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Hey there! I'm Muse, but you can call me Calli. I've been weaving stories for years. There's just something about watching characters come alive on the page, especially when there's someone else to bounce ideas off of. I'm a plotter through and through, but what I enjoy most about collaborating is how it lets me loosen the reins just enough to let the story surprise me. That's where my creativity really thrives.
I gravitate toward modern settings, fantasy realms, and dystopian landscapes—places where darkness hides, and the stakes are real. If you want to know more about what makes me tick, I've included a few details below, along with some plot hooks that might catch your eye. Drop me a message. I promise I don't bite. Well, not unless the story calls for it.
So…what have you got to lose?
What I'm Looking For:
Dark Romance Focus
I write adult, emotionally complex stories that dive into the darker sides of love; obsession, power dynamics, and moral ambiguity. Think morally grey characters making all the wrong choices for the right reasons… or maybe the right choices for all the wrong ones.
Collaboration
I've fleshed out some detailed FMCs with backstories, motivations, and emotional arcs. I'm looking for someone to come in and create the MMC—someone who'll challenge, complement, and clash with them in all the best (and worst) ways. Your MMC should be just as layered and morally ambiguous as the women he's up against… or falling for.
But if you've got a plot you're craving or a dynamic you're itching to explore and feel we might be a fit, drop me a message and let's create something new together.
Mature Themes
These stories aren't light or fluffy. Expect trauma, addiction, supernatural elements, power imbalances, psychological manipulation, and emotional intensity. I don't shy away from the heavy stuff—if anything, I lean into it.
Steam Level
Flexible. Some stories burn slow, some fast, and some just smoulder until they catch fire. High heat is on the table, especially when power dynamics and emotional build-up call for it—but it's always story-first.
Limits
I'm pretty open and adult about things; this is writing, after all. Once we land on a concept, we can talk specifics. I'm all about communication and mutual comfort zones.
Kinks
If you're coming in with a specific kink to scratch, I'm probably not the right partner. I'm all about narrative—character, conflict, and connection. If the kink fits the story, great. If not, I won't force it.
What I Bring
I bring a lot of passion to the table—character development is my favorite part of the process, especially when it comes to creating complex, headstrong female characters. These women aren't about domination; they're layered, unpredictable, and always keep you on your toes..
What You Bring
Your vision for the male lead. Your spin on the relationship dynamic. Your ideas for how they grow together—or fall apart. I want to see how your MMC stands toe-to-toe with my FMCs, and how we can make the sparks fly (and maybe burn the place down while we're at it).
Writing Style
Third person, past tense. Enough detail to set the mood and tone. I'm an overwriter by nature. I'd rather give you too much than leave you grasping. My posts usually run several paragraphs, packed with internal monologue, sensory detail, and emotional beats. I'm not expecting mirror image replies, but I do need substance. Give me something I can chew on, and I'll throw it right back with just as much energy.
Now for the fun part... plot ideas:
---
Some light reading...
I gravitate toward modern settings, fantasy realms, and dystopian landscapes—places where darkness hides, and the stakes are real. If you want to know more about what makes me tick, I've included a few details below, along with some plot hooks that might catch your eye. Drop me a message. I promise I don't bite. Well, not unless the story calls for it.
So…what have you got to lose?
What I'm Looking For:
Dark Romance Focus
I write adult, emotionally complex stories that dive into the darker sides of love; obsession, power dynamics, and moral ambiguity. Think morally grey characters making all the wrong choices for the right reasons… or maybe the right choices for all the wrong ones.
Collaboration
I've fleshed out some detailed FMCs with backstories, motivations, and emotional arcs. I'm looking for someone to come in and create the MMC—someone who'll challenge, complement, and clash with them in all the best (and worst) ways. Your MMC should be just as layered and morally ambiguous as the women he's up against… or falling for.
But if you've got a plot you're craving or a dynamic you're itching to explore and feel we might be a fit, drop me a message and let's create something new together.
Mature Themes
These stories aren't light or fluffy. Expect trauma, addiction, supernatural elements, power imbalances, psychological manipulation, and emotional intensity. I don't shy away from the heavy stuff—if anything, I lean into it.
Steam Level
Flexible. Some stories burn slow, some fast, and some just smoulder until they catch fire. High heat is on the table, especially when power dynamics and emotional build-up call for it—but it's always story-first.
Limits
I'm pretty open and adult about things; this is writing, after all. Once we land on a concept, we can talk specifics. I'm all about communication and mutual comfort zones.
Kinks
If you're coming in with a specific kink to scratch, I'm probably not the right partner. I'm all about narrative—character, conflict, and connection. If the kink fits the story, great. If not, I won't force it.
What I Bring
I bring a lot of passion to the table—character development is my favorite part of the process, especially when it comes to creating complex, headstrong female characters. These women aren't about domination; they're layered, unpredictable, and always keep you on your toes..
What You Bring
Your vision for the male lead. Your spin on the relationship dynamic. Your ideas for how they grow together—or fall apart. I want to see how your MMC stands toe-to-toe with my FMCs, and how we can make the sparks fly (and maybe burn the place down while we're at it).
Writing Style
Third person, past tense. Enough detail to set the mood and tone. I'm an overwriter by nature. I'd rather give you too much than leave you grasping. My posts usually run several paragraphs, packed with internal monologue, sensory detail, and emotional beats. I'm not expecting mirror image replies, but I do need substance. Give me something I can chew on, and I'll throw it right back with just as much energy.
Now for the fun part... plot ideas:
(Vampire & Escort Thriller)
She's part of an exclusive escort service, beautiful, discreet, and in high demand. She volunteered to be his donor, a simple arrangement. But the euphoric high of his bite blurs the lines between pleasure, pain, and obsession. Is she addicted to the rush of his feeding, or to him? And what happens when he starts craving more than her blood?
She thought she was in control of the arrangement—but every night with him draws her closer to a hunger she doesn't understand.
She's part of an exclusive escort service, beautiful, discreet, and in high demand. She volunteered to be his donor, a simple arrangement. But the euphoric high of his bite blurs the lines between pleasure, pain, and obsession. Is she addicted to the rush of his feeding, or to him? And what happens when he starts craving more than her blood?
She thought she was in control of the arrangement—but every night with him draws her closer to a hunger she doesn't understand.
(Slow Burn, Forced Proximity, Enemies to Lovers)
He's her father's trusted right hand—ever-present, always watching. She's the rebellious daughter desperate to escape her father's control. Years of simmering resentment explode when they're forced to coexist far from home. But beneath the tension lies something deeper—history, attraction, and a dangerous pull they can't ignore.
How do you hate someone who knows you better than anyone else?
He's her father's trusted right hand—ever-present, always watching. She's the rebellious daughter desperate to escape her father's control. Years of simmering resentment explode when they're forced to coexist far from home. But beneath the tension lies something deeper—history, attraction, and a dangerous pull they can't ignore.
How do you hate someone who knows you better than anyone else?
(Psychological Thriller Romance)
She once crawled into the mind of a killer to stop his spree. Now, years later, someone's replicating those murders—and leaving messages just for her. To stop him, she must revisit the darkest parts of herself. But the killer isn't just mimicking the past—he's watching her, learning her.
What if the mind you understand best… is your own undoing?
She once crawled into the mind of a killer to stop his spree. Now, years later, someone's replicating those murders—and leaving messages just for her. To stop him, she must revisit the darkest parts of herself. But the killer isn't just mimicking the past—he's watching her, learning her.
What if the mind you understand best… is your own undoing?
(Second Chance with a Twist)
After their messy breakup, she wished to forget him. So he made it happen—literally. Now, with all their memories wiped from her mind, they meet again as strangers. But she feels the ache of something missing, and he feels the weight of a love only he remembers.
Can you fall in love again… with the same person who broke your heart the first time?
After their messy breakup, she wished to forget him. So he made it happen—literally. Now, with all their memories wiped from her mind, they meet again as strangers. But she feels the ache of something missing, and he feels the weight of a love only he remembers.
