eyes made holes in her soul.
She trembled.
Not from fear. From the impossibility of resisting. The eyes held her. The gaze pinned her. The violet — the deep, glowing, impossible violet — reached into her and found the place. The place that the king had damaged. The place that Raven had healed. The place that remembered his hands. His mouth. His cock. The place that wanted. That craved. That needed.
She lifted her skirt.
Her hands moved. Not willingly. Not consciously. Her fingers found the hem. The dark blue silk. She pulled. The fabric rose. Past her knees. Past her thighs. Past her hips. The gown bunched at her waist. Her lower body was exposed. Her stockings. Her garters. Her panty — dark blue, lace, the fabric snug over her thick pussy. The lips visible through the lace. The dark hair — trimmed, not shaved — visible beneath.
Her hand went to her panty.
Her fingers found the waistband. She pulled. Not down. Aside. The fabric shifted. The lace moved. The cotton crotch — wet, the moisture already there, the arousal already flowing — peeled from her skin. Her pussy was exposed. The lips — thick, full, the inner flesh pink and glistening. The hair — dark, damp. The clit — swollen, peeking from the hood.
She parted herself.
Her fingers found the lips. She spread. The opening — wet, the juice leaking, the inner walls visible — was presented. To him. To his cock. To the thing that she wanted and hated herself for wanting.
His cock head pressed.
Against her opening. The dark, swollen head against the pink, wet flesh. The heat — his heat, the mana heat, the pheromone heat — radiated. Her body responded. The pussy clenched. The juice flowed. The lips swelled.
"What a good bitch," Raven said.
His voice was low. Close. Against her ear. The words — the degrading, filthy, beautiful words — sent a shiver through her body. The same words the king had used. But different. The king had said it with contempt. With cruelty. With the desire to humiliate. Raven said it with— appreciation. With warmth. With the tone of a man who is praising a dog that has learned a trick.
The difference broke her.
His hands went to her hips.
He grabbed. His large hands on her thick hips. His fingers sank into the flesh. The dark blue gown bunched between his fingers and her skin. He held. He positioned. He angled.
He pushed.
"AAAH—!!"
Revaone screamed. The cock head went in. The opening stretched. The lips parted. The inner walls — wet, ready, the muscles relaxing — accepted. The head — the thick, dark, swollen head — pushed past the entrance. Into the canal.
Her tongue came out.
The pink tongue. From her mouth. Her lips parted. Her eyes — the dark brown — rolled. The whites showed. The lids fluttered. The lashes — long, dark — trembled.
Her eyes went to the ceiling.
She looked up. At the stone. At the vaulted ceiling. At the carved figures. At the gold leaf. She looked up because she could not look at him. Because if she looked at him she would see the violet. And if she saw the violet she would— she would lose the last thread of control.
He slammed.
PAAH—
"AAAAHH—!!"