Page 51 of Vines of the Underworld

Can I grow to love the glowing crystal-covered spheres which move across the artificial sky more than the sun and the moon?

Something has changed inside me after the mating with Cyrell. Not only did my senses sharpen, but I got faster, too. After all, I managed to take down the undead horror in Dairell's basement. But the strangest thing is that I've started finding the Underworld… fascinating. The darkness is more welcoming, the tons of rock above my head—reassuring.

Dairell visits me occasionally, and I see Tarcyll and Diaphonus in the crowded banquet hall where we take our meals.

The days drag monotonously, and the ball approaches. The event fills me with anxiety and a thrill.

The old me, the one making herself small and invisible in order to not catch the attention of the cruel kids at school, would pop pill after pill and look for excuses not to attend. The new me, who cracks tables made of massive wood, wields magic, and entices Fae lords, wonders which color to wear.

Countless dresses lie on my bed, and I’m leaving the tub, where two silent dark elf maids have washed, scrubbed, plucked, and tormented me for something that felt like hours, making me feel like I haven't had a bath in months.

Without a word, they seat me before a massive vanity and proceed to the torture's next stage—getting me to look presentable for the nobles at the ball.

All the hair-pulling, curling, and trying on dresses worthy of an Oscar gala is worth it because the conversations in the Grand Hall mute when I enter.

An imposing winged figure stands in the eye of the storm and strides toward me, offering me his arm. A mechanical servant, looking disturbingly like an ancient version of 3PO, offers me a glass of bubbly wine, but Dairell pushes it away.

"Celeste will try the rhi'govanna." The stronger stuff, I guess, the one made of bugs and worms. We stroll among dark elf lords with glowing eyes, long white tresses, broad shoulders, and warriors' arms holding crystal glasses. Noble ladies in striking colors and exquisite makeup mingle. Some couples are dancing to a melancholic melody.

I receive my rhi'govanna, and it is as I feared, yet pleasant warmth spreads in my bones.

I notice Diaphonus among a group of stunning white-clad people, most likely the rest of the high elf delegation. All of them are breathtakingly handsome, yet he stands out. His monicker, the Fair, proves to be spot on.

A group of extravagant, white-haired ladies has Tarcyll cornered, and he seems to be enjoying the attention. Dressed in an immaculate suit in human fashion, he frequently runs his fingers through his short hair and stares in my direction.

We are not spared the social interaction. Three members of the Council start a conversation with Dairell, and I look around, distracted, taking in the decadent grandeur of the hall.

Many try to catch my eye; many males smile invitingly, and dangerous fangs flash behind ruby lips. They would rip you apart, consume you if you were not that important to us, and then fuck your cold corpse. The warning fits the atmosphere of danger perfectly, heated with curiosity and dark desires.

A tall, slender dark elf approaches me, asking for a dance. The prince, too consumed in discussion with the Elders, doesn't even notice that I accept, and the elf lord gracefully swirls me across the dance floor, the black silk chiffon of my skirts drawing enchanting symbols over the colorful mosaic floor.

I feel the heat and the tension in my dance partner's body, and he seems disappointed when he hands me to the next guest. I dance until my surroundings become blurry, a helpful hand refilling my glass with the strong bug liquor. The music is getting more intense, the dance moves heat up, and the touches of handsome elf males more daring. They all look at me as if I am an exquisite meal, and I wonder if the magic inside me tempts them or my otherness. Or my star status of a potential savior of their world.

Suddenly, I land in familiar arms.

"Celeste," Diaphonus's hot breath tickles my ear, sending heat ripples to a particular sensitive spot, "I am so grateful you are alive and well. We were so worried." I look around in the whirlpool of faces to understand who he means by "we." And there he is, hands in his pockets, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to display his athletic, tattooed forearms, smiling smugly. Tarcyll winks, and his dark eyes undress me. Before I realize what I’m doing, I press myself against the hard outlines of the priest's body, grateful that he’s holding me tight; otherwise, my knees might give in.

"I need to see you alone, Celeste," he purrs in my ear, and my nipples stiffen, rubbing against his white tunic. I know he can feel them because he responds by squeezing my lower back. "Follow me," he whispers.

The obsessive need to do something reckless, to defy Dairell's claim over me, and last but not least—to have some time alone with the beautiful high elf, destroy all remnants of common sense. We sneak away unnoticed, leaving the commotion of the party behind us. He leads me into a poorly lit side corridor. The only souls we meet are guards and the weird robotic servants.

Diaphonus opens the first door on the right and steps into the room confidently, and I realize that he has probably carefully selected the place for our rendezvous.

The scarce light of the wall sconces reflects on glasses full of pickled vegetables lined up on long shelves, massive cheese rolls and crates full of fruits are stowed away, and giant sacks of grain lie on the floor, looking just like bean bags. We are in a pantry.

Before I can ask, the elven priest kisses me like a man possessed, his slender fingers impatiently lifting the hem of my silk dress.

"Oh, Celeste," he moans against my lips when he fills his palms with my ass and realizes that I don't wear any underwear by the strict order of Dairell. I still tremble remembering the spanking I got when he found out I dared to breach his order.

His warm touch feels like returning home. My body has missed him.

Our hips grind against each other, our bodies craving more than touches. I freeze when I hear the door screech open and whip my head, expecting to see a guard or, even worse—Dairell himself, coming to punish me.

Instead, my eyes linger on sun-kissed skin covered in mystical tattoos, thick dark hair, and a body to kill for.

"Tarcyll?" I murmur. Diaphonus doesn't cease his ministrations. He pulls down the neckline of my dress, revealing my breasts, and buries his face between them.

"You didn't expect me to miss the fun, did you? You don’t mind me joining, Celeste?" the spymaster stalks toward us, his blatant erection straining his tight-fitting pants.

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