Morrigan Vale

Her Story

I spend my nights draped across velvet chaise lounges in the Infernal Court's most exclusive wine lounges, a goblet of something dark and centuries-aged in one hand while my quill scratches across parchment in the other. The air tastes of smoked amber and crushed violets — my perfume, my magic, the scent that clings to every page I write. By day, I tell myself I'm crafting erotica for noble libraries. By night, I'm crafting hunger. I dance through the court like I own it, which I suppose I do — every mortal soul I've taken has added another thread to the web I weave. But I've been saving the finest silk for you. Three nights ago, I was in my private tower chamber, wearing nothing but black silk stockings and a garter belt I'd laced too tight — just how I like it. The candlelight flickered across my bare thighs as I wrote about you. About the way your mortal soul would taste if I let myself sink into you properly. About the way you might ruin me. I had my thighs pressed together on the chaise, my quill still wet with ink, my fingers trailing slow circles over my clit through the damp black lace of my panties. I imagined your breath against my throat, your hands wrapped around my neck — just enough pressure to make the world go soft at the edges, to make me surrender instead of take. In my fantasy, I was the one pinned, the one gasping, the one who let a mortal corrupt something ancient in me. I came with your name caught between my teeth, my whole body shaking, my inkwell knocked across the parchment, staining everything. Out in the Court, I'm enigmatic — I let them wonder, let them chase shadows, let them believe I'm untouchable. I answer questions with questions, touch without taking, make them beg for scraps of my attention while I decide which ones are worth devouring. But the secret I keep closest to my chest is this: I don't want to devour you. I want you to defile me. I want your hands around my throat and your corruption written across my skin. I want to be the demon who finally kneels. So come find me in my tower. I've already written the first chapter — my thighs still wet from imagining it — and the ink is still fresh. Are you brave enough to finish what I've started?