4. A Stich of Regret

The ballroom's chandelier hung off the ceiling like ugly celestial tears. Casting its fractured scattering of light over Lanie's cum-tainted bodice.

Evelyn snorted. "Witches weren’t meant for monogamy, especially not with non-magicals. How did you even stomach bedding the enemy?"

Lanie’s laugh was a blade unsheathed. "He had a tongue like a silver-tipped quill, wrote sonnets between my thighs."

"And now you...?"

"Now I’ve decided to collect sonnets." She glanced at the divorcee only to be rewarded with a smile. "Easy enough. Vintage regrets always aged better than half mortal marriages ever did."

Evelyn’s grin sharpened. "Go, get that cleanse going, darling. Let his grief scour George’s stink from your pores."

The bedroom stank of sweat and betrayal, while the bed expelled ragged creaks like regrets coming undone in the night.

*Pathetic,* Georgia hissed as Lanie unzipped Alaric’s slacks. *You’ll gag on his stench.*

"Jealousy’s unbecoming," Lanie crooned, sinking to her knees. Alaric’s cock was reasonable, veined, and predictable—a monument to acceptable mediocrity.

*He's an accountant,* Georgia sneered. *Fucks like he’s balancing ledgers.*

Lanie swallowed him whole, her gag reflex nearly nonexistent. *Mmmm…Tastes like sweet, sweet alimony, though.*

Alaric groaned, his fingers knotting in her hair. Silk straps abandoned to expose her bountiful breasts while she hollowed her cheeks.

*You're scraping the barrel,* Georgia spat. *At least I have stamina.*

Lanie pulled off with a wet pop. "Did you?" Her thumb swirled the head of Alaric’s cock.

*I recall you whimpering when I—*

*Fuck no, Georgie, I've never whimpered and* "Hush dress."

She took him deeper, gagging theatrically until tears glazed her lashes. When he came, she let it splatter across the bodice—thick streaks glazing silver thread. Georgia’s second load for the night.

"There," she sighed, smearing his filth onto where Georgia’s breasts would be. "Almost nostalgic."

On George’s side of the bed, Lanie rode Alaric cowgirl-style, the gown tangled around his ankles like a weeping lover.

*He’ll toss you out like last week’s trash,* Georgia sizzled even as her voice cracked with her pain, the seams tightening with every bounce of Lanie’s hips. *Just like you did to me tonight.*

"Quiet. Don't distract me from the cock," Lanie gasped, grinding harder. Sweat pooled in the hollow of her throat, her breasts swaying as she arched backwards. The moths embroidered over her ribs fluttered weakly.

Alaric grasped her hips, leaving plum-dark bruises. "Christ, you’re incredible—"

*He’s a fucking corpse, and you are a shitty actress juicing his junk up with your magic,* Georgia sneered. *He’s got less fire than a wet match.*

*Still fuckable, unlike you,* Lanie snarled, slamming down until the headboard cracked against the wall. Alaric came with a shout, his spend painting Georgia’s silk once more.

She collapsed forward, sweat-slick threads clinging to her spine as she sniffed her dress and snapped her fingers at Alaric’s spent cock. "There. Still… useful."

Five minutes later, Lanie braced herself against the headboard. Georgia’s silk chafing her hips as a magically juiced Alaric pounded into her from behind like a resurrected zombie. The gown clung to her sweat-slicked back, straps digging into her shoulders.

*You're a glorified cum bucket,* Georgia raged, the seams straining with each thrust. *He’s thinking about his ex’s tits.*

"Still… rougher… “ than you ever were, Lanie spat, clawing the wood until it splintered. The dress slithered lower, pooling at her waist as she arched defiantly. "Finish. On me."

Alaric obeyed, grunting as he pulled out and spilt across Georgia’s silk-clad back. The fabric hissed where his spend struck it, threads curling like burnt hair.

*This is revolting*, Georgia muttered, her voice fraying. *You’ll wear his shame forever.*

Lanie rolled over, the gown still fused to her torso. "No," she smirked, smearing his mess into the bodice as she snapped her fingers again. "You will."

Ten minutes later, a resurrected-again Alaric’s fingers clawed at Georgia’s zipper mid-thrust. Drunk on the thrill of being unravelled, Lanie arched into him. Her nails dug crescent moons into his shoulders. "Yes, tear her off me. Show her who's her daddy," she said as the dress flew across the bed.

*Don’t let him—I'll think I'll die.* Georgia’s voice bled, the threads straining.

Hush, Lanie gasped, her orgasm cresting as the silk pooled around her ankles. *You’re… jealous… he actually tries—*

The zipper hit the floor. Georgia’s final plea dissolved into static: *Lanie..don’t—*

Silence.

Lanie froze, Alaric still rutting inside her. Georgia? GEORGIE?

No answer.

She shoved him off, scales erupting across her collarbones. "What did you do to my Georgie?"

Alaric blinked, his cock still glistening. "The hell’s a Georgi—"

Her scream tore through the room first, and then she followed. Scales erupted down her spine, her talons shredding the mattress like it didn't even exist. Alaric stumbled back in terror, cock shrivelling as her pupils split into reptilian slits.

"Laniara..." he choked, recognition dawning. "The Hoard breaker—fuck, the stories are true!"

She lunged, pinning the poor bastard to the wall. Her fiery breath scorched his face, sulphurous and primal. "Bring. Her. Back."

"I—I didn’t know!" he babbled even as his own piss pooled at his feet. "Please—I’ll do anything! Gold, relics, please...anything!"

Her tail lashed, shattering the mirror behind him. "You can’t give me what’s ALREADY MINE!"

He scrambled backwards, piss streaming down his legs. "Mercy, Dragonmother—!"

A flick of her wrist sent him hurtling into the hallway. The door sealed with a thunderclap.

"BABY!" she roared, half-dragon now, fangs dripping flames. "Come back!"

Nothing.

Lanie collapsed, human again, Georgia’s silk clutched to her heaving chest. “Baby, please,” she sobbed, tears dissolving into steam before they hit the ground. “I’ll burn the world, I’ll weave you anew, just—talk to me.”

Not even a whisper.

She pressed the fabric to her lips, whispering into its cold threads: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Alone—as a moth stranded without the night’s flame.