The door closed behind Veilera with a sound that felt final.
The click of the latch. The settling of the wood. The silence of the mansion's entrance hall, broken only by the crackle of a fireplace somewhere deeper within. The air was warm. Scented. Cedar and rosewood and something else beneath it, something musky and raw that coated the back of her throat and made her pulse quicken without her permission.
Then the moaning started.
"I can't control myself," a voice gasped. The priestess. Myra. The words came from ahead, from the corridor that led deeper into the mansion. The voice was wrecked, ruined, the sound of a throat that had been screaming for days. "Please, Victor. Please."
