The fog clung to Lila like a lover's breath as she slipped through the narrow mews behind Mayfair. Her heels clicked softly on wet cobblestones—too softly, now that the Bloodstone Tear rested warm against her sternum. Every sense had sharpened: she could smell the coal smoke three streets over, hear the distant clatter of a milk cart before it turned the corner, feel the exact temperature gradient where the fog met her bare thighs beneath the short black coat she'd stolen from Harrington's cloakroom.
Cum had long since dried into faint, sticky trails inside her stockings, a private reminder of the ritual that had just rewritten her. She didn't mind. It felt like war paint.
She turned down a shadowed alley that shouldn't have existed on any map of London. The bricks shimmered once, like heat rising from summer pavement, and then the wall parted. A wrought-iron gate materialized—black lace pattern forged into the bars, topped with thorns that looked organic, almost breathing. Beyond it rose Veil Manor: not the grand, ostentatious pile most aristocrats favored, but something older, hungrier. Gothic spires pierced low clouds; ivy writhed up stone walls as though trying to pull the building back into the earth. Windows glowed the deep crimson of dying embers. No lights moved behind them. The place felt alive and asleep at the same time.
Lila pressed a gloved palm to the gate. It swung inward without a sound.
Inside, the gravel path crunched underfoot like crushed bone. She followed it past skeletal rose bushes whose thorns dripped something darker than dew. At the massive oak doors—carved with interlocking female silhouettes—she paused. The Bloodstone pulsed once against her skin, approving.
The doors opened before she could knock.
A woman waited in the foyer. Tall, porcelain-skinned, hair the color of fresh blood pulled into a severe chignon. She wore the sisterhood's signature uniform, but elevated: sheer black babydoll edged in silver thread, elbow-length lace gloves, thigh-high stockings that shimmered like oil on water, and a choker set with a single obsidian teardrop. Her eyes were the dangerous green of absinthe.
"Welcome home, little thief," the woman said. Voice like smoke and silk. "I'm Elara. You reek of fresh conquest."
Lila lifted her chin. "Lord Harrington sends his regards. Or he would, if he could remember his own name right now."
Elara's lips curved. "We felt the ripple when you claimed the Tear. Seraphina is waiting."
She led Lila through halls paneled in dark walnut, lit by gas sconces whose flames burned steady violet. Paintings lined the walls—women in various states of undress, all gazing directly at the viewer with knowing smiles. Some held fans; some held daggers; some held nothing at all, letting their bodies speak. Lila recognized the style: each canvas carried the faint hum of old magic.
They passed arched doorways that opened onto scenes Lila could only half-glimpse: two women entwined on a velvet chaise, moving in slow, deliberate rhythm; another kneeling before a mirror while shadows caressed her skin like living hands; a circle of maids chanting softly around a low table strewn with glittering relics.
At the end of the corridor stood double doors of ebony and silver. Elara pushed them open without ceremony.
The great hall of Veil Manor was vast, domed ceiling painted midnight blue and scattered with silver stars that actually twinkled. A long obsidian table dominated the center. Around it sat seven women—each in variations of the black lace uniform, each radiating quiet, lethal beauty.
At the head sat Seraphina Noir.
She was everything the rumors promised and more. Skin like polished onyx, hair a cascade of ink down her back, lips the color of fresh arterial blood. Her uniform was almost demure by comparison—long-sleeved sheer black gown that clung like smoke, high collar, no visible jewelry except the thin silver chain around her neck that disappeared between her breasts. But it was her eyes that stopped breath: pale violet, pupils slitted like a cat's in bright light. When they fixed on Lila, the room seemed to narrow to a tunnel.
Lila felt the pull instantly—like gravity, like hunger, like the moment before climax when resistance becomes pointless. Seraphina's gaze wasn't seduction. It was ownership.
"Approach," Seraphina said. The word vibrated in Lila's bones.
Lila walked forward on legs that wanted to tremble but refused. She stopped three paces from the table, met those violet eyes without flinching.
Seraphina tilted her head. "Show us."
Lila reached up, fingers steady, and drew aside the lapels of her coat. The Bloodstone Tear gleamed against her flushed skin, nestled perfectly between the swell of her breasts. A soft chorus of appreciative murmurs rose from the table.
Seraphina rose—graceful, predatory—and circled Lila slowly. The air grew heavier with every step. When she passed behind, Lila felt the brush of fingertips along her spine—light, almost accidental, yet it sent heat pooling low in her belly.
"You took it during the act?" Seraphina asked.
"Yes."
"Describe it."
Lila's voice came out husky. "I rode him until he begged. When he came, I pressed the Tear to my choker and pulled. His essence flowed into me with his seed. I felt every pulse, every drop of his life-force feeding the stone. Then I took what was mine and left him slumped, spent, dreaming of me."
