The queen's thighs still ached.
Hours had passed since her husband took her in their marital bed—rough, graceless, exhausted from war but eager to reclaim what he thought was his. His seed clung inside her, cooling slowly, mixing with Damien's mark in a cruel cocktail of ownership.
And still, the crown pulsed.
Low, constant, like a heartbeat echoing in her cunt.
Seraphina sat in the sunlight-drenched salon alongside the noble wives, every one of them dressed in their finest silk and their most careful smiles. A servant poured tea. Birds chirped outside the open windows. It was all maddeningly peaceful—on the surface.
Beneath it? Terror.
Rosalind stirred honey into her cup with a lazy elegance, perched on the edge of a loveseat like a courtesan playing at innocence.
"Isn't today exciting?" she asked no one in particular.
No one answered.
Miranda sat stiffly, her hands folded in her lap, but the subtle twitch of her fingers betrayed her. Her jeweled choker—designed by Rosalind, gifted by the queen—glimmered at the base of her throat. A sacred ornament, supposedly. A symbol of devotion.
Seraphina knew better.
It pulsed with Miranda's heartbeat, just like her own crown. And this morning, the little ring on Rosalind's finger had started glowing.
The Inquisition had begun.
Each noble wife had received an invitation that morning: a personal evaluation, conducted privately, by High Inquisitor Celeste herself. "To assess the purity and spiritual condition of each noble lady," the letter read. "To safeguard the holiness of His Majesty's court."
A holy inspection. A sacred probing.
Miranda was first.
"You've barely touched your tea," Seraphina said gently, masking her own tension beneath a regal facade. "Is something the matter?"
Miranda's lips were pale. "No, Your Majesty. I simply... I didn't sleep well."
"She was praying," Rosalind said sweetly. "Weren't you, Miranda? Up all night, whispering confessions?"
The older woman flushed. Her thighs clenched, imperceptibly.
Margaret coughed, sipping her tea far too quickly. Elmore stared out the window. Catherine only raised her cup to her lips and kept her eyes lowered, the silver glint of her nipple-chain faintly visible beneath her gown when she shifted.
They were all breaking in different ways.
And Celeste hadn't even truly begun.
A footman entered the salon with a bow. "Lady Miranda. The High Inquisitor awaits."
Miranda stood. Her knees trembled.
---
The Tower of Reflection was quiet.
Its stone corridors had no tapestries, no servants bustling to and fro. Only silence and the rhythmic strike of Celeste's heels on marble. High Inquisitor Celeste moved like judgment made flesh—calm, elegant, inevitable.
Inside the circular chamber, Miranda knelt, hands folded in her lap, posture perfect. Her blonde curls were pulled back into a modest braid, lips pale, eyes downcast.
And beneath her gown, the vibrating choker hummed softly, triggered the moment the door closed behind her.
"Lady Miranda," Celeste said, stepping into the chamber. "Daughter of House Vellin. Widow to the late Duke Harrowmere."
"Yes, High Inquisitor." Miranda bowed her head further.
Celeste sat across from her, the only other furniture in the room a simple wooden table. No ink. No parchment. No guards. Just Miranda, Celeste, and the truth.
"Tell me, Lady Miranda," Celeste said, her voice smooth and unhurried. "How did you occupy your time during the king's absence?"
Miranda's throat was dry. The choker pulsed again, and she clenched her thighs beneath her gown.
"I... attended gatherings with the other noblewomen. We formed a circle of support. The queen led it."
"Indeed." Celeste smiled. "Support for what, precisely?"
Miranda's mind scrambled. She had rehearsed this with Rosalind, with Damien. Practiced every line.
"For each other's mental health. It was a dark time, with rumors of the king's death. We leaned on one another."
"That explains your frequent absences from court duties. But not your transformation." Celeste leaned forward. "You've lost weight. Your eyes are tired. And your aura..." She tilted her head. "Flickers."
Miranda blinked. "My aura?"
Celeste's smile didn't reach her eyes. "The Tower taught me to see beyond flesh. I see your soul—and it's frayed, Lady Miranda. Like something's gnawed at it."
The choker surged. Miranda bit her lip.
"You're sweating," Celeste noted, her voice cool and clinical. "The room is not warm."
"I... I'm nervous, High Inquisitor."
"As you should be."
Celeste stood slowly and walked around the table. Behind Miranda. She didn't touch her—but Miranda could feel her, like a storm cloud pressed against her back.
"Your husband died two years ago," Celeste said softly. "And yet, you wear no black. You flirt at court. You glow like a woman freshly touched."
Miranda's breath hitched. The choker was pulsing constantly now, a heartbeat that didn't belong to her own.