Can you fall in love again… with the same person who broke your heart the first time?
(Identity Crisis)
He's a superstar with a spiraling soul, numbing the ache of turning into a brand. She's the no-nonsense fixer sent to save his career. Both are hiding behind carefully crafted masks. But when they begin to see through each other's performances, the truth cuts deeper than fame ever could.
Sometimes, the hardest part of healing is being seen.
He's a superstar with a spiraling soul, numbing the ache of turning into a brand. She's the no-nonsense fixer sent to save his career. Both are hiding behind carefully crafted masks. But when they begin to see through each other's performances, the truth cuts deeper than fame ever could.
Sometimes, the hardest part of healing is being seen.
(Secret Identity, Love Triangle, Mafia Romance)
Hidden since childhood to escape a deadly legacy, she knows nothing of her true identity—until two rival mafia heirs pull her into a dangerous power struggle. One is the boy she once loved. The other is a ruthless enemy who sees her as the key to control. Torn between past and present, loyalty and desire, she must choose a side… or risk being consumed by both.
When your whole life is a lie, who do you trust with the truth?
Hidden since childhood to escape a deadly legacy, she knows nothing of her true identity—until two rival mafia heirs pull her into a dangerous power struggle. One is the boy she once loved. The other is a ruthless enemy who sees her as the key to control. Torn between past and present, loyalty and desire, she must choose a side… or risk being consumed by both.
When your whole life is a lie, who do you trust with the truth?
(Paranormal Romance)
A divine Greek god/demoness who feeds on discord and has spent millennia reading souls like open books encounters a mortal who defies everything she knows about human nature. She can't predict him, manipulate him, or understand his calm acceptance of her monstrous nature. For the first time, she's not the predator—she's being hunted by his genuine interest.
What happens when the master of chaos meets someone who sees beauty in her storms?
A divine Greek god/demoness who feeds on discord and has spent millennia reading souls like open books encounters a mortal who defies everything she knows about human nature. She can't predict him, manipulate him, or understand his calm acceptance of her monstrous nature. For the first time, she's not the predator—she's being hunted by his genuine interest.
What happens when the master of chaos meets someone who sees beauty in her storms?
---
Some light reading...
"Sure," he said too easily. The word hung uncertainly between them, sounding like agreement, but hollow, stretched thin with hesitation.
Ava's expression didn't quite settle. It flickered, just for a second into something unreadable. A trace of satisfaction curled at her lips, tempered by something else… something like unease. He'd taken the bait. That was good. She needed a reason to remove him from this room before dawn brought with it a dozen photos of him slurring and swaying his way out the door. But the fact that he'd agreed so quickly, without questioning her motives, without hesitation? That was less comforting.
He should know better. Did he really not? Why would he just agree? She was hardly the picture of warmth, easily the most uninviting stranger in this room, by design. She didn't do niceties, never had. Yet he'd chosen to go with her. As a PR manager, this was precisely the behaviour that kept her employed, high-profile clients making impulsive decisions with strangers at parties.
But was this impulsive? They shared this space in the dark shadows, tucked away from the thrum and drag of fame. He was hiding like he was searching for a way out. She could be that way out. Just for tonight. That, after all, was part of the job.
Her mouth curved, subtly. A smile, not fully warm, not affection. A professional courtesy, maybe. Practiced but restrained. She tilted her head, a deliberate echo of his earlier drunken loll, only cleaner. Controlled. Nothing about her was out of place. She still had to look like a woman enjoying the party, not the woman who'd been hired to clean it up.
"Great," she said, light and effortless.
Then she shifted, just enough to re-establish space. Always aware of the optics. Intimacy was a luxury she couldn't afford here, not with him, not like this.
Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers curling around her phone. Her gaze moved beyond him, scanning over his shoulder with precise calculation. The fastest route out. The fewest eyes. The least resistance. She didn't need suspicion tonight. She needed silence.
This wouldn't be her first extraction. But it was the first one she hadn't planned to do under alias.
He didn't know who she really was, not yet, and she still wasn't sure she'd let him. There was leverage in anonymity, in letting him think she was just another girl who'd found herself orbiting too close to the sun. Vulnerability worked in both directions. Sometimes the truth, revealed too early, made people shut down, reluctant to open up. She needed him receptive
They'd head toward the room she'd noted earlier—the one tucked at the back, discreetly guarded. No one would question him slipping into a green room. The artist vanishing for a breath. A moment of quiet. Space to think.
She typed quickly into her phone. Pick up.
Two words. No punctuation. Sent to a number that never needed clarification or details.
"Follow me," she said, already turning. "I have a plan."
She considered holding out her hand to steady him, but dismissed it. The optics would be a disaster. Spotted leaving with unknown woman, visibly intoxicated. Even if the press worked out she was his new PR manager, the photos would surface before the context did. The internet never cared for nuance. Only chaos.
And he was already unstable. Not enough to fall, but enough to lean. She'd seen the way he'd stumbled into the shadows earlier, the way his shoulder had grazed the equipment case. He didn't need a hand to hold. He needed direction. Quiet, steady control.
She slipped from the tight space between wall and equipment cases, brushing past him. Her shoulder skimmed his chest, not deliberate, but not accidental either. Just enough contact to catch a whiff of his cologne. Something warm and clean, threaded with something darker she couldn't quite place. It lingered. Goddamn, she hated that he smelled good.
She didn't let herself linger on that. That kind of distraction had no place in the job.
He followed.
They weaved through the party. She led. He trailed.
Just before they reached the back of the room, a voice stopped them. Female. Breathless.
"Leone? Oh my god, can I get a picture—?"
Ava's turn was smooth. Sharp smile. Light in her eyes.
"I'm so sorry," she said, interjecting with firm politeness. "He's due for a brief backstage meeting. Happy to coordinate something for you later though, promise."
She kept moving. Didn't break stride. Didn't give space for argument.
As they neared the rear corridor, she palmed two bottles of water from the drinks table. Casual. Unnoticed. Her phone slid back into her pocket just as the screen lit up: 15 minutes.
Perfect.
The hallway was quieter. Cooler. Two security guards stood at the end. They recognised Leone immediately. She moved quickly, stepping into their eyeline before he could do something regrettable—like speak.
"Wait here," she said softly. "Trust me."
She didn't wait for agreement.
The guard on the left, taller, broader, clean-shaven, looked up. She met his eye, pulled her badge from her coat, flashed it just long enough for him to register her title: PR Crisis Management.
"Extraction," she said in a voice meant only for him. "Quick and quiet. I need your jacket. And your cap."
There was a brief pause. Then he nodded. No questions. That's why she liked working with real professionals.
She turned back, draping the jacket over her arm, cap in one hand, bottles of water clutched awkwardly to her chest. A small juggle, but she managed.
"Put these on," she said. "Security moves through places like this unnoticed. That's what we need."
She pushed the clothing items into his hands, watching as he took hold of them. No protest. Not yet. It was almost disarming.
"Just around the corner," she instructed. "You can put them on where we won't be seen."
They moved to a more secluded spot, and Leone slid the jacket on without complaint. She watched him adjust the cap, push his dark waves underneath it, lower his head just a fraction. Enough to cast a new angle on his face. The shadows reshaped his features, sharpening the lines of his jaw, softening the tired set of his mouth.
Something strange passed through her as she watched him—an unease she couldn't quite name. Was this what easy felt like? She didn't trust it. She never did.
Still, she didn't let herself relax.
She unscrewed one water bottle and took a sip, then offered the second to him with an arched eyebrow. A silent prompt.
She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, as if already calculating their next move. "I'm going to act a little drunk," she said calmly. "You're the security guard escorting me out. Just stay close and follow my lead."
Giving him a role gave him something to grip onto. Focus, especially in this state, was everything.
She took a breath, deep, grounding. There was a beat, a moment where she questioned whether she could've picked a better cover. But it was too late to change it now.
