When Rein entered the next chamber, he nearly walked back out.
The room was a sensual fever dream.
A circular table floated in midair, low and wide, hovering above a shallow pool of steam.
Beneath the surface, red lotus petals drifted over glowing stone. The air was warm and sweet—laced with cinnamon, rose, and something more primal. Spices. Wine. Want.
Asmodra sat cross-legged on a divan behind the table, arms resting delicately on the edge, a thin chain draped across her lap like a discarded ribbon.
She was barefoot now, her gown shorter, split at the thigh, exposing smooth legs and faint sigils that pulsed with dim firelight.
"Sit," she said, as if it were obvious.
"I'm not hungry."
"Then eat anyway. You'll need your strength."
"For what?"
She smiled. "Escape attempts are exhausting."
Rein's jaw tightened.
But his stomach betrayed him with a quiet growl.
Asmodra's eyes lit with amusement.
"I had the palace prepare your favorites."
"You don't know my favorites."
"I asked your memories."
He stopped mid-step. "What?"
"The walls remember things you don't think to guard. I plucked them while you slept."
"That's invasive."
"That's love."
Rein stared at her. She stared back. Neither blinked.
He sat—reluctantly—at the edge of the steaming pool where a narrow bridge connected to the hovering table.
Asmodra gestured.
A plate floated toward him.
Bread still warm.
Glazed root slices.
Firefruit dipped in clover sugar.
Roasted moonberry fowl, basted with honey and vinegar.
Every scent stabbed directly into his hunger like a blade into bone.
He hesitated.
She picked up a small piece of fruit, held it between two fingers, and extended her hand across the table.
"Let me," she said.
He stared at it.
Then at her.
Her lips were slightly parted.
The air around them pulsed faintly.
He opened his mouth to argue—then closed it.
The fruit touched his tongue.
Sweet. Explosive. Complex. It melted almost immediately.
His breath hitched.
Her eyes locked on his, glowing faintly with something both hungry and deeply pleased.
"I could feed you every day," she murmured. "For centuries."
"I can use a fork."
"You could," she agreed. "But why reach for tools when you can reach for me?"
More food floated toward him—meats, sauces, perfectly seasoned roots.
Rein reluctantly took a second bite.
Then a third. T
hen devoured half a plate.
Asmodra purred.
"You were starving."
"I didn't know."
"I did."
The chain across her lap clinked gently as she leaned forward.
"It thrills me to know I can please you."
"You also destroyed my village."
"Balance," she said with a smile.
She reached for a cup of wine—dark, thick, almost syrupy.
Took a sip.
Then another.
Then offered it to him.
He took it cautiously.
Drank.
It was too sweet. Too rich. But warm. And—
His head spun.
"You drugged this."
"Merely numbed the spells in your blood. No more talking shadows in the mirror. No more vine whispers."
He set the cup down slowly.
She reached for him.
This time, he didn't back away.
Her hand cupped his cheek.
"You're softer than I imagined," she said. "So fragile. So bright."
Then—she kissed him again.
It wasn't gentle.
Her fingers slid through his hair, her lips pressing harder, teeth grazing his bottom lip as if testing his resistance—not to see if he'd fight, but if he'd melt.
He didn't melt.
But he didn't pull away.
When she broke the kiss, her eyes glowed with something like triumph.
"Progress," she whispered. "Next time, I'll taste your heart."