Page 23 of The Salvation

Fightingfor her and fucking her were the first two stages.

Now, I will mark her. A mark only meant for a true queen. One my brothers will accept, and fuck them if they get their asses hurt over it.

Once she wears my blood crest, it will grant her more protection. When this is done, no one, short of a god, will be able to fuck my little dove. My Curse-brothers, alone, may transcend the mark. And Kronos, but we’d raise hell from the bowels of the world before we let him anywhere near her pretty cunt again.

She is our half-soul, unifying us, re-birthing us, saving us. Even though my soul could never possibly be saved. Damned long before Kronos.

All eyes rivet on us, including vampires with their cocks still locked in a dark, wet chamber, male or female. Unlike Mayce’s pleasure-driven Court of Earth, mine thrives on power. Power of the altar binding to our essence. Those stones have accepted her blood. Even now, they still pulse a heartbeat into our bodies. My only regret is how her blood has not simply united with myessence inside the altar. It’s united with Malachor’s. I grit my teeth, jaw hardening at the unavoidable circumstance.

But I am the God of Blood. My blood reigns supreme in the ancient vessel, the first artifact constructed in the Court of Hollows. Mayce has his damn tree. Kyan has his mountain peaks. Drago has his fucking dragon.

This is mine. Malachor’s essence bows to mine. An echo. A mere footnote of history. I am the present.

And she is our future.

I don’t pull out of her, but I do lower my claw, the telltale sharpened tip, soak it in her vaginal blood, then position the blood-soaked tip to the swell of her breast. Her eyes widen with recognition.

“Steady, my queen.” The encouraging words are all I give her. My cock hardens like iron armor at the thought of marking her with her own blood as my ink.

I cover her tit with my other hand, pulling the ripe little mound to the side to give me the full swell of her luscious breast, where my mark rests.

The moment I cut her, slicing my claw just beneath the surface of her skin, dark pleasure, birthed from a depraved place in my heart and soul—from a history of sadistic torture donetome and donebyme—quickens my bloodstream.

Fuck, she barely flinches. Despite her chest heaving with ragged breaths, Quintessa shows her true strength and the masochism that fucking recognizes mine. Hers rivals mine. Fuck, this girl, she absorbs the punishment into her blood, welcomes it kissing its way beyond her heart until it hunts down her very soul. She takes our darkness, degradation, and depravity. Sucks it all down, swallows every poisonous drop. And fucking loves it.

Our little queen lives for the extremes of every moment. For, where there is the greatest pain, inconceivable pleasure willalso find her. In some ways, she will always carry that sense of numbness inside her, including the fear of returning to that nightmare of ghostliness.

And every moment, we monsters will show her how she’s still alive—with our teeth, our claws, and our cocks.

I let each drip of blood fall onto the altar. I collect her tears. And recognize how cutting her is different. Just as when I marked her in Drago’s dungeon—however I wanted to deny it. Brooding over it for weeks, stalking her from the shadows because all I wanted to do was rip open her pretty chest, snap her rib cage, and unearth her heart to dissect it and learn what the fuck was different about it compared to any other being I’d ever cut.

Two reasons alone stopped me. Drago’s claim. And I smirk because I didn’t wish to destroy the pale beauty of her dove tits and their rosy pink buds—ones that grew taut whenever I eye-fucked her.

I focus, collect more blood from her pussy, staying hard and locked inside her wet, hot channel. Now and then, she squeezes around me, and I simply narrow my eyes in a warning, but her mischievous and too-innocent smile surges paint to my balls.

Not until I finish this.

Line by line, the crest takes its shape, bleeding with new life. The upside-down triangle serves as the center motif. I’ve added the significant two dashes. One, open closer to the upside-down triangle base. The closed one nearer the top forms a smaller triangle. Every mark I make holds purpose and meaning.

Sinuous lines curl from the center of the triangle—ornate filigree patterns that mirror the vast and intricate network of vessels and veins forming the bloodstream. Symbolic of the beauty and danger of my power. The nature of life and death. And my immortal force.

It would be simple to use my power in these moments and command the mark to appear and seal to her flesh. But the altar demands blood and pain as I do. The power force of the Blood Crest will only sanction her being with its protective seal through this process to prove her worth.

Besides...I’m a damned devil who won’t deny myself the opportunity to feed on her pain.

Sweat sheens her skin. Torment creases her brow. Silent tears clot her eyes and seek her cheeks. But she never protests, nor does she look away. Those silvery eyes stalk mine, uniting to share the deeper bond. My tortured queen.

When I take my claw to begin the final two symbols, the first cut sends me spiraling into a nightmarish abyss.

Serpents. Serpents.

The antithesis of my heavenly lover. Too many tangling and biting his flesh, injecting their venom, poisoning him. Too much blood. They’ve paralyzed him. He can’t possibly fight back.

I feel those bites down to my undead heart. The burning pain infects my soul, festering as I watch Malachor play his sick games, punishing me most with this, torturing me for my defiance.

They attack his wings. Fangs stabbing. Venom spreading. Kyan’s pulse slows. Unlike me, Malachor won’t test his ability to survive and become a plaything. Not when he can deliver the corpse of the God of Air right to the doorway of the angels’ floating isle palace.

Blood streams down his wings. More fangs. More venom.

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