But a moment later, it becomes obvious. I feel suction—gentle at first and then harder. At the same time, it feels like two delicate tongues are licking me—teasing my peaks to make me squirm.
And I certainly am squirming! Just a moment ago I was having a terrible flashback to the way Old Man Oak had grabbed me with his vines. Now my thoughts have switched and I’m remembering how Valen sucked my nipples last night in the cave when he healed me.
I try to fight the strange, illicit feelings the blooms are giving me, but it’s a losing battle. Already beneath the water I can feel my pussy getting hot and wet. Oh my Goddess, what’s wrong with me? I should be hating this. But somehow I can’t resist the pleasure the two naughty flowers are giving me. Their little tongues are doing things that make me gasp and thrash in the tub.
And then another vine rises to hover in front of my face. I stare at it uncertainty—it has a single blood-red blossom right on the very end. The blossom seems to be moving—almost pulsating. It purses its petals—which look almost like lips—and makes a kissing sound at me.
“What are you?” I ask it aloud, though of course it can’t answer. “And what do you want from me?”
As if in answer, the red blossom sways seductively—almost hypnotically—in midair.
“What do you think you’re going to—” I start.
And that’s when the red blossom dives into the water, right between my thighs.
45
VALEN
I stalk down the endless hallway of polished, living wood, my bare feet whispering against the grain. This whole place feels… watchful. The high arched ceiling bows overhead, reminding me of the ribs of a giant beast. Knotted faces form in the planks when I’m not looking. Every time I turn my head, they’re gone—but I can feel them staring, just behind my shoulder.
I fucking hate it.
There are doors on either side—smooth, seamless slabs that somehow blend into the walls with no handles and no hinges. Just blank-faced barriers that won’t budge no matter how hard I push. I try a few anyway, slamming my palm against the grain, willing something—anything—to give.
But I get nothing. Not until I reach the very end of the corridor.
There, one door hangs slightly ajar. Just cracked enough to leak a pale golden light around the edges. The wood glows faintly, as if lit from within. It almost feels like an invitation.
I narrow my eyes.
“Well, fuck it,” I mutter under my breath. “Might as well see what secrets you’re hiding.”
I push the door open, and the scent hits me first. My sensitive nose wrinkles—it’s not just one scent—it’s many.
Rosewater and burning sage…iron filings and earth…honey gone sharp with fermentation. None of them go together but they all linger in the air, which buzzes faintly with energy.
More magic—a hell of a lot of it. The fine hairs on my arms are prickling in response.
I look inside.
The room is circular—domed high above with interlaced branches and glowing glass globes that float without chains to anchor them, casting ever-shifting light. Shadows shift lazily across the floor. I step inside slowly, my gaze sweeping across the chaos.
It’s a workroom—a fucking sorceress’s playground. Of that, I have no doubt.
Tables—long, narrow, and crooked—are stacked with tomes and scrolls, some open, some bound in iron clasps. Ink-stained quills write in midair with no hand to guide them. One of them scratches a looping sigil into parchment that smokes and curls at the edges.
I pace forward, slow and silent, letting my gaze land on object after object but I’m careful not to touch.
A glass jar pulses softly on a nearby shelf, filled with what looks like glowing moths—until one flutters too close to the side and a tiny mouth opens in its belly, revealing a circle of needle-like teeth. Fucking lovely. Dream-eaters? Soul larva? I don’t know—but I’m not touching the damn thing.
A mirror sits propped against the far wall, tall and narrow, with a gilded edge. It reflects nothing but fog—swirling silver and violet, like trapped storm clouds. When I shift left, the fog moves right. When I shift right, it moves left. It follows me…watches me. I flip it off. Let whatever is watching think about that for a while.
Further into the room, a small black box rests on a pedestal, humming faintly. There’s a single button on top, etched with a red spiral that winds inwards in a hypnotic loop. I lean close and listen—there’s music coming from inside—a woman singing low and mournful in a language I don’t understand. For some reason, it makes my chest ache.
I move on.
On another table, a row of stoppered vials glows in every shade of blue, from pale sky to deepest navy. One of them leaks something thick and silver that’s eating a hole in the wooden plank below it. It hisses faintly and the other bottles tremble, as if in sympathy. Yeah—it’s definitely not perfume.
