Jude stood under the twin moons of Vel'Drath, bare-chested, surrounded by scents that didn't exist on Earth—lush and intoxicating, like honey wine mixed with smoke and something… animal.
Before him stood three of the most dangerous women he'd ever seen.
They called it the Initiation of Skin and Sin, a ritual designed not just to welcome an Outworlder, but to test his endurance—his potential. His soul.
The succubus was first. Her name was Selkha, and her curves defied gravity, wrapped in barely-there silk that shimmered like heat mirages. Her eyes glowed like gold dipped in venom, and her voice could melt through steel.
She circled him like a predator. Every sway of her hips was a calculated spell, every finger brushing his skin left him a little more undone.
"You're tense," she whispered, dragging her claws down his spine—sharp enough to sting, soft enough to leave him wanting more. "Let me unmake you."
He opened his mouth to reply—but gasped instead.
Selkha's tongue flicked along his neck again, hotter than fire, and her breath filled his lungs like drugged perfume. Magic danced through her touch. It wasn't just seduction. It was a pull—a magnetic, primal need winding tighter and tighter in his gut.
Then she was in front of him. Her lips hovered a breath from his.
"If you kiss me, mortal, the rite begins. There's no safe word in Vel'Drath. Only surrender."
He didn't hesitate.
Their mouths met in a clash of need and power. Her kiss wasn't gentle—it was claiming. Her body pressed to his, breasts soft and heavy against his chest, one leg hooking around his hip. Heat flared between them like a spell unraveling.
That's when the elf stepped in.
Lirae, High Priestess of the Moon Bough, was all elegance and menace. Her silver hair flowed like a waterfall, and intricate tattoos glowed across her bare skin with every heartbeat.
She raised a hand. "Enough teasing, Selkha. He needs to feel true magic."
Before Jude could process that, Lirae pressed her palm against his bare chest—and his mind exploded with sensation.
It wasn't pain. It wasn't pleasure. It was everything. A thousand nerves set ablaze as raw magic surged into him. Every inch of skin became hypersensitive—every brush, every breath, a trembling storm of need.
He dropped to one knee, panting. "What… what was that?"
"A taste," she whispered, crouching before him. "And there's so much more to take."
Behind them, the wolf-eared woman growled low in her throat. Rakka, they called her. Half-wild, all hunger. She cracked her knuckles and stalked forward.
"Enough of this foreplay. I want to hear him beg."