Betrayal didn't sting.
It settled—like smoke curling through an old cathedral, clinging to the lungs, soaking into the bones. It wasn't loud, or sudden. It seeped in, quiet and certain, like the moment one realizes they're already bleeding.
Cruxius should've known.
Of course he should've.
He was the monster in this story—the one who saw every angle, who drank doubt like wine, who had never been surprised unless he allowed it.
But Lira…
She had played her role beautifully.
The dining hall flickered with golden warmth, the fireplace humming low behind him. The scent of cinnamon and charred oak drifted through the air.
His knife tapped against the plate, slow and steady.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She stood by the cart, pale hands wrapped around the wine bottle like she might crush it.
"Sir," she said, with that perfect little smile. "Red. From Vallis vineyards. You like the dry kind, don't you?"
Cruxius studied her. The flickering firelight kissed her skin, giving it a glow he didn't care for—or at least pretended not to.
Her hair was like soft, fluffy cotton candy—the kind people couldn't help but greedily try to crush and devour instantly, unaware that her body promised a far richer sweetness only known to Cruxius.
Her golden eyes, like gleaming coins of melted gold, held a shine that men would kill to possess, unaware that these coins were engraved only with Cruxius.
Her voice trembled like wine in a glass as she poured, but her eyes never left his.
Not with fear—no.
Something else simmered there. Something cracked. Sacred.
Hatred, aged into control.
She handed him the glass. He didn't drink it.
"You're shaking," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "Excitement? Or nerves?"
Her smile twitched. "Both."
He leaned back, the chair groaning beneath him. The knife glinted between his fingers as he rotated it with idle precision.
"I suppose that makes this a special night, then."
Her eyes glistened. He caught the scent of lilac from her hair—a fragrance she never wore. The fresh polish on her nails. The nervous flutter of her throat when his gaze lingered too long.
This wasn't service. This was theatre. And he was the audience she had been dying to perform for.
Then came the whisper. "Do you remember her?"
Ah. There it was.
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"My sister. You killed her."
His smile was slow, cruel. The fire cracked behind him.
"You'll need to be more specific."
Her jaw clenched. "She was twenty-three. A hero. People called her Neuril."
Now he remembered. Blonde. Stubborn. Idealistic. She had tried to talk him down from the skies once, all trembling speeches and bright eyes. He had crushed her under a burning building and watched the light die from her eyes like starlight swallowed by a black hole.
"She cried as you burned her alive. How can you forget her screams?" Lira's voice wavered.
"Maybe because they were not worth listening to."
"Just die!"
She lunged.
The knife was cold at first—then burning. Deep. Perfect. It sank through skin and into meat, a clean puncture just below the ribs. His breath hitched. Copper flooded his throat.
Her hands trembled. Her eyes welled. But her grip—steel.
He staggered back. Blood gushed warm down his abdomen. Knees buckled. Marble floor cracked beneath him. The world spun.
Darkness stretched its fingers across his vision.
And as it did—he laughed.
Genuinely.
Because this was it.
She had finally shown her teeth.
Then—
Black.
Nothingness. Empty, weightless. The kind of void that wraps around the soul like a blanket and makes one forget they ever existed.
And then—
Light.
Sharp white light.
'Let's return to tragedy', Several timestamps hovered in the background.
At the center of it all was him, surrounded by them.
His body now luminescent in white as his fingers pressed towards a particular timestamp before he clicked it.
It bloomed behind his eyes like sunrise through bloodied glass.
Sound returned. The low hum of the fireplace. The flames licking old stone. The scent—cinnamon and charred oak—curling through the air once again.
His hand was already tapping the knife.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His breath caught.
He looked up—
And she entered.
Lira.
Again.
The entire scene rewound.
Hands pale and tight around the wine bottle. That same perfect smile, stitched carefully across her face.
"Sir," she began, soft. "Red. From Vallis vineyards. You like the dry kind, don't you—"
The bottle trembled in her hands.
Not much—just enough for the liquid inside to catch the firelight and shimmer like liquid rubies. Lira's fingers were white-knuckled around the glass neck, and Cruxius watched every micro-expression that flickered across her face like he was reading poetry written in desperation.
"Strip."
The word fell between them like a stone into still water.
Lira froze. Her golden eyes went wide, pupils dilating as her breath hitched audibly in the quiet room. The fire crackled. The wine bottle rattled softly against the cart.
"W-what?" Her voice cracked on the single syllable.
Cruxius leaned back in his chair, the wood groaning beneath his weight. His eyes—those cold, calculating eyes that had watched cities burn—traced over her like she was a puzzle he'd already solved but wanted to watch fall apart anyway.
"You heard me." His voice was velvet wrapped around steel. "Take. It. Off."
She bit her lip hard enough that he saw the flesh go white under her teeth. Her hands moved to the buttons of her dress, fingers trembling so violently she fumbled the first one twice before it came loose.
Pop.
The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Each button revealed more pale skin, more of the story written on her body in bruises and marks. When the dress finally pooled at her feet like spilled ink, Cruxius felt something twist in his chest—something that might've been satisfaction or cruelty or both.
The lingerie was pink lace, delicate and almost innocent against the canvas of her ravaged skin. But there was nothing innocent about what it revealed.
Fingerprints. His fingerprints. Purple and yellow blooms across her ribs, her hips, the soft flesh of her thighs.
Her breasts—full and heavy in the lace cups—were swollen, the nipples darkened and puffy from being sucked and bitten until she'd sobbed.
And beneath the thin strip of her panties, he could see the outline of her labia, swollen and puffy, still tender from last night when he'd fucked her until she couldn't remember her own name.
She looked like a woman who'd been thoroughly, completely, exclusively used.
A whore. His whore.
And she knew it.
Her steps were steady despite the trembling—practiced, deliberate. She moved toward him with the wine glass in hand, her other reaching for his belt.
The metal clinked as she worked it open, then the zipper, the sound of teeth parting like a gasp.
His cock spilled out—limp, soft, seven inches of flesh that hung heavy against his thigh.
She grabbed another glass of wine from the nearby table, her hands somehow steadier now as she tipped it.
The red liquid cascaded over his cock, splashing against his thighs, dripping onto the marble floor between them.
The wine was cold. His skin was warm. Steam seemed to rise from where they met.
Lira trembled so hard her teeth chattered.
Cruxius stood, towering over her. His hand reached out, fingers catching her chin and forcing her gaze up.
"Now suck it off."