Categories > Original > Erotica > Bound in Shadows
“You’re in Hell, dear. We’ve met before, albeit briefly. It’s Malvolia.”
Drystan recognized her name—his father often mentioned her as a considerable threat. She was a major problem for them, he surmised.
With surprising strength, Malvolia pulled him up from the chair. He felt like dead weight, unable to move, yet she lifted him effortlessly.
“Let’s get you out of this cold room. You’re an angel, after all; let’s treat you with some respect.”
Malvolia guided him out of the cell, practically carrying him the entire way.
The new room was a stark contrast to the cell. It was a cozy living room, castle-like and Victorian in style, with gothic touches. The atmosphere was dim and warm, a comforting change from the cold concrete.
Drystan almost nodded in thanks before he remembered that this was the enemy.
Cruel, murderous, destructive.
These were the words his father, Charley—God—had used to describe Malvolia.
Deceitful. Arrogant.
He watched as she walked out of the living room, wondering where she was going and why she had left him alone. He quickly realized that he was in no physical state to escape.
A slut. A whore. A witch.
But he couldn’t reconcile these words with the woman before him.
To him, she seemed soft, almost kind. Her demeanor was welcoming. He remembered her hand on his neck—soft, gentle. His stomach twisted.
He quickly changed his thoughts.
This woman, he said to himself, is a bitch.
Drystan recognized her name—his father often mentioned her as a considerable threat. She was a major problem for them, he surmised.
With surprising strength, Malvolia pulled him up from the chair. He felt like dead weight, unable to move, yet she lifted him effortlessly.
“Let’s get you out of this cold room. You’re an angel, after all; let’s treat you with some respect.”
Malvolia guided him out of the cell, practically carrying him the entire way.
The new room was a stark contrast to the cell. It was a cozy living room, castle-like and Victorian in style, with gothic touches. The atmosphere was dim and warm, a comforting change from the cold concrete.
Drystan almost nodded in thanks before he remembered that this was the enemy.
Cruel, murderous, destructive.
These were the words his father, Charley—God—had used to describe Malvolia.
Deceitful. Arrogant.
He watched as she walked out of the living room, wondering where she was going and why she had left him alone. He quickly realized that he was in no physical state to escape.
A slut. A whore. A witch.
But he couldn’t reconcile these words with the woman before him.
To him, she seemed soft, almost kind. Her demeanor was welcoming. He remembered her hand on his neck—soft, gentle. His stomach twisted.
He quickly changed his thoughts.
This woman, he said to himself, is a bitch.
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