The branding chamber is a stone-walled cell deep beneath the estate, lit by a single iron brazier glowing red with coals. I’m strapped face-down to a metal table, leather cuffs binding my wrists and ankles, my naked body trembling against the cold steel.
The air smells of charred wood and my own fear-slicked sweat, but my p***y throbs, traitorously wet, as Elias masked as always circles me with a branding iron, its tip glowing white-hot. The coven watches from the shadows, their black robes blending into the dark, their breaths heavy with anticipation.
His gloved hand grazes my spine, trailing down to my ass, still tender from the forest hunt.
“Night four, Seraphina,” he says, voice low, distorted by the silver mask.
“Tonight, the covenant claims you forever.” He spreads my cheeks,