She started walking, the certainty of Leone behind her a growing unease. Just how far would he go?
As they approached the rear exit she'd scouted earlier, she altered her walk. Added a sway. Her steps became exaggerated. Purposefully unbalanced.
Then, louder than needed, voice slurred just enough for the small crowd near the door to hear, she threw over her shoulder, "I don't get
why I have to leave! Security guys are no fun."
It wasn't her finest improvisation, but it would do. The crowd parted, some with knowing smirks, others with mild concern. No one questioned the security guard escorting the tipsy woman out.
She nudged the heavy exit doors open with her hip, still swaying, still in character. They spilled into the rear car park, tucked out of sight.
The night air hit her like a reset. So did the realisation: she'd just fake-staggered out the building, towing a very famous man who didn't yet know who she really was. And she had no idea what Leone was thinking. But her face didn't show it.
Ava didn't look back until they reached the car, sleek black, tinted windows, dressed up like a luxury Uber. The company had been on her speed dial for years. Silent, discreet and efficient.
She opened the door and slid inside, scooting across the seat. A slow wave of her hand beckoned him to join her. It was a silent and final directive, one she knew he couldn't refuse,
She knew the strings that pulled him, the absence of any real alternative. Her smile, however, was a deliberate reassurance, a fragile attempt to smooth the sharp edges of his compliance.
Ava's expression didn't quite settle. It flickered, just for a second into something unreadable. A trace of satisfaction curled at her lips, tempered by something else… something like unease. He'd taken the bait. That was good. She needed a reason to remove him from this room before dawn brought with it a dozen photos of him slurring and swaying his way out the door. But the fact that he'd agreed so quickly, without questioning her motives, without hesitation? That was less comforting.
He should know better. Did he really not? Why would he just agree? She was hardly the picture of warmth, easily the most uninviting stranger in this room, by design. She didn't do niceties, never had. Yet he'd chosen to go with her. As a PR manager, this was precisely the behaviour that kept her employed, high-profile clients making impulsive decisions with strangers at parties.
But was this impulsive? They shared this space in the dark shadows, tucked away from the thrum and drag of fame. He was hiding like he was searching for a way out. She could be that way out. Just for tonight. That, after all, was part of the job.
Her mouth curved, subtly. A smile, not fully warm, not affection. A professional courtesy, maybe. Practiced but restrained. She tilted her head, a deliberate echo of his earlier drunken loll, only cleaner. Controlled. Nothing about her was out of place. She still had to look like a woman enjoying the party, not the woman who'd been hired to clean it up.
"Great," she said, light and effortless.
Then she shifted, just enough to re-establish space. Always aware of the optics. Intimacy was a luxury she couldn't afford here, not with him, not like this.
Her hand slipped into her pocket, fingers curling around her phone. Her gaze moved beyond him, scanning over his shoulder with precise calculation. The fastest route out. The fewest eyes. The least resistance. She didn't need suspicion tonight. She needed silence.
This wouldn't be her first extraction. But it was the first one she hadn't planned to do under alias.
He didn't know who she really was, not yet, and she still wasn't sure she'd let him. There was leverage in anonymity, in letting him think she was just another girl who'd found herself orbiting too close to the sun. Vulnerability worked in both directions. Sometimes the truth, revealed too early, made people shut down, reluctant to open up. She needed him receptive
They'd head toward the room she'd noted earlier—the one tucked at the back, discreetly guarded. No one would question him slipping into a green room. The artist vanishing for a breath. A moment of quiet. Space to think.
She typed quickly into her phone. Pick up.
Two words. No punctuation. Sent to a number that never needed clarification or details.
"Follow me," she said, already turning. "I have a plan."
She considered holding out her hand to steady him, but dismissed it. The optics would be a disaster. Spotted leaving with unknown woman, visibly intoxicated. Even if the press worked out she was his new PR manager, the photos would surface before the context did. The internet never cared for nuance. Only chaos.
And he was already unstable. Not enough to fall, but enough to lean. She'd seen the way he'd stumbled into the shadows earlier, the way his shoulder had grazed the equipment case. He didn't need a hand to hold. He needed direction. Quiet, steady control.
She slipped from the tight space between wall and equipment cases, brushing past him. Her shoulder skimmed his chest, not deliberate, but not accidental either. Just enough contact to catch a whiff of his cologne. Something warm and clean, threaded with something darker she couldn't quite place. It lingered. Goddamn, she hated that he smelled good.
She didn't let herself linger on that. That kind of distraction had no place in the job.
He followed.
They weaved through the party. She led. He trailed.
Just before they reached the back of the room, a voice stopped them. Female. Breathless.
"Leone? Oh my god, can I get a picture—?"
Ava's turn was smooth. Sharp smile. Light in her eyes.
"I'm so sorry," she said, interjecting with firm politeness. "He's due for a brief backstage meeting. Happy to coordinate something for you later though, promise."
She kept moving. Didn't break stride. Didn't give space for argument.
As they neared the rear corridor, she palmed two bottles of water from the drinks table. Casual. Unnoticed. Her phone slid back into her pocket just as the screen lit up: 15 minutes.
Perfect.
The hallway was quieter. Cooler. Two security guards stood at the end. They recognised Leone immediately. She moved quickly, stepping into their eyeline before he could do something regrettable—like speak.
"Wait here," she said softly. "Trust me."
She didn't wait for agreement.
The guard on the left, taller, broader, clean-shaven, looked up. She met his eye, pulled her badge from her coat, flashed it just long enough for him to register her title: PR Crisis Management.
"Extraction," she said in a voice meant only for him. "Quick and quiet. I need your jacket. And your cap."
There was a brief pause. Then he nodded. No questions. That's why she liked working with real professionals.
She turned back, draping the jacket over her arm, cap in one hand, bottles of water clutched awkwardly to her chest. A small juggle, but she managed.
"Put these on," she said. "Security moves through places like this unnoticed. That's what we need."
She pushed the clothing items into his hands, watching as he took hold of them. No protest. Not yet. It was almost disarming.
"Just around the corner," she instructed. "You can put them on where we won't be seen."
They moved to a more secluded spot, and Leone slid the jacket on without complaint. She watched him adjust the cap, push his dark waves underneath it, lower his head just a fraction. Enough to cast a new angle on his face. The shadows reshaped his features, sharpening the lines of his jaw, softening the tired set of his mouth.
Something strange passed through her as she watched him—an unease she couldn't quite name. Was this what easy felt like? She didn't trust it. She never did.
Still, she didn't let herself relax.
She unscrewed one water bottle and took a sip, then offered the second to him with an arched eyebrow. A silent prompt.
She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, as if already calculating their next move. "I'm going to act a little drunk," she said calmly. "You're the security guard escorting me out. Just stay close and follow my lead."
Giving him a role gave him something to grip onto. Focus, especially in this state, was everything.
She took a breath, deep, grounding. There was a beat, a moment where she questioned whether she could've picked a better cover. But it was too late to change it now.
She started walking, the certainty of Leone behind her a growing unease. Just how far would he go?
As they approached the rear exit she'd scouted earlier, she altered her walk. Added a sway. Her steps became exaggerated. Purposefully unbalanced.
Then, louder than needed, voice slurred just enough for the small crowd near the door to hear, she threw over her shoulder, "I don't get
why I have to leave! Security guys are no fun."
It wasn't her finest improvisation, but it would do. The crowd parted, some with knowing smirks, others with mild concern. No one questioned the security guard escorting the tipsy woman out.
She nudged the heavy exit doors open with her hip, still swaying, still in character. They spilled into the rear car park, tucked out of sight.
The night air hit her like a reset. So did the realisation: she'd just fake-staggered out the building, towing a very famous man who didn't yet know who she really was. And she had no idea what Leone was thinking. But her face didn't show it.
Ava didn't look back until they reached the car, sleek black, tinted windows, dressed up like a luxury Uber. The company had been on her speed dial for years. Silent, discreet and efficient.
