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Summary
Beron answers not.
He draws again from his pipe, the bit eager between his teeth—but he does not inhale; rather, he holds the fireglow captive on his tongue, then slants his lips over hers and bestows it upon her. In the kiss, he tastes what it is to have power: an unhallowing of the sacred, a debasement of the exalted, a profanity of the immaculate.
The deflowering of a miracle.
Iphigenia gasps, her chest stuttering with the abrasion of it, but she does not pull away. She cannot now, even if she thought to. Without any defense against the herb, her verdant body succumbs at once to its effects.
✧
or: beron gets high with his favored bed slave.
Series
- Part 3 of torn on my teeth