The sanctuary had been prepared for her destruction.
Candles burned in every corner, casting writhing shadows against walls draped in crimson.
The air was thick with frankincense and musk and the particular salt-sweet scent of male arousal. Eve knelt on the altar platform — naked, bound, her body already marked by previous sessions, her mind fractured into perfect, willing submission.
Brothers Marcus and Thomas stood before her, dressed in black, their collars tight against throats that worked with visible hunger.
Between them, they held the instruments of her final purification: oil, warmed and golden; restraints, leather and velvet; and their own bodies, hard and demanding and ready to complete her corruption.
"Confess," Marcus commanded, his voice the gravel of a man who had aban