She opened the door and slid inside, scooting across the seat. A slow wave of her hand beckoned him to join her. It was a silent and final directive, one she knew he couldn't refuse,
She knew the strings that pulled him, the absence of any real alternative. Her smile, however, was a deliberate reassurance, a fragile attempt to smooth the sharp edges of his compliance.
She was too busy watching the trees to consider the water, her attention fractured between the towering pines and the strange pull that had been growing stronger with each step toward this lake. Something about this place had dulled her usual instincts, softened the jagged edges of her vigilance. It was subtle, but undeniable—the tension she lived with, the constant prickle of danger that had kept her alive all these years, lay dormant, replaced by something she couldn't quite name.
It should have unsettled her. Instead, she liked it. Liked how she felt free for the first time in years, maybe even safe.
The realization struck her with surprising clarity: this might be what relaxed actually felt like. Maybe it had something to do with the liberation of not masking her smell, her sense of being for once.
The lake had washed it all away—every trace of oil and ash, every smear of bitter root and pungent decay. Her scent, her scent, hung in the air now, wild and sharp and unmistakable. It should've made her feel exposed. Suicidal. Instead, it felt almost… right, like her very skin had missed the weight of honesty.
She'd come here to find a monster, and now she was the one laying bait.
It was the ripple of water that alerted her to his presence, a gentle disruption of the lake's surface that made her turn just as he began to emerge. She stumbled backward slightly as she pushed up from the log she had been perched against, her hand instinctively flying to the hunting knife at her thigh, fingers closing around the familiar leather grip. The blade sang as it cleared its sheath, silver gleaming in the afternoon light.
She had never been caught off guard before. Never had the chance to be—her senses had always fired up like warning flares whenever there was a male around, that primal alarm system that had kept her breathing through countless encounters. It was like mother nature had some divine plan, making sure she protected herself despite this entire trip feeling fundamentally suicidal.
Finally, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Not from fear—no, this felt different, something else entirely. Her breath hitched, fingers twitching, her grip tightening on her blade.
One. Two. Three.
She began to count the obligatory sixty seconds, the ritual that had become second nature over the years. Sixty seconds before she allowed herself to believe that any male could get near without going completely crazed. As she'd aged, the time it took for her scent to have its devastating impact had gotten shorter and shorter, like her curse was growing stronger with each passing year.
Four. Five. Six.
That's when it dawned on her with startling clarity—this was the first time she had seen a male in the flesh for what had to be years. The realisation hit her like a physical blow, memories of her father's face flooding back unbidden. How eventually it had made him distant, not because he was affected the same way other males were, but because he'd gone half-mad from the things he'd witnessed. The glazed eyes of pack members, the way grown men had turned into slavering beasts at the mere suggestion of her scent on the wind.
He was still emerging. Water sheeted down the hard line of his chest, over broad shoulders. His hair, black and slicked back from his face, clung to his neck in inky strands. His body moved with slow certainty—nothing hurried, nothing forced. Just power, measured and quiet.
Seven. Eight...
The number slipped away from her as she really took him in. He was broad, well-defined in a way that spoke of years spent in physical labor rather than a gym. Tall enough that even at this distance she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. His chest was a map of lean muscle, the kind of build that came from swimming and hunting and living off the land. There was something almost primal about the way he moved through the water, confident and fluid, like he belonged here in a way that made her feel like an intruder.
She gulped, realising she was staring. Her throat clicked in the silence. Her gaze caught on his broad shoulders, the taut definition of muscle under bronzed skin. Heat crept up her neck despite the cool air off the lake.
What number had she been on? Ten? Fifteen?
She took another step backward as he moved further out of the water, her counting reconvening in a desperate attempt to keep herself grounded while her eyes traced the lines of his torso. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. The water lapped at his waist now, and she could see the swim shorts clinging to his hips, the V of muscle that disappeared beneath the dark fabric..
She took another step back, trying to reset the rhythm in her head.
Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
It should have unsettled her. Instead, she liked it. Liked how she felt free for the first time in years, maybe even safe.
The realization struck her with surprising clarity: this might be what relaxed actually felt like. Maybe it had something to do with the liberation of not masking her smell, her sense of being for once.
The lake had washed it all away—every trace of oil and ash, every smear of bitter root and pungent decay. Her scent, her scent, hung in the air now, wild and sharp and unmistakable. It should've made her feel exposed. Suicidal. Instead, it felt almost… right, like her very skin had missed the weight of honesty.
She'd come here to find a monster, and now she was the one laying bait.
It was the ripple of water that alerted her to his presence, a gentle disruption of the lake's surface that made her turn just as he began to emerge. She stumbled backward slightly as she pushed up from the log she had been perched against, her hand instinctively flying to the hunting knife at her thigh, fingers closing around the familiar leather grip. The blade sang as it cleared its sheath, silver gleaming in the afternoon light.
She had never been caught off guard before. Never had the chance to be—her senses had always fired up like warning flares whenever there was a male around, that primal alarm system that had kept her breathing through countless encounters. It was like mother nature had some divine plan, making sure she protected herself despite this entire trip feeling fundamentally suicidal.
Finally, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Not from fear—no, this felt different, something else entirely. Her breath hitched, fingers twitching, her grip tightening on her blade.
One. Two. Three.
She began to count the obligatory sixty seconds, the ritual that had become second nature over the years. Sixty seconds before she allowed herself to believe that any male could get near without going completely crazed. As she'd aged, the time it took for her scent to have its devastating impact had gotten shorter and shorter, like her curse was growing stronger with each passing year.
Four. Five. Six.
That's when it dawned on her with startling clarity—this was the first time she had seen a male in the flesh for what had to be years. The realisation hit her like a physical blow, memories of her father's face flooding back unbidden. How eventually it had made him distant, not because he was affected the same way other males were, but because he'd gone half-mad from the things he'd witnessed. The glazed eyes of pack members, the way grown men had turned into slavering beasts at the mere suggestion of her scent on the wind.
He was still emerging. Water sheeted down the hard line of his chest, over broad shoulders. His hair, black and slicked back from his face, clung to his neck in inky strands. His body moved with slow certainty—nothing hurried, nothing forced. Just power, measured and quiet.
Seven. Eight...
The number slipped away from her as she really took him in. He was broad, well-defined in a way that spoke of years spent in physical labor rather than a gym. Tall enough that even at this distance she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. His chest was a map of lean muscle, the kind of build that came from swimming and hunting and living off the land. There was something almost primal about the way he moved through the water, confident and fluid, like he belonged here in a way that made her feel like an intruder.
She gulped, realising she was staring. Her throat clicked in the silence. Her gaze caught on his broad shoulders, the taut definition of muscle under bronzed skin. Heat crept up her neck despite the cool air off the lake.
What number had she been on? Ten? Fifteen?
She took another step backward as he moved further out of the water, her counting reconvening in a desperate attempt to keep herself grounded while her eyes traced the lines of his torso. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. The water lapped at his waist now, and she could see the swim shorts clinging to his hips, the V of muscle that disappeared beneath the dark fabric..
She took another step back, trying to reset the rhythm in her head.
Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
The screen light washed over Elena's face as she stared at the NDA. Digital ink portraying cold legalese, all "strict confidentiality," "client-specific arrangements," "physical consent" The language was so vague it could mean anything, yet so specific it could only mean one thing: someone with enough power and secrets that exposure would be catastrophic, someone whose particular appetites required the kind of silence money couldn't guarantee alone.
Her thumb hovered over the mouse button, cursor blinking over Send like a heartbeat. She shouldn't, but her bank account was circling the drain, her sister's tuition invoice had just hit her inbox like another punch to the gut, and her ex was still wearing that crocodile smile while collecting interest on the loan she'd never wanted. The same loan she'd taken to keep Kat, her younger sister in education.
She caught her reflection in the darkened window beside her desk. The woman looking back at her wasn't the one from five years ago. Not the girl who had commanded premium rates, ushered into exclusive events and flown on private jets. Not the one men had paid to worship.
