Genevieve's body still trembled with the aftershocks of climax, but the ache inside her twisted hotter, deeper—like something feral clawing through velvet skin. "Strip," she crooned, her voice soaked in madness and syruped spite. It wasn't a request. It was a decree.
Her pupils were blown wide, her breath shaky with glee, and her grin stretched too far. One talon-tipped finger lifted the fox-fae's chin with the worshipful tenderness of a priestess blessing a lamb before slaughter. "Let me see what my gold has truly bought," she whispered, teeth catching the edge of her lip. "Peel the lie off slowly—I want to savor it."
The servant obeyed, and with each shimmer of dismissed glamour, a darker truth slithered free—flesh contorting, bones bending with unnatural ease. Her body folded and reformed like melted wax, revealing something old and uncanny. Between her thighs, something emerged—not human, not fully fae, but something stranger. A skin-walker, touched by the old folklore of the northern steppes. Bred by shadow contracts, and bound not by love, but legacy.
Genevieve smirked, stretching like a queen who had bent sacred rules to her whim. "A fine creature," she murmured. "A servant born for pleasure. Not as pretty as me, but practical—and that's all the old blood ever asked for. The pretty ones always screamed too much."
She crossed the cold stone floor, her bare feet ghostlike in the firelight. With a flick of her wrist, mirrors shimmered into being around the room—one, then two, then seven—encircling her in glass and vanity. Each one caught her at a different angle, a kaleidoscope of beauty, madness, and the aching glow of dark desire.
"Most people see this," she said, spinning slowly with her arms raised like a ballerina bathed in sacrilege. "This face. These wings. This divine skin."
She stopped and leaned into one of the mirrors, her breath fogging the glass. "They'd never imagine what I let touch me. What I crave." She giggled, the sound brittle and wicked. "Ugly things. Broken things. The ones even the hags won't keep long."
She touched the curve of her own breast, then dragged her fingers lower, tracing lines of power only she could see. Then, with a breathless hum, she pressed a nail into the soft flesh just beneath her collarbone, slicing a shallow line that bled in glistening streams of iridescent color—like liquid rainbow, shimmering and fragrant. It smelled sweet, floral, intoxicating.
She laughed softly, bitter and bright. "Candy-tree blood," she scoffed. "Just what Father always wanted." Her tongue flicked out, slow and serpentine, lapping the shimmering trail like a decadent sin. It smelled divine—like sugared violets and warm peaches—but the taste? Sickeningly sweet, metallic beneath the glamour. It curdled on her tongue like spoiled syrup, but she swallowed it anyway, relishing the bitterness. It wasn't the taste she craved. It was the defiance. The pain. A delicious edge play wrapped in legacy, rotten at the core.
Her grin split wider, eyes gleaming with a wicked glint. "They said hags lose their minds. But I think they just lose their patience. And honestly? I'd fuck a troll before I let another polished courtier breathe on me. At least trolls grunt in gratitude."
With a sharp snap of her fingers, the servant moved closer, understanding instantly what was required. The creature curled against Genevieve like a favored pet, draping over her with practiced gentleness.
She laughed louder now, the sound echoing through every mirror until the glass itself seemed to flinch. "Maybe I like ugly bastards," she said, licking her lips with slow delight. "At least they know how to worship something sacred—and hold me like I was carved out of nightmare and nectar."
The reflection struck her like prophecy. She looked divine. Like a forgotten goddess left in marble, lips parted mid-curse. "Look at me," she sneered to the mirror, ignoring the servant entirely. "Look at what he threw away… for that pathetic little nothing. That slave girl—skin borrowed, name forgotten, walking around like she matters." Her voice twisted, curling with venom. "She's not even a proper thing. Doesn't know how to stand, how to kneel, how to bleed beautifully. Just a stray mutt in silk, pretending she belongs."
Her fingers grazed her breasts, her hips—not for arousal, but reverence. She turned, watching the curve of her wing cross her thigh like a blade pretending to be silk. Then, with a sudden jolt of manic delight, she flung herself at the mirror—only to see the servant mirror the motion beside her like a feral echo. Genevieve snarled and, without hesitation, kicked the creature backward with a wild force. It yelped, crashing into the far wall like a puppet made of twitching limbs and borrowed flesh.
"Know your place, darling," she cooed sweetly, voice soft as velvet but edged with iron. Her grin remained, serene and gleaming. "I am the reflection they adore—the crown in the glass, the dream they dare to chase. You? You're just a smudge they forgot to wipe clean."
"I am the lady of this house," she said to the mirror, every syllable dipped in pride and delusion. "Who is going to stop me? Not that useless dragon who hoards his power like it's sacred." Her eyes blazed as she stared into her reflection—no, her destiny—and without a second thought, she slammed her fist into the mirror, shattering it into a thousand glittering knives.
"Moi seule! Je suis la vérité qu'ils ne peuvent pas avaler!" she cried in French, bloodied knuckles trembling with exaltation. ("Me alone! I am the truth they cannot swallow!")
"Я—единственная, кого тьма по-настоящему любит," she whispered in Russian, voice rich with madness. ("I am the only one the darkness truly loves.")
The shards trembled around her, catching her fractured smile in every facet. she whispered sweetly, stroking her blood-slicked knuckles, "but I am the useful one. The queen in waiting. The pawn who moves herself."
Her eyes danced with glassy joy. "I do what I want, when I want, with whomever I please. The darkness doesn't haunt me—it worships me."
Then, in the curling tongue of the Old Fae, she sang softly to the shards:
"Vrél eth sael, na'the venahr, e'quorré lirae..." ("Only I am worthy, the chosen flame, crowned in shadow's kiss.")
Her voice carried like smoke—sweet, eerie, ancient. Each word echoed through the broken glass like a forgotten prayer clawing its way home.
Magic swirled at her fingertips as she began to shape a spell—not for war, not for seduction, but for fate. Just for a moment, it shimmered before her. The future where she won. Where she had it all. And it smiled back like it already belonged to her.