Consciousness returned slowly, like surfacing from deep, drugged water. Ethan's head throbbed. His wrists ached. When he tried to move, cold iron bit into his skin.
He was chained—arms stretched above his head, ankles shackled to the stone floor. The chamber was dimly lit by flickering violet flames that burned without fuel in wall sconces. The air smelled of damp earth, incense, and something darker—old blood and spent desire.
He was naked, vulnerable, in the center of a circular crypt carved deep beneath the earth. Ancient runes glowed faintly along the walls, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
Seven women stood around him in a loose ring.
All shared the same unnatural pallor, the same void-black eyes that drank the light. Their beauty was sharp and predatory—high cheekbones, full lips painted midnight blue, long hair in shades of raven and obsidian. They wore sheer black silks that clung to voluptuous bodies, nipples dark and visible through the fabric, hips swaying with deliberate menace.
But one dominated the space completely.
She stood at least seven feet tall, towering over even the others. Her name, he would learn, was Vaeloria. Broad-shouldered and powerfully built, yet still unmistakably feminine—massive breasts straining against her silk, thighs thick as tree trunks, long muscular arms that could crush stone. Her hair fell in a straight black sheet to her waist. When she stepped forward, the floor seemed to tremble.
Nyra—the one from the feast—stood at her right, smirking. "Welcome to the Obsidian Vault, Breeder. You are far from Willowmere's soft lights now."
Ethan tested the chains again. They didn't budge. "What do you want with me?"
Vaeloria's voice was deep, resonant, almost amused. "What we have always wanted. Your seed. Your power. Your life."
She circled him slowly, the others parting for her like lesser predators before an alpha. One long finger trailed down his chest, over his stomach, stopping just above his cock.
"We are not the pathetic hundreds who skulk in shadows and strike in the dark," she continued. "We are the Seven—the inner circle. The true heirs of the old betrayal. And tonight, you belong to me first."
The others watched with hungry silence as Vaeloria knelt—still towering over him even on her knees—and wrapped one massive hand around his shaft. Her grip was iron, cool, unyielding. She stroked slowly, expertly, waiting for the reaction every woman in Elysara had drawn from him so easily.
But nothing happened.
Ethan felt the touch—felt the skill—but his body remained stubbornly soft. No stirring, no heat, no hardening. The drug from the thorn still lingered, or perhaps the chains, the fear, the sheer wrongness of this place suppressed him.
Vaeloria's brow arched. She increased the pressure, thumb circling the head, other hand cupping his balls with possessive weight.
Still nothing.
A low chuckle rippled through the six watchers.
Nyra stepped closer. "It seems the Breeder resists."
Vaeloria's black eyes narrowed—not with anger, but dark delight. "Resists? Good. That will make breaking him sweeter."
She rose to her full height, looming until Ethan had to crane his neck to meet her gaze. With a single motion she tore away her silk top, revealing breasts larger than his head—full, heavy, nipples thick and dark as obsidian. She pressed forward, smothering his face between them, the cool flesh enveloping him completely.
"Breathe me in," she commanded, voice vibrating through her chest. "Feel what you deny."
Ethan struggled for air, the scent of her—smoke and night-blooming flowers—filling his lungs. Her hands gripped the chains above his wrists, pulling them taut so his body stretched helplessly.
When she pulled back, his cock remained limp.
The other six closed in now, a circle of pale hands and hungry mouths. Fingers pinched his nipples. Tongues traced his throat, his hips, the sensitive skin behind his knees. Nyra knelt and took him fully into her mouth, sucking with practiced skill while two others licked and teased his balls.
Still nothing.
Vaeloria watched, arms crossed beneath her massive breasts, a slow smile spreading.
"He will not rise for force," she declared. "Not tonight. The thorn venom lingers, and his spirit fights us. But tomorrow… tomorrow he will be ready."
She gestured, and two of the women produced a narrow iron cage—small, cruel, designed for a man's cock and balls. They fitted it with practiced efficiency: his soft shaft threaded through cold bars, balls locked behind a tight ring. A small padlock clicked shut.
Ethan hissed at the confinement, the metal already biting.
Vaeloria leaned down until her lips brushed his ear.
"This cage will remind you of us every moment," she whispered. "It will keep you aching, desperate. By tomorrow the venom will fade. Your body will betray you. And when you are hard—throbbing, leaking, begging—I will ride you until you spill everything inside me. Your seed. Your strength. Your last breath."
She straightened, turning to the others. "Chain him lower. Let him kneel through the night. We will return at dawn."
Heavy links rattled as his arms were lowered until he was forced into a kneeling position—head bowed, cage dangling between his spread thighs. The stone was cold against his knees.
The seven women filed out, their laughter echoing softly. Nyra paused at the door, blowing him a mocking kiss.
"Sleep well, Breeder," she purred. "Dream of what comes tomorrow."
The violet flames dimmed to embers.
Ethan knelt alone in the dark, wrists and ankles chained, cock locked in unforgiving iron.
Somewhere far above, the women of Willowmere would be searching, grieving, planning rescue.
But down here, in the heart of the Obsidian Vault, only the Seven mattered.
And the tallest of them had claimed first right.
Tomorrow, she would have him—whether he wished it or not.