Alora
Alora swung the Harbinger’s bedchamber door open and froze.
Calla was sprawled across a table like an offering at a feast, her bare twilight skin glistening under candlelight as hands touched, stroked, and worshipped her. A pair of demons knelt at her sides, their tongues tracing the curve of her breasts, while another with long white hair had his face buried between her thighs.
Hadeon.
The sounds he made were positively feral, nearly drowning out the moans of another group on the bed. Silk sheets tangled around skin exposing far too much.
The chamber smelled of spice and sin, the air shimmering with heat.
Alora shrieked, stumbling back and crashing into the door. “Oh—oh dear gods!”
Every head turned. The room froze mid-motion.
Calla blinked first, then sighed through a faint, breathless laugh. “Well,” she said, brushing a lock of hair from her damp cheek, “how unexpected.”
Hadeon, ever the soldier, immediately stood at attention, lips glistening. Alora tried not to stare at the large bulge in his pants. He moved to hide Calla from view and bowed.
“My queen,” he said stiffly, voice an octave higher than usual, “Forgive us for this unfortunate…”
“Display,” Calla supplied smoothly, sitting up and reaching for a discarded black robe. “We had not anticipated a social call.”
“Of course,” Alora managed, mortified. “Forgive me. I-I’ll come back at another time!”
She slammed the door shut, leaning against it, her face burning.
“I did advise against it,” Deimos said mildly, rolling out a canvas with a set of small sharp tools beside his jars. “Perhaps next time you’ll listen,your majesty.”
She scowled at him.
But the doors opened again, and she lurched back as demons strolled out partially dressed, giggling and kissing each other as they went out the main doors.
Hadeon came next, armor back in place, expression composed. His red eyes narrowed sharply when he glanced at Deimos, putting two and two together.
The spy grinned and puffed away in a cloud of smoke.
Hadeon bowed his head. “I will see myself out, my queen.”
Then quiet fell back into place.
Alora timidly peeked past the door into the bedchamber.
Calla stood by the vestibule, pouring two goblets of wine. She chuckled. “It’s all right, please come in. Let us speak as ladies do, without the burden of titles if you wish.”
Well, she was never one for station anyway.
Alora bit her lip and hesitantly went in. “I-I’m sorry,” she cringed. “I shouldn’t have intruded in like that.”
Calla smiled. “It’s simply pleasure. We’ve all seen worse things than skin in this place.”
Not merely pleasure. Alora would have described it as acarnal ritual.
“Sit,” Calla said, gesturing toward a cushioned divan, noticeably untouched. “Have a drink with me. I am sure you have questions.”
“Seven help me, I thought you were under attack,” Alora muttered, her cheeks still hot.
Calla laughed indulgently. “In a manner of speaking, I was.”
