The curtains were half drawn, soft light spilling in across the carved wood floor.
On the sofa, Selvaria Nystovia lounged back like a queen, silver hair cascading in waves over her shoulders, her chest rising and falling with every lazy breath. Her robes clung tight, every curve showing. Her breasts strained against the fabric, heavy and full, the gold cross resting right between them.
On her lap, a girl lay with her head nestled against her mother's thighs.
Her only daughter. Elira Nystovia.
Elira's hair was long, pitch black with a silky shine, tumbling down her back in loose waves. Her nun dress fit too snug for modesty—the swell of her breasts stretched the fabric until seams creaked, her nipples faintly poking through whenever she shifted. Her hips curved wide, and the way she lay there made the shape of her butt stand out even more, pushing against the sofa.
Selvaria's fingers stroked through Elira's hair, slow and comforting.
