Page 80 of Of Kings and Thieves
“Better? How so?” Moredanea asked, raising a perfectly sculpted brow.
“Let’s have our guests join in,” The Harrow suggested. “After all, we wouldn’t want them to feel left out.”
“An excellent idea,” Moredanea agreed, clapping her hands together with delight. My stomach churned as they forced the unwilling guests to participate in their twisted games, subjecting them to physical and psychological torment. It was a scene straight from the darkest of nightmares.
“Enough of this,” Moredanea declared, after she had laughed herself silly and guzzled an entire pitcher of wine. She sank into a chair next to me, as if all her wickedness had left her exhausted. I winced at the proximity but otherwise refused to acknowledge her presence.
Her gaze fell on a male dancer, his lithe body covered in a sheen of sweat as he moved sensually to the haunting music. She beckoned him over with a crooked finger, her expression a dark mix of amusement and lust. “You there. Come.”
The dancer hesitated for a moment before reluctantly making his way towards her.
“Kneel,” she commanded, tapping the floor beneath her table. The dancer obeyed, sliding between to a position at her feet, his back to the room.
“Entertain me,” Moredanea commanded, her voice barely audible over the sounds in the hall. She slid her silky dress up her legs and spread them wide, leaving no doubt as to what she wanted. The dancer’s eyes flickered briefly toward me before he lowered his face to her. I felt my own face flush with anger and embarrassment, unable to tear my gaze away.
Moredanea tilted her head back, savoring the moment as he began to pleasure her with his tongue. I clenched my jaw, struggling to maintain composure as the scene unfolded. Around the room, guests tensed up, their eyes darting around nervously but remaining fixed on the perverse display. The Harrow stood by and watched, the scar on his face puckering with excitement.
Beside me, Col’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table, his gaze locked on Moredanea. In the sudden silence, the lapping and sucking noises the dancer was making echoed through the hall.
Moredanea threw her head back, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure, her fingers digging into the dancer’s hair. It was over quickly, her cry of ecstasy echoing throughout the room, drawing the attention of those who hadn’t already been watching.
“Enough!” she snarled. “You’re dismissed.” But instead of releasing the dancer, her thighs tightened around his neck like a vice. His eyes widened in panic, hands clawing at her legs in a futile attempt to free himself.
Nobody dared intervene, too afraid of what might happen if they challenged the Deviant. The muscles in Col’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. His eyes burned with anger as he stared at Moredanea, silently daring her to take things further.
I watched, horrified, as the dancer’s face turned red, then purple, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He clawed desperately at her legs, fighting for breath, but it was useless. Moredanea’s grip was unrelenting, her smile cruel.
Finally, the dancer’s struggles ceased, his body going limp. Moredanea released her grip, allowing him to crumple to the floor like a discarded plaything. Her guards swooped in, dragging the man away without so much as a word.
She gestured for more wine and another servant was there in a flash, filling her goblet to the brim. She tipped it up and drank deeply, letting the dark wine trickle down her chin like blood.
I couldn’t ignore the pit in my stomach any longer. Sweat beaded on my forehead as my hands trembled, the ornate silverware clattering against my barely touched plate. The feast before me had lost all appeal, my appetite squashed by the sickening display of Moredanea’s sadistic appetites. Killian’s advice was becoming increasingly difficult to follow.
“Let us continue our game,” The Harrow declared, seemingly unfazed by the dancer’s suffocation. A wicked grin spread across Moredanea’s face as she looked around the room, seeking her next victim.
“You there!” She pointed at a young woman near the edge of the crowd. The woman, clad in an elegant gown, trembled visibly as she approached the dais where The Harrow and Moredanea sat. Her eyes were wide with terror, but she dared not refuse.
“Stand on one leg,” Moredanea commanded, “hold this goblet.” She handed her a golden chalice filled to the brim with wine. “Without spilling a drop.”
The young woman hesitated for a moment before complying, her body trembling as she struggled to maintain her balance. The room—already silent—seemed to hold its breath as all eyes watched the spectacle unfold.
“Such grace,” The Harrow said, leaning back in his cushioned seat. “But can you maintain it if we... add some pressure?”
Moredanea flicked her wrist, and a thin tendril of dark energy wrapped itself around the woman’s ankle like a serpent, tightening its grip. She gasped in pain, her face contorting as she fought to keep the wine from spilling.
No longer able to bear the sight of such torment, something within me snapped. I had reached a boiling point, and I could no longer sit idly by. I leaped to my feet, knocking the table in my haste.
“Enough!” Col shouted suddenly as he stood beside me. His outburst drew the attention of both The Harrow and Moredanea, their eyes narrowing dangerously as they looked at the two of us standing over them.
All eyes turned toward us, wide with shock and disbelief.
“Yes?” The Harrow asked. “Do you want to play, Your Grace?”
Without waiting for a response from Col, Moredanea waved her hand, and the tendril of energy around the woman’s ankle tightened even more, an audible snap resonating through the hall as her leg broke under the pressure. She screamed and fell to the floor, the wine spilling from the goblet and staining her gown a deep crimson.
Gasps and whispers rippled through the crowd. A wave of nausea washed over me, the sights and sounds of the twisted banquet threatening to swallow me whole. I sank down in my chair, my hands trembling beneath the table, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the cloth.
Col and Killian’s warnings echoed in my mind, urging me to remain neutral, to pretend that nothing was wrong. But with every scream, every broken bone, and every drop of spilled blood, it became increasingly impossible to maintain the façade.