Mary, who was sitting high upon her throne, tapped her fingers against the armrest, her crimson eyes narrowed with impatience.
She was restlessly waiting—no, itching—to hear the results of her subordinate's mission. Every second dragged like hours. She wanted to hear every filthy, juicy detail.
How her servant had tortured that brat.
How she had drained him, broken him, sucked him completely dry until he was a pathetic, twitching mess of meat and moans.
That's what a real succubus should do, right?
She was a queen, after all.
Her bloodline was unrivalled.
Nobody could handle her power—nobody.
Her lips curled into a sinister smirk as she imagined Aether's expression—drained, hollow, maybe even crying.
She could practically see his face twisted in desperate pleasure, eyes rolling back, breath cut off by his own moans.