"I knew this wasn't a forever deal," she muttered to herself. "But thirty? Is that really old?"
Before she could reconsider, her finger clicked the mouse. She watched the cursor tap Send, then immediately pushed back from her desk with a sigh. What was done was done. No taking it back now.
Her phone rang almost instantly, buzzing like it knew she had just crossed a line. She stared at the caller ID: Rhea.
She answered. "Jesus, you move fast."
"Daaarling," Rhea drew the word out like honey, "when you finally come crawling, I make time." Her voice carried the weight of expensive scotch and old money, all silk scarves and shadowed power.
Elena's jaw tightened, but her voice stayed level. "I didn't crawl."
Rhea huffed, condescending and amused. "Oh please. I practically heard your knees scraping the pavement. But I'll admit I didn't think I'd see the day. You, coming to me for work?"
Elena exhaled sharply through her nose, trying to smother the flicker of shame in her chest.
"What happened? Did Marc finally realise you don't photograph like a teenage influencer in a neon thong?" Rhea's voice carried cruel amusement, but the name hit harder than expected. Of course she'd bring him up. Her ex, her former boss and her former everything. The man who'd built his reputation on her connections, then pivoted to livestream girls who could rack up subscribers with filters and bedroom performances. Elena belonged to an older world of discretion and dinner parties, not ring lights and algorithms. Five years of building his empire, and he'd discarded her like last season's lingerie.
"You were always too good for him anyway," Rhea added, her tone softer now.
"Let's not do this," Elena replied sharply, shifting away from the topic.
"Suit yourself." There was a beat. "So, curious about the NDA?"
Elena leaned back in her chair, studying the ceiling. "It's got the tone of someone trying very hard not to sound illegal. What the hell is this job, Rhea?"
"It's unique an exclusive client that requires high discretion. It's consistent pay, the kind of long-term arrangement you said you were looking for." Rhea's voice was nonchalant.
"Yeah, and you mentioned something about physical requirements. Are you setting me up for some underground medical trial or something?"
Rhea laughed. "God, I missed that dry little edge of yours."
"I'm serious Rhea, I don't do weird. I said I needed something traditional, sustainable, something with longevity. Not playing, fantasy."
"Darling, no performances, it doesn't even require you to have sex. Just..." Rhea's voice shifted, becoming more careful, "regular appointments. It's unconventional but it's more straightforward than you think. Health screenings are required, but everything's above board. And before you spiral, there's an alternative."
Elena's voice turned dry. "Fantastic. What, organ harvesting?"
Rhea ignored the comment. "His assistant is leaving, and he needs someone to run the operation. Scheduling, discretion, managing his particular needs. You're a rare breed, Elena. You're unshakable, smart, and we both know you were the real brains behind Marc's empire, even if he'd never admit it. This client appreciates intelligence, discretion over... other assets."
Something flickered in Elena's chest, vulnerable and raw. "You really think I'd be good at it?"
"I think he'll like you, and I think you might surprise yourself with how much you like the work. Maybe not at first, but it's solid, and honestly, it's just an interview...he might choose someone else, you might walk out and laugh in my face. Either way, no harm in entertaining the idea."
A pause stretched between them before Rhea continued, her voice gentler. "I know what it feels like to be discarded by a world that used to kiss your feet. But this isn't the end. Not even close."
Elena let out a short breath, contemplative. "Feels like it," she whispered.
"Then maybe it's time for a beginning." There was something almost maternal in Rhea's tone, the woman who'd first guided her into this world all those years ago. The mentor she'd left behind when Marc had offered what seemed like a better deal. Strange how life circled back.
Silence stretched between them. Something like hope threatened to bloom in Elena's chest, and she hated it. But she needed an escape, a way out that didn't involve owing Marc any more than she already did. Even if it meant trading one debt for another, at least Rhea had always been honest about the cost.
"I'm not promising anything," Elena said flatly.
"Wouldn't dream of asking." Rhea said smoothly.
"Fine. I'll take the meeting."
"Good girl," Rhea replied, and Elena could hear the smile in her voice.
"Now listen carefully. He moves fast, so I will need to arrange the interview for tonight. Eight o'clock. Dress to impress, but remember this is business, not pleasure. You're interviewing for a position that requires brains, not bedroom skills. Understood?"
"Understood," Elena said, her mind already racing through what little she had in her closet that might pass for impressive. Before she could ask any follow-up questions, the line went dead. No goodbye, no good luck. Rhea had always been like that, cutting conversations when they'd served their purpose. It was easier that way, cleaner. Less room for second thoughts or backing out.
Her thumb hovered over the mouse button, cursor blinking over Send like a heartbeat. She shouldn't, but her bank account was circling the drain, her sister's tuition invoice had just hit her inbox like another punch to the gut, and her ex was still wearing that crocodile smile while collecting interest on the loan she'd never wanted. The same loan she'd taken to keep Kat, her younger sister in education.
She caught her reflection in the darkened window beside her desk. The woman looking back at her wasn't the one from five years ago. Not the girl who had commanded premium rates, ushered into exclusive events and flown on private jets. Not the one men had paid to worship.
"I knew this wasn't a forever deal," she muttered to herself. "But thirty? Is that really old?"
Before she could reconsider, her finger clicked the mouse. She watched the cursor tap Send, then immediately pushed back from her desk with a sigh. What was done was done. No taking it back now.
Her phone rang almost instantly, buzzing like it knew she had just crossed a line. She stared at the caller ID: Rhea.
She answered. "Jesus, you move fast."
"Daaarling," Rhea drew the word out like honey, "when you finally come crawling, I make time." Her voice carried the weight of expensive scotch and old money, all silk scarves and shadowed power.
Elena's jaw tightened, but her voice stayed level. "I didn't crawl."
Rhea huffed, condescending and amused. "Oh please. I practically heard your knees scraping the pavement. But I'll admit I didn't think I'd see the day. You, coming to me for work?"
Elena exhaled sharply through her nose, trying to smother the flicker of shame in her chest.
"What happened? Did Marc finally realise you don't photograph like a teenage influencer in a neon thong?" Rhea's voice carried cruel amusement, but the name hit harder than expected. Of course she'd bring him up. Her ex, her former boss and her former everything. The man who'd built his reputation on her connections, then pivoted to livestream girls who could rack up subscribers with filters and bedroom performances. Elena belonged to an older world of discretion and dinner parties, not ring lights and algorithms. Five years of building his empire, and he'd discarded her like last season's lingerie.
"You were always too good for him anyway," Rhea added, her tone softer now.
"Let's not do this," Elena replied sharply, shifting away from the topic.
"Suit yourself." There was a beat. "So, curious about the NDA?"
Elena leaned back in her chair, studying the ceiling. "It's got the tone of someone trying very hard not to sound illegal. What the hell is this job, Rhea?"
"It's unique an exclusive client that requires high discretion. It's consistent pay, the kind of long-term arrangement you said you were looking for." Rhea's voice was nonchalant.
"Yeah, and you mentioned something about physical requirements. Are you setting me up for some underground medical trial or something?"
Rhea laughed. "God, I missed that dry little edge of yours."
"I'm serious Rhea, I don't do weird. I said I needed something traditional, sustainable, something with longevity. Not playing, fantasy."
"Darling, no performances, it doesn't even require you to have sex. Just..." Rhea's voice shifted, becoming more careful, "regular appointments. It's unconventional but it's more straightforward than you think. Health screenings are required, but everything's above board. And before you spiral, there's an alternative."
Elena's voice turned dry. "Fantastic. What, organ harvesting?"
Rhea ignored the comment. "His assistant is leaving, and he needs someone to run the operation. Scheduling, discretion, managing his particular needs. You're a rare breed, Elena. You're unshakable, smart, and we both know you were the real brains behind Marc's empire, even if he'd never admit it. This client appreciates intelligence, discretion over... other assets."
Something flickered in Elena's chest, vulnerable and raw. "You really think I'd be good at it?"