"Lady Miranda. Do you pleasure yourself?"
"What?" she gasped, scandalized.
"Simple question. When you're alone. In your bed. With your fingers."
"I... no! Of course not!"
Celeste stepped closer. "Lie again, and I will know."
Miranda shivered. The choker buzzed hard at the threat. Her thighs were wet now—Rosalind had warned her this could happen, had even encouraged it.
"Yes," Miranda whispered. "Sometimes."
Celeste exhaled like a disappointed teacher. "I expected more discipline."
"It's not... I didn't mean to—"
"With whom do you fantasize?"
Miranda squeezed her legs tighter. "No one."
Celeste crouched beside her now. Her breath brushed Miranda's ear. "Not even Damien?"
Miranda's head snapped up, eyes wide. The choker jolted—violently.
"You think I don't see it?" Celeste whispered. "How he watches you? How your eyes follow him like a starved bitch?"
"No—"
"Yes. I've seen your mouth part when he walks by. I've watched you squirm at banquets. You reek of lust."
"I—I'm not—"
"Not what? A slut?"
Miranda gasped.
Celeste stood again. "Remove your gown."
Miranda froze. "What?"
"I am the High Inquisitor. You will strip. Now."
Her hands trembled as she reached for the clasps. The choker never stopped. By the time her gown pooled around her knees, she was naked but for the jewelry—a noblewoman kneeling like a servant.
Celeste walked around her again, inspecting. She touched the choker with a gloved finger.
"Magic," she murmured. "Subtle. You claim to be a faithful widow—yet wear a device designed for carnal torture."
"It was... a gift," Miranda stammered.
"From whom?"
She said nothing.
"Was it Damien?" Celeste asked. "Or the queen? Or that false maiden Rosalind?"
Still, silence.
Celeste nodded. "So we begin."
---
The wall behind Miranda shimmered. A false panel dissolved to reveal a two-way mirror. Behind it, Damien watched with arms folded. Rosalind stood beside him, licking honey from her fingertip.
"She's breaking faster than expected," Rosalind murmured.
"Celeste knows how to dig," Damien said. "She just doesn't know who laid the bait."
The interrogation chamber now had only one source of light: a holy lamp hanging above Miranda's trembling body.
Celeste stepped behind her and whispered a prayer.
Suddenly, white magic crackled across Miranda's skin. Her body spasmed, nipples stiffening as heat rolled down her spine. The choker responded with synchronized pulses.
"I sanctify your flesh to strip away lies," Celeste murmured.
Miranda whimpered. "Please..."
"Confess, and the pain will stop."
"It's not pain," Miranda gasped, rocking on her knees. "It's—"
"Yes?"
"Pleasure," she sobbed. "It won't stop..."
"Because you don't want it to." Celeste's voice was silk. "You want to be used. Broken. Like the rest of them."
Miranda clenched her fists. Her thighs were soaked now, juices glistening in the holy light.
"Say his name," Celeste whispered. "The man who touched you."
"Damien," Miranda moaned.
"Say what he did to you."
"He... he trained me. He made me cum until I forgot my name. He put the choker on me. Said I'd never be proper again."
"And did you resist?"
"I begged for more," Miranda cried. "Even when I hated myself, I begged."
"Good girl," Celeste cooed—and her hand came down hard on Miranda's ass.
A holy slap. Miranda screamed.
Behind the mirror, Rosalind giggled. "Oh, she's enjoying this."
Damien nodded. "It's time."
He pressed a rune on the control box. The choker roared to life.
---
Miranda collapsed forward, palms slapping the cold stone floor. Her hips writhed as the choker overloaded her system. Orgasm after orgasm tore through her. Celeste didn't stop it.
"You're tainted," the Inquisitor said calmly. "A whore who pretends at nobility."
Miranda moaned into the floor. Her nipples dragged against it with each buck of her hips.
"Tell me what you are," Celeste said.
"I'm... I'm a slave."
"To whom?"
"To Damien. To the queen. To pleasure!"
Celeste stood over her, spreading Miranda's cheeks with clinical detachment.
"You've been fucked here," she observed.
Miranda nodded shamefully. "Rosalind used a toy... Damien watched."
"Good."
Celeste stepped back. "Put your gown back on. And go to the next chamber."
Miranda looked up, dazed. "Next?"
Celeste smiled for the first time. "You're the first, my dear. Not the last."
As Miranda struggled to her feet, her thighs still quivering, Celeste turned toward the mirror.
"Tell your master," she whispered aloud, "that his corruption runs deep. But I intend to follow it all the way to its root."
---