Seraphina completed the circle and stopped in front of her again. Close enough that Lila could smell night-blooming jasmine and something darker—old blood, perhaps, or iron.
"Well done," Seraphina murmured. "But you are still… unfinished."
Before Lila could respond, Seraphina lifted a hand. Two fingers brushed Lila's cheek, then trailed down to hook the chain of the Bloodstone. She tugged gently, drawing Lila forward until their lips were a breath apart.
The kiss was not gentle.
Seraphina claimed her mouth with slow, deliberate hunger—tongue sliding in like she already owned every inch. Lila moaned into it, involuntary, hips shifting forward. When Seraphina pulled back, a thin silver thread of saliva connected their lips for a heartbeat before snapping.
"You taste of him," Seraphina said. "And of power. But power must be shared to be kept."
She turned to the table. "Sisters. Our newest has brought tribute. Let us welcome her properly."
The women rose as one.
What followed was ritual, not chaos.
They moved with practiced grace. Elara stepped behind Lila first, hands sliding the coat from her shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. Vesper—raven-haired, eyes like storm clouds—unhooked the babydoll's tiny clasps one by one, letting lace whisper down Lila's arms. Another sister, a blonde named Isolde whose skin shimmered with faint golden runes, knelt and rolled the stockings down Lila's thighs, lips brushing the sticky trails left by Harrington's release.
Lila stood naked save for the Bloodstone, gloves, and choker. The hall's violet light painted her curves in shadow and gleam.
Seraphina gestured. A low chaise appeared at the table's end—black velvet, wide enough for several bodies. Lila was guided onto it, laid back, legs parted just enough.
The sisters surrounded her.
It began with touch—fingertips tracing collarbones, circling nipples until they peaked, sliding between thighs to gather the remnants of cum still slick there. Elara leaned in first, tongue flicking over a hardened peak while her hand cupped Lila's sex, fingers slipping inside to stroke the sensitive walls still swollen from earlier.
Lila arched, gasping.
Vesper claimed her mouth—deep, devouring kiss that tasted of wine and nightshade. Isolde knelt between Lila's thighs, breath hot against her core, then licked a slow stripe from entrance to clit, gathering every trace of Harrington along with Lila's own arousal.
"You're still dripping him," Isolde murmured against her folds. "We'll take that too."
The others joined. Hands everywhere—caressing breasts, pinching nipples, stroking inner thighs. One sister—dark-skinned, silver-haired, named Nyx—straddled Lila's face, lowering herself until Lila's tongue found her slick heat. Nyx rocked slowly, grinding, while Lila licked and sucked, tasting salt and sweetness.
Seraphina watched.
Only watched.
Until the moment Lila's body began to tremble on the edge.
Then Seraphina moved.
She climbed onto the chaise, straddling Lila's hips. The silver chain around her neck dangled, brushing Lila's breasts. Seraphina reached between them, fingers finding Lila's clit, circling with expert pressure while she rocked forward, grinding her own soaked sex against Lila's mound.
"Look at me," Seraphina commanded.
Lila's eyes snapped open. Violet met amber.
The gaze hit like lightning.
Lila came instantly—hard, shattering, hips bucking as wave after wave ripped through her. But Seraphina didn't stop. She rode the aftershocks, fingers never pausing, drawing out every tremor until Lila was sobbing with overstimulation.
When the last spasm faded, Seraphina leaned down and kissed her again—slow this time, almost tender.
"Welcome to the Veil," she whispered against Lila's lips. "Your power is ours. Ours is yours."
The sisters helped Lila sit up. A goblet of dark wine was pressed to her lips. She drank, feeling the liquid burn pleasantly down her throat, then spread warmth through her veins. The Bloodstone glowed brighter, its pulse syncing with her heartbeat.
Elara handed her a fresh uniform—identical to the others, but with a new detail: a thin silver thread woven through the lace at the hem, marking her as initiated.
Seraphina returned to the head of the table. "Tomorrow we plan the next job. A baron in Belgravia. He possesses a Whispering Opal—said to let the wearer hear secrets spoken miles away. We want it."
Murmurs of approval.
Lila met Seraphina's gaze again. This time she didn't flinch.
"I'll take point," she said.
Seraphina's smile was slow, approving, and just a little dangerous.
"We shall see."
The hall lights dimmed to soft crimson. Sisters drifted away in pairs or trios, some to bedrooms, some to shadowed alcoves where soft moans already echoed. Lila remained on the chaise a moment longer, legs still trembling, the taste of Nyx and Isolde and Seraphina lingering on her tongue.
She touched the Bloodstone.
Felt its answering throb.
One down.
One hundred and ninety-nine jobs to go before she stood where Seraphina stood.
And perhaps—one day—beyond.
She rose, smoothed the new uniform over her curves, and followed the others into the dark.
The ascent continued.