"I think he'll like you, and I think you might surprise yourself with how much you like the work. Maybe not at first, but it's solid, and honestly, it's just an interview...he might choose someone else, you might walk out and laugh in my face. Either way, no harm in entertaining the idea."
A pause stretched between them before Rhea continued, her voice gentler. "I know what it feels like to be discarded by a world that used to kiss your feet. But this isn't the end. Not even close."
Elena let out a short breath, contemplative. "Feels like it," she whispered.
"Then maybe it's time for a beginning." There was something almost maternal in Rhea's tone, the woman who'd first guided her into this world all those years ago. The mentor she'd left behind when Marc had offered what seemed like a better deal. Strange how life circled back.
Silence stretched between them. Something like hope threatened to bloom in Elena's chest, and she hated it. But she needed an escape, a way out that didn't involve owing Marc any more than she already did. Even if it meant trading one debt for another, at least Rhea had always been honest about the cost.
"I'm not promising anything," Elena said flatly.
"Wouldn't dream of asking." Rhea said smoothly.
"Fine. I'll take the meeting."
"Good girl," Rhea replied, and Elena could hear the smile in her voice.
"Now listen carefully. He moves fast, so I will need to arrange the interview for tonight. Eight o'clock. Dress to impress, but remember this is business, not pleasure. You're interviewing for a position that requires brains, not bedroom skills. Understood?"
"Understood," Elena said, her mind already racing through what little she had in her closet that might pass for impressive. Before she could ask any follow-up questions, the line went dead. No goodbye, no good luck. Rhea had always been like that, cutting conversations when they'd served their purpose. It was easier that way, cleaner. Less room for second thoughts or backing out.
She knew he was close. It wasn't just the familiar twitch at the base of his cock, or the tell-tale pulse of his throbbing veins. It was his rhythm, no longer meticulous and calculated, but messy, erratic. Sloppy. Like he was losing himself in her.
His breathing was ragged, the profanities spilling from his mouth more venomous, less controlled. And there it was again—John. That jealousy creeping in like poison, twisting his pleasure into possession.
Good. She had him right where she wanted him. Raw. Visceral. Starving to remind her just who she belonged to. Brand her as his, use her mouth for his pleasure.
She let her jaw relax, then tighten again, slowly increasing the pressure around his shaft. A careful squeeze of her lips, a swirl of her tongue. She was no longer just his dirty little whore—she was his temptress, the siren pulling him under.
She wanted him to cum. She was hungry for it.
Then came the pull on the leash, the sharp restriction of the collar biting into her neck, it hit her like a drug. That tightening grip, his hand fisted in the leather, the pressure against her throat, it sent a pulse of electricity down her spine. Her arms bound behind her back, helpless but aroused, she surrendered to it fully. This wasn't just about dominance. It was a reminder. A warning. She was tethered to him in every sense. Physically restrained, emotionally leashed, and addicted to the way he made her feel more alive in submission than she ever had in freedom.
And when the first thick shot hit her tongue, a moan tore out of her throat- strangled by the tension of the collar. It was automatic, involuntary, soaked in satisfaction. Her lips parted wider, silently inviting more.
Her skin flushed hot. Her pulse beat hard. She let him finish, held him deep, let him empty himself into her completely.
Only when his body stilled, when she was sure he was spent, breathless, and the pressure at her neck finally loosened, did she begin to swallow—slowly. Each motion deliberate, savouring every ounce of him, despite the desperate need to breathe.
He tasted exactly as she knew he would: familiar. Dark. Sinful.
A flavour entirely his, distinct and unforgettable. Hot and slick on her tongue, laced with the essence of whiskey, rich coffee, and late nights spent in the shadows.
She'd tasted luxury. Sat at Michelin-starred tables, expensive indulgences that men would kill for. But none of it ever stirred her like he could.
She'd always thought people were ridiculous for paying fortunes for flavour—until she tasted him, her addiction. Because this, his taste, the weight of him on her tongue and the press of him in her body, was something she'd pay for again and again.
She always did. She was his to command, his plaything, bound by an unspoken understanding. She paid for it not in money, but in more ways than either of them dared to name.
She was his—in every filthy, wordless agreement that lived between them. Every moan, every bruise, every time she crawled back, she paid for it.
And fuck, it was worth it.
Another moan slipped from her lips. This one deeper. Sated. For now.
Her eyes dipped, sultry and glazed, like the hunger inside her had been subdued, not extinguished. When her gaze met his again, the tears from earlier, caused by his ruthless grip and relentless choke of his cock in her throat, beginning to clear.
Her tongue dragged over her lips, teasing, deliberate. She looked up at him with that same unrelenting fire and drawled.
"It's only you I want. You taste so... fucking good."
With a careful flick of her head, she let her hair cascade down her back like silk. She shifted, letting her body fall into a defiant, sensual pose she'd perfected. A tilt of her chin, a purposeful arch, the visible blemishes on her neck boldly on display. Her skin wore his fingerprints like trophies. The reddened imprint of the collar, the marks of where he'd stolen her breath from her throat.
She didn't hide them. She wanted him to see.
Proof. Confirmation. That she was his. And he was fucking hers.
His breathing was ragged, the profanities spilling from his mouth more venomous, less controlled. And there it was again—John. That jealousy creeping in like poison, twisting his pleasure into possession.
Good. She had him right where she wanted him. Raw. Visceral. Starving to remind her just who she belonged to. Brand her as his, use her mouth for his pleasure.
She let her jaw relax, then tighten again, slowly increasing the pressure around his shaft. A careful squeeze of her lips, a swirl of her tongue. She was no longer just his dirty little whore—she was his temptress, the siren pulling him under.
She wanted him to cum. She was hungry for it.
Then came the pull on the leash, the sharp restriction of the collar biting into her neck, it hit her like a drug. That tightening grip, his hand fisted in the leather, the pressure against her throat, it sent a pulse of electricity down her spine. Her arms bound behind her back, helpless but aroused, she surrendered to it fully. This wasn't just about dominance. It was a reminder. A warning. She was tethered to him in every sense. Physically restrained, emotionally leashed, and addicted to the way he made her feel more alive in submission than she ever had in freedom.
And when the first thick shot hit her tongue, a moan tore out of her throat- strangled by the tension of the collar. It was automatic, involuntary, soaked in satisfaction. Her lips parted wider, silently inviting more.
Her skin flushed hot. Her pulse beat hard. She let him finish, held him deep, let him empty himself into her completely.
Only when his body stilled, when she was sure he was spent, breathless, and the pressure at her neck finally loosened, did she begin to swallow—slowly. Each motion deliberate, savouring every ounce of him, despite the desperate need to breathe.
He tasted exactly as she knew he would: familiar. Dark. Sinful.
A flavour entirely his, distinct and unforgettable. Hot and slick on her tongue, laced with the essence of whiskey, rich coffee, and late nights spent in the shadows.
She'd tasted luxury. Sat at Michelin-starred tables, expensive indulgences that men would kill for. But none of it ever stirred her like he could.
She'd always thought people were ridiculous for paying fortunes for flavour—until she tasted him, her addiction. Because this, his taste, the weight of him on her tongue and the press of him in her body, was something she'd pay for again and again.
She always did. She was his to command, his plaything, bound by an unspoken understanding. She paid for it not in money, but in more ways than either of them dared to name.
She was his—in every filthy, wordless agreement that lived between them. Every moan, every bruise, every time she crawled back, she paid for it.
And fuck, it was worth it.
Another moan slipped from her lips. This one deeper. Sated. For now.
Her eyes dipped, sultry and glazed, like the hunger inside her had been subdued, not extinguished. When her gaze met his again, the tears from earlier, caused by his ruthless grip and relentless choke of his cock in her throat, beginning to clear.
Her tongue dragged over her lips, teasing, deliberate. She looked up at him with that same unrelenting fire and drawled.
"It's only you I want. You taste so... fucking good."
