"Hahh—! Master—! Ah—! Hngh—!" she moaned. The sounds came with each thrust. Each slap of flesh on flesh. Each impact of his hips against her ass.

"Indeed," Raven said. His voice was breathless now. Slightly. The first crack in the calm. "What a bastard."

Old Tomas heard the kissing.

The wet, sloppy sound of mouths meeting. Of tongues tangling. Of lips sealing and breath mingling. He heard his granddaughter’s muffled moans—broken, swallowed, pushed back down her throat by a tongue that was deeper than her own.

PAH PAH PAH—

"Mmph—! Hngh—! Hahh—!" Sera’s moans were muffled. Broken. Half-swallowed by the kiss. Her body was moving on the table—the creaking was rhythmic now, the table protesting the thrusting, the sheets bunching, the oil warmers rattling on the shelf.

The sounds continued.

For an hour.

Old Tomas stood. Blindfolded. In his massage chamber. Listening to his granddaughter being fucked on his massage table. By a devil. Who had just asked him to teach him to massage. Who had called him a good grandfather. Who had made his granddaughter call him Master and husband.

He listened to the thrusts. To the slaps. To the moans. To the wet, obscene, relentless sounds of a cock in an anal, of flesh on flesh, of a woman’s body being used and filled and broken.

He listened.

And he waited.

After an hour, Raven came out.

He walked out of the massage chamber. His coat was on. His boots were on. His cock was hanging—soft now, spent, the head dark, the shaft glistening. He walked past Old Tomas without looking at him.

He hung his tail.

Not a metaphor. A tail. Old Tomas heard the sound—a soft, heavy, leathery sound. Like something being draped over a hook. He did not ask. He did not want to know.

Inside the chamber, Sera was on the table. Face down. Her ass was up. Her anal was gaping—swollen, dark, recently fucked. Her pussy was dripping—clear fluid, running down her thighs. Her hair was a mess—tangled, damp, spread across the table. Her face was turned to the side. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was open. Her tongue was out. She was breathing in short, sharp gasps.

She looked like a frog.

Her legs were spread. Her arms were at her sides. Her back was arched. Her ass was raised. She was lying in a pool of oil and sweat and her own juice. The sheets were ruined. The table was creaking. The room smelled of sex and lavender and sandalwood.

She was licking her fingers.

She was licking his seed from her fingers. The thick, white fluid was on her hand—on her knuckles, on her palm, between her fingers. She was cleaning them. One by one. Sucking each finger. Her eyes were half-closed. Her cheeks were flushed. The drug was still in her system. The arousal was still there.

Old Tomas pulled off his blindfold.

He looked at Raven.

"I have never seen her be interested in something else than sword," Old Tomas said. His voice was hollow. Empty. The voice of a man who has lost something and does not know what to replace it with. "What have you done to her?"

Raven looked at him.

His violet eyes were calm. Still. The same calm they had been in the beginning. The same calm they would be at the end. The calm of a man who is always in control, who is never surprised, who moves through the world like a blade through water.

"Nothing," he said. "Just some works I needed to be done."

He paused.

"Now," he said. "I want you to introduce me to the queen. As her massage guy."

Old Tomas trembled.

His hands shook. His jaw clenched. His eyes—old, tired, broken—narrowed. The pieces fell into place. The puzzle that had been forming since the man walked into his bathroom—since he had seen the violet eyes through the fogged glass, since he had heard his granddaughter say "Master," since he had been asked to teach massage—all of it clicked.

"So your aim was her," Old Tomas said. His voice was low. Dangerous. The voice of a man who has been played and who knows it. "The First Queen. I knew it. You bastard."

Raven looked at him.

He did not deny it. He did not confirm it. He simply looked. With those violet eyes. Calm. Still.

"Don’t you want me to go away from your granddaughter?" he said. His voice was quiet. Gentle. The voice of a man offering a deal. "You want me to keep fucking her like that?"

Old Tomas reached for the cane.

The walking stick that sat by the door. The one he used when his back was bad. His hand closed around the wood. He lifted it. His arm trembled. He wanted to swing it. He wanted to bring it down on the devil’s head. He wanted to break it across those violet eyes.

He could not.

His arm would not swing. His body would not move. Not because of magic. Not because of fear. Because he knew—knew with the certainty of sixty-three years of life—that swinging the cane would change nothing. That the devil would erase it. Or erase him. Or erase the house. And his granddaughter would still be on the table. Still covered in seed. Still moaning. Still calling him Master.

"Fine," Old Tomas said. The word was a death. "I will introduce you."

He lowered the cane.

"But you have to promise," he said. His voice was shaking. Breaking. "You will not come after my granddaughter. You will not touch her. You will not—"

He could not finish.

Raven looked at him.

"It is my word," he said. "I will not approach her."

Old Tomas looked at him.

He looked at the violet eyes. At the calm face. At the mouth that had just made a promise that sounded like truth and felt like a lie.

He looked behind Raven.

At the massage chamber door. Through the open door. At the table. At the woman lying on it. At his granddaughter—lying like a frog, her ass up, her anal gaping, her pussy dripping, her tongue licking seed from her fingers.

Her eyes were open. She was looking at Raven. At his back. At his hair. At his coat. Her eyes were wet. Her lips were parted. Her expression was the expression of a woman who has been thoroughly fucked and is already wanting more.

Old Tomas turned.

He walked toward the door. His back was bent. His cane was in his hand. His steps were slow. Heavy. The steps of an old man carrying a weight he cannot put down.

He did not look back.

Raven watched him go.

He watched the old man’s back. The bent spine. The trembling shoulders. The cane tapping on the stone. He watched him disappear through the door.

He looked behind him.

At Sera. At the table. At the lying woman. At her wet eyes. At her parted lips. At her tongue on her fingers. At the seed on her chin. At the gaping anal. At the dripping pussy. At the dark hair, tangled and damp. At the muscles of her back, gleaming with oil. At the calloused soles of her feet, curling against the sheets.

He thought:

’But who knows she will?’