Reborn as a Succubus: Time To Live My Best Life!

Melisa sat on Sirah's bed, staring at the tent wall like it might suddenly reveal the meaning of life.

[She let me say no. She actually let me say no.]

... At the same time, though, Melisa's body couldn't stop remembering every single second of what happened earlier—the stretch, the burn, the mind-melting pleasure of Sirah's pierced cock hitting spots she didn't know existed.

[NO! Bad Melisa! Do NOT think about how her cock split you in half earlier!]

Too late. Her thighs clenched on their own.

[FUCK. Maybe I should have just... No. No, that's Stockholm syndrome talking. Or just regular horny syndrome. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.]

She shifted on the furs, trying to get comfortable, but every movement reminded her of the soreness between her legs. The good kind of soreness that made her want to hate herself for enjoying it.

[Get it together, Melisa. You're a prisoner, not on a kinky vacation.]

The tent flap opened. Sirah walked in, her shoulder freshly bandaged, carrying what looked like a few leather straps that were apparently cosplaying as clothing.

"Put this on."

Melisa held up the "outfit." It was basically a bikini made of leather triangles and wishful thinking.

"You're joking."

"Does it look like I'm joking?"

No. No, she absolutely did not.

Melisa stripped and squeezed into the scraps of leather. The top barely covered her nipples, and she was pretty sure if she breathed in too deeply, they'd pop right out. The bottom was a thong that left exactly nothing to the imagination. She'd worn skimpy stuff before (at Isabella's behest, usually), but this was next-level exhibitionism.

"Where are we going?"

"The Blood Hall. There are formalities."

"What kind of formalities?"

Sirah's smile was all teeth and zero comfort.

"You'll see. Come."

They walked through the camp, Melisa trying not to think about how her ass was basically on display for anyone with functioning eyeballs. Warriors openly stared. Some nodded to Sirah with the kind of respect you gave someone who could gut you without breaking a sweat. Others looked at Melisa like she was a particularly appetizing piece of meat.

[Just another Tuesday in captivity. At least I'm not dead. Yet.]

A few whistles followed them, and Melisa caught fragments of conversation that made her skin crawl.

"Look at those tits on the Blood Sister's prize."

"I'd like to get my hands on that ass."

"Maybe she'll share after the ceremony."

Sirah's hand tightened on Melisa's wrist, and suddenly the comments stopped. Interesting.

The Blood Hall was exactly what it sounded like—a massive structure that couldn't decide if it wanted to be a temple or a tavern. Stone pillars carved with battle scenes that were way too detailed supported a high ceiling. Long tables filled with rowdy darians occupied most of the space. At the far end, an altar dripped with what Melisa really, really hoped was wine.

Every single head turned when they entered.

"Blood Sister!" someone called out, raising a horn of something alcoholic. "You bring your prize!"

Cheers erupted like they were at a fucking football game. Melisa's skin crawled.

Sirah led her to the center of the hall where a circle had been carved into the stone floor. Dark stains suggested this wasn't used for dancing. Or anything fun, really.

"So," Melisa said, trying to keep her voice steady. "What exactly are these formalities?"

A woman stepped forward from the crowd. Tall, muscled like she bench-pressed boulders for fun, with scars crisscrossing her arms. Her dark eyes fixed on Melisa with the kind of hunger that made Melisa want to hide behind something. Anything.

"I challenge the Blood Sister's claim!"

"Like this, for example," Sirah muttered, already reaching for her sword.

The crowd roared approval. Someone actually started taking bets, because apparently death matches were prime entertainment around here.

"Wait, what?" Melisa stepped back, bumping into a wall of spectators. "Challenge? What challenge?"

Sirah was already drawing her sword with the casual air of someone uncapping a pen.

"Grasha clearly thinks she deserves you more than I do." Her tone was conversational, like discussing the weather. "She's wrong."

Grasha pulled out her own blade—a wicked curved thing that looked designed for maximum pain and minimum quick deaths.

"The nim mage would be wasted warming your bed," Grasha sneered, spinning her sword in a show-offy move. "I'll put her to better use."

"No, you won't."

Sirah's voice dropped to a growl that made Melisa's knees go weak for entirely the wrong reasons.

They started circling each other like predators sizing up their prey. The crowd pressed closer, forming a living arena that trapped Melisa at the edge of the circle between bloodthirsty spectators who smelled like sweat and violence.

[This is insane. They're fighting over me like I'm a fucking trophy.]

Grasha struck first, her blade singing through the air with a sound that promised swift death. Sirah parried so easily it looked choreographed, the clash of steel ringing through the hall.

"Too slow," Sirah taunted, not even breathing hard.

She spun, bringing her sword around in a vicious arc that would've taken Grasha's head clean off if she hadn't gotten her guard up. The impact drove her back three steps.

They traded blows, each strike precise and deadly. But Melisa could tell Sirah was toying with her opponent like a cat with a particularly stupid mouse. Every movement was calculated for maximum spectacle.

[She's showing off. For me.]

The realization hit like a bucket of ice water. This wasn't just about defending a claim. Sirah was putting on a performance.

"Come on, Grasha!" someone shouted from the crowd. "Make it interesting!"

"Blood Sister's just playing with her food!"

Grasha's face twisted with rage and embarrassment. She lunged forward, overextending herself in a desperate attempt to land a killing blow. Sirah sidestepped like she was dodging a drunk toddler and brought her elbow down on Grasha's wrist with a crack that made Melisa wince.

The curved sword clattered across the floor, spinning to a stop near the altar.

"Yield," Sirah said, her blade kissing Grasha's throat.

"Never."

Grasha dove for her weapon with the kind of desperation that meant she knew exactly how fucked she was. Sirah's sword moved in a silver blur.

Blood sprayed across the circle in an arc that painted half the spectators.

Grasha's head rolled to a stop at Melisa's feet, eyes still wide with surprise and the kind of shock that comes with sudden decapitation. The body collapsed like a marionette with cut strings, pumping red onto the ancient stones.

The crowd erupted in cheers that made Melisa's ears ring. Someone slapped her on the back so hard she stumbled forward.

"Blood Sister keeps her prize!"

"Grasha should've known better than to challenge her!"

Melisa stared at the head by her feet. Just minutes ago, this woman had been alive, breathing, wanting to claim Melisa for herself. Now she was meat, bone, and rapidly cooling blood.

Sirah wiped her blade clean on Grasha's shirt, taking her sweet time about it.

"Any other challenges?" Silence stretched through the hall like a held breath. "Good." She sheathed her sword and grabbed Melisa's wrist with a grip that brooked no argument. "Come. We drink to victory."

She dragged Melisa to one of the tables where warriors scrambled to make room like she was royalty. Someone shoved a horn of ale into Melisa's numb fingers before she could protest.

"To the Blood Sister!" someone shouted, raising their drink.

"To her prize!" another added with a leer that made Melisa want to punch something.

Everyone drank. Melisa brought the horn to her lips but barely tasted the bitter liquid. Her eyes kept drifting to the circle where Grasha's body was already being dragged away by a couple of bored-looking servants.

Sirah's hand landed on Melisa's thigh, possessive and warm through the ridiculous leather scraps.

"You're mine now," she announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. "And now, they all know it."