With a careful flick of her head, she let her hair cascade down her back like silk. She shifted, letting her body fall into a defiant, sensual pose she'd perfected. A tilt of her chin, a purposeful arch, the visible blemishes on her neck boldly on display. Her skin wore his fingerprints like trophies. The reddened imprint of the collar, the marks of where he'd stolen her breath from her throat.
She didn't hide them. She wanted him to see.
Proof. Confirmation. That she was his. And he was fucking hers.
Anticipation, greed, self-righteousness and fear, all masquerading as confidence. The assembled crowd of tech moguls, climate scientists and corporate titans had no idea they were feeding a goddess with their perfectly polished facades and carefully hidden anxieties. To them, tonight's "Innovation for Tomorrow" awards ceremony represented the joining up of technology and environmental salvation. To Eris, it was a buffet of beautiful, inevitable destruction served on silicon and silver platters.
She positioned herself near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glittering cityscape, close enough to the cluster of suited businessmen and their wives, which for casual observers would appear she belonged to their circle. Yet she maintained just enough distance to preserve the air of mysterious detachment that made mortals so deliciously curious about her. She was well aware that most had already stolen a glance this evening, some subtle, others lingering, men and women alike. She never shied away from attention; in fact, she knew precisely how to cultivate it.
The liquid-black evening gown she wore seemed to absorb the warm light rather than reflect it, cut with such precision that it appeared painted directly onto her skin. Every movement was calculated, predatory grace disguised as elegant sophistication. She had perfected this particular human form over millennia, crafting it to be just beautiful enough to stop conversations, mysterious enough to inspire whispered speculation and just dangerous enough that the smartest felt their survival instincts prickle in warning, though none ever listened.
Her eyes flickered gold for just an instant as she tasted a particularly delicious wave of greed radiating from a nearby CEO who was simultaneously delivering a passionate speech about environmental protection while his desires screamed of coal investments and profit margins. The contradiction between his public virtue and private avarice was so perfect it made her want to laugh with that otherworldly harmonic quality that would have sent half the room fleeing in terror.
Instead, she maintained her serene smile and let her gaze drift across the ballroom, cataloguing the evening's players like pieces on a chessboard she had been arranging for months. Three months, to be precise, since she had first assumed the persona of Dr. Elena Voss, respected environmental economist and trusted advisor to the selection committee. The transformation had been flawless—every mannerism studied, every credential fabricated with supernatural precision. None of them had suspected that their most trusted voice was feeding them poison disguised as wisdom, guiding them toward choices that would create exactly the kind of cascading disasters that nourished her chaotic nature.
Project Aurora, with its atmospheric cleansing technology that would actually accelerate ozone depletion. Ocean's Breath, whose funding would disappear into gambling debts while coral reefs died. Green Horizon, whose genetically modified crops would trigger ecological catastrophe across three continents. Each project had been selected not despite its fatal flaws, but because of them. Each would receive massive government funding and international acclaim before... spectacular public failure.
This was how a goddess of chaos truly worked, not through dramatic supernatural displays that mortals could dismiss as impossible, but through the subtle art of turning humanity's greatest virtues against itself. She didn't need to corrupt them, merely provide them with opportunities to corrupt themselves. Their desperate desire to be heroes while simultaneously protecting their own interests made them so deliciously easy to guide toward their own destruction.
The beautiful part wasn't just the immediate chaos of scandal and outrage. It was the long-term consequences that would ripple outward like fractures in ice, each splintering path giving rise to new crises, fresh opportunities for the kind of discord that kept existence to her interesting.
A warm presence materialised beside her, cologne-scented and confidence-drunk. "You look like you stepped out of a dream," the voice said, smooth with expensive whiskey and rehearsed charm.
Eris turned slowly, assessing the man who had approached. Marcus Holbrook, she recalled. A recently divorced venture capitalist with a reputation for aggressive tactics and a weakness for younger women. His desire crashed over her consuming, desperate. She could taste it on her tongue, feel it prickling along her skin like electricity. He wanted her with the ravenous hunger of a starving man, but it was tainted, twisted by something darker. The need wasn't born from attraction alone but from a compulsion to possess, to prove his worth through conquest. It was more than intuition, she felt every pulse of his longing, through the air between them like a frequency only she could hear. But underneath the lust, threading through, she tasted something more complex: fear. Not fear of rejection, that was surface-level anxiety. This was deeper, older. The same terror that had likely driven his wife away and left him standing in boardrooms wondering when everyone had stopped taking him seriously.
"How observant of you," she replied, letting her voice carry just enough warmth to encourage him while her emerald eyes remained coolly amused.
He stepped closer, emboldened by what he mistook for invitation. Too close. The scent of desperation clung to him like cheap aftershave, and his hand moved as if to touch her arm, a presumption that made her skin crawl with annoyance.
"I'm Marcus," he said, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a seductive whisper. "And you are absolutely—"
Her fingers came to rest against his chest, the touch appearing gentle, flirtatious even, as she leaned in close enough that her breath ghosted against his ear. To anyone watching, it would look like intimate conversation between interested parties.
"Forgettable," she whispered, her eyes flashing gold as power flowed through her fingertips.
The vision hit him like ice water. For just a moment, Marcus saw himself as others truly saw him, aging, desperate, pathetic. Standing in his empty penthouse, calling his ex-wife and hearing her laugh before hanging up. Sitting in meetings where younger men spoke over him, dismissed him, wrote him off as yesterday's news. The fear he'd been running from came into sharp, undeniable clarity.
He stumbled backward, face draining of colour. "I—sorry, I need to—someone's waiting for me." He retreated into the crowd with the haste of a man who'd glimpsed his own mortality.
Eris sighed, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her gown. Interruptions were so tedious when she had work to do.
She positioned herself near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the glittering cityscape, close enough to the cluster of suited businessmen and their wives, which for casual observers would appear she belonged to their circle. Yet she maintained just enough distance to preserve the air of mysterious detachment that made mortals so deliciously curious about her. She was well aware that most had already stolen a glance this evening, some subtle, others lingering, men and women alike. She never shied away from attention; in fact, she knew precisely how to cultivate it.
The liquid-black evening gown she wore seemed to absorb the warm light rather than reflect it, cut with such precision that it appeared painted directly onto her skin. Every movement was calculated, predatory grace disguised as elegant sophistication. She had perfected this particular human form over millennia, crafting it to be just beautiful enough to stop conversations, mysterious enough to inspire whispered speculation and just dangerous enough that the smartest felt their survival instincts prickle in warning, though none ever listened.
Her eyes flickered gold for just an instant as she tasted a particularly delicious wave of greed radiating from a nearby CEO who was simultaneously delivering a passionate speech about environmental protection while his desires screamed of coal investments and profit margins. The contradiction between his public virtue and private avarice was so perfect it made her want to laugh with that otherworldly harmonic quality that would have sent half the room fleeing in terror.
Instead, she maintained her serene smile and let her gaze drift across the ballroom, cataloguing the evening's players like pieces on a chessboard she had been arranging for months. Three months, to be precise, since she had first assumed the persona of Dr. Elena Voss, respected environmental economist and trusted advisor to the selection committee. The transformation had been flawless—every mannerism studied, every credential fabricated with supernatural precision. None of them had suspected that their most trusted voice was feeding them poison disguised as wisdom, guiding them toward choices that would create exactly the kind of cascading disasters that nourished her chaotic nature.
Project Aurora, with its atmospheric cleansing technology that would actually accelerate ozone depletion. Ocean's Breath, whose funding would disappear into gambling debts while coral reefs died. Green Horizon, whose genetically modified crops would trigger ecological catastrophe across three continents. Each project had been selected not despite its fatal flaws, but because of them. Each would receive massive government funding and international acclaim before... spectacular public failure.
This was how a goddess of chaos truly worked, not through dramatic supernatural displays that mortals could dismiss as impossible, but through the subtle art of turning humanity's greatest virtues against itself. She didn't need to corrupt them, merely provide them with opportunities to corrupt themselves. Their desperate desire to be heroes while simultaneously protecting their own interests made them so deliciously easy to guide toward their own destruction.
The beautiful part wasn't just the immediate chaos of scandal and outrage. It was the long-term consequences that would ripple outward like fractures in ice, each splintering path giving rise to new crises, fresh opportunities for the kind of discord that kept existence to her interesting.
A warm presence materialised beside her, cologne-scented and confidence-drunk. "You look like you stepped out of a dream," the voice said, smooth with expensive whiskey and rehearsed charm.
Eris turned slowly, assessing the man who had approached. Marcus Holbrook, she recalled. A recently divorced venture capitalist with a reputation for aggressive tactics and a weakness for younger women. His desire crashed over her consuming, desperate. She could taste it on her tongue, feel it prickling along her skin like electricity. He wanted her with the ravenous hunger of a starving man, but it was tainted, twisted by something darker. The need wasn't born from attraction alone but from a compulsion to possess, to prove his worth through conquest. It was more than intuition, she felt every pulse of his longing, through the air between them like a frequency only she could hear. But underneath the lust, threading through, she tasted something more complex: fear. Not fear of rejection, that was surface-level anxiety. This was deeper, older. The same terror that had likely driven his wife away and left him standing in boardrooms wondering when everyone had stopped taking him seriously.
"How observant of you," she replied, letting her voice carry just enough warmth to encourage him while her emerald eyes remained coolly amused.
He stepped closer, emboldened by what he mistook for invitation. Too close. The scent of desperation clung to him like cheap aftershave, and his hand moved as if to touch her arm, a presumption that made her skin crawl with annoyance.
"I'm Marcus," he said, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a seductive whisper. "And you are absolutely—"
Her fingers came to rest against his chest, the touch appearing gentle, flirtatious even, as she leaned in close enough that her breath ghosted against his ear. To anyone watching, it would look like intimate conversation between interested parties.
"Forgettable," she whispered, her eyes flashing gold as power flowed through her fingertips.
The vision hit him like ice water. For just a moment, Marcus saw himself as others truly saw him, aging, desperate, pathetic. Standing in his empty penthouse, calling his ex-wife and hearing her laugh before hanging up. Sitting in meetings where younger men spoke over him, dismissed him, wrote him off as yesterday's news. The fear he'd been running from came into sharp, undeniable clarity.
He stumbled backward, face draining of colour. "I—sorry, I need to—someone's waiting for me." He retreated into the crowd with the haste of a man who'd glimpsed his own mortality.
Eris sighed, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her gown. Interruptions were so tedious when she had work to do.
**
Her gaze dipped once, openly, following the clean line of his jaw to the steady tension in his grip. Not the white-knuckled desperation she so often saw in men who drew steel against her, but something cooler and more methodical. She approved of that, admired it even. There was elegance in choosing to remain composed before a thing built to dismantle you.
Her smile curled slowly, more thought than amusement.
"No," she said at last, her voice low and firm. "You don't get to ask for names. Not yet."
She took a step closer, her claws brushing lightly against the edge of his blade as if to test it, to test him. Not with strength, but with presence, contact for the sake of contact. "You have your sword, I have my secrets. We'll keep it even, won't we?"
She circled again, slower this time, not hunting but simply studying him and his composure.
Her voice dropped, slipping into something darker. "You think control makes you safe, that it shields you from the shape of your end. But control is only illusion, Ritcher. You stand in front of me, blade ready, mind calm, and still you breathe faster than before. Still your eyes track me like prey that hasn't decided it's prey yet."
She leaned in, her lips close to his ear now. Her breath, warm and slow, caressed the curve of his neck. "What do you think that makes you?"
A pause. She tasted the moment, and it was delicious.
"I've worn a thousand faces and torn through men who called themselves unshakable." Her mouth moved closer, not touching but near enough to tease. "Do you know what breaks them, in the end? Not pain or fear, but the slow, exquisite realization that they wanted what I offered them. That the death they fought so hard to avoid had already become a seduction."
She drew back, her smile wide now, wicked and bright against the stillness of her eyes. "But you want to understand me first. Foolish but interesting man."
She trailed a finger just above his collarbone, never quite touching, careful that her claws did not mark him, and continued conversationally. "You called me beautiful again. That makes three times. Be careful, Ritcher. Even gods grow greedy on worship."
Then her hand dropped. Her expression shifted, not softer, but sharper and focused. Serious in a way that cut through the games, if only for a moment.
"I don't often ask questions. Even less do I care about the answers. But you offered me something I haven't tasted in years."
Her eyes locked with his. That twin flame, gold and ember, burned hotter now. "You gave me clarity—a moment of surprise. That makes you rare."
Her head tilted again, feline in its curiosity. "Rare things tempt me. Rare things endure."
A beat passed. She didn't blink.
"I won't ask for your surrender tonight. Not your blood, not your blade." She stepped back, the light catching the oil-slick sheen of her skin. "But I will ask for this."
Another step. Her voice turned low again, with the weight of something dangerous behind it, something ancient.
"Return to your employer, if you must. Carry your calm and wrap yourself in it like armor. But know that I will be thinking of this moment—of your mouth, forming my name though you do not yet have it. Of your eyes, looking at me not with fear, but with intent."
A pause. "And when we meet again, I will not ask what surprises you. I will show you."
Her gaze dipped once, openly, following the clean line of his jaw to the steady tension in his grip. Not the white-knuckled desperation she so often saw in men who drew steel against her, but something cooler and more methodical. She approved of that, admired it even. There was elegance in choosing to remain composed before a thing built to dismantle you.
Her smile curled slowly, more thought than amusement.
"No," she said at last, her voice low and firm. "You don't get to ask for names. Not yet."
She took a step closer, her claws brushing lightly against the edge of his blade as if to test it, to test him. Not with strength, but with presence, contact for the sake of contact. "You have your sword, I have my secrets. We'll keep it even, won't we?"
She circled again, slower this time, not hunting but simply studying him and his composure.
Her voice dropped, slipping into something darker. "You think control makes you safe, that it shields you from the shape of your end. But control is only illusion, Ritcher. You stand in front of me, blade ready, mind calm, and still you breathe faster than before. Still your eyes track me like prey that hasn't decided it's prey yet."
She leaned in, her lips close to his ear now. Her breath, warm and slow, caressed the curve of his neck. "What do you think that makes you?"
A pause. She tasted the moment, and it was delicious.
"I've worn a thousand faces and torn through men who called themselves unshakable." Her mouth moved closer, not touching but near enough to tease. "Do you know what breaks them, in the end? Not pain or fear, but the slow, exquisite realization that they wanted what I offered them. That the death they fought so hard to avoid had already become a seduction."
She drew back, her smile wide now, wicked and bright against the stillness of her eyes. "But you want to understand me first. Foolish but interesting man."
She trailed a finger just above his collarbone, never quite touching, careful that her claws did not mark him, and continued conversationally. "You called me beautiful again. That makes three times. Be careful, Ritcher. Even gods grow greedy on worship."
Then her hand dropped. Her expression shifted, not softer, but sharper and focused. Serious in a way that cut through the games, if only for a moment.
"I don't often ask questions. Even less do I care about the answers. But you offered me something I haven't tasted in years."
Her eyes locked with his. That twin flame, gold and ember, burned hotter now. "You gave me clarity—a moment of surprise. That makes you rare."
Her head tilted again, feline in its curiosity. "Rare things tempt me. Rare things endure."
A beat passed. She didn't blink.
"I won't ask for your surrender tonight. Not your blood, not your blade." She stepped back, the light catching the oil-slick sheen of her skin. "But I will ask for this."
Another step. Her voice turned low again, with the weight of something dangerous behind it, something ancient.
"Return to your employer, if you must. Carry your calm and wrap yourself in it like armor. But know that I will be thinking of this moment—of your mouth, forming my name though you do not yet have it. Of your eyes, looking at me not with fear, but with intent."
A pause. "And when we meet again, I will not ask what surprises you. I will show you."
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