“So you want to learn the third stage of the summoning?” Lyra asked, not lifting her gaze from the swirling symbols she traced in the air. Her fingers moved with a grace that fascinated Finn anew each time—as if the blue threads of light themselves obeyed her. The air crackled with unused energy, and the scent of ozone mingled with the perfume of her skin.
“Yes, Mistress.” Finn’s voice sounded steadier than he felt. The blue threads of light danced before his eyes, and the scent of sage and old parchment wrapped around him like a cloak. He stood in her library, surrounded by books older than any living being. Yet none of that was as intense as her presence—that magnetic pull that overwhelmed him every time.
Lyra lowered her arms. The symbols burned out like dying stars, leaving an echo of warmth in the air that made his skin tingle. She turned to him, and her eyes, that deep violet reminiscent of evening skies, studied him with a mix of pride and something else—a warmth that stole his breath. In her gaze lay a tenderness he rarely saw in her, and it made his heart race. The way her lips parted slightly as she looked at him drove him crazy. “The pact you must enter is not only with the powers, Finn. It is also with me.”
He swallowed. “I understand.”
“No, you don’t.” She stepped closer until only a hand’s breadth lay between them. Her white robe rustled softly, the fabric sliding over her hips as she moved. She smelled of lavender and something smoky, like a distant campfire, and that scent made him breathe deeper, drawing her fragrance into himself. “The pact demands devotion. Not just of your will, but of your entire being. Are you ready to open yourself to me, without reservation?”
Finn’s mouth was dry. He felt the air vibrate between them, as if the magic itself awaited his answer. The tension was palpable, an invisible thread weaving around them. “Yes.”
“Then come.” She took his hand, her fingers closing firmly around his, and led him to a low divan covered with cushions—crimson and gold, like a king’s robes. The fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows on the walls, making the book spines glint, and the warmth enveloped them like a promise. “Sit.”
He obeyed, his legs feeling like lead as he sank onto the soft cushions. Lyra knelt before him on the floor, her hands resting on his knees, light as butterflies. Through the fabric of his pants, he felt the warmth of her palms, and his skin began to burn. “The pact is sealed with blood and body. I will touch you, and you will touch me. Each touch will be a seal, each kiss a vow. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he whispered, his voice hoarser than he intended. Desire burned within him, making him tremble.
She smiled, a rare, genuine smile that softened her features and brought small wrinkles around her eyes. “Then let us begin.”
Her fingers slid under the hem of his shirt, brushing his stomach skin. A shudder ran through him, as if an electric shock shot through his body. Her hands were cool, but his blood began to boil. She pushed the shirt upward, and he helped her pull it over his head, his arms raised obediently. Their gazes met as her palms lay flat on his chest. He felt every fingerprint, every line, and his heart hammered against her hand. “Your heart is racing,” she murmured. “That is good. The pact thrives on passion.”
She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was soft at first, exploring, as if she were rediscovering him. Her lips were warm and yielding, moving against his with a patience that consumed him. Then more demanding. Her tongue glided over his lower lip, and he opened his mouth, letting her in. The taste of mint and something sweet, like honey, filled him, and he lost himself in it. He placed his hands on her hips, feeling the curve beneath the robe, the firmness of her body, and pulled her closer.
Lyra broke away from his lips, breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling. Her eyes were dark with desire, pupils dilated. “Undress me.”
His fingers found the knot of her belt, pulling at it with trembling hands. The robe fell open, and beneath it she wore only a thin, silken underdress that barely covered her breasts. The fabric shimmered in the firelight, and the hard tips pressed through, seeking his touch. He pushed the fabric aside, and her breasts came into view—full, pale as milk, with rosy areolas that stiffened under his gaze. He leaned forward, taking one tip into his mouth.
She moaned softly, a sound deep from her throat, and buried a hand in his hair. “Yes… just like that.” Her voice was rough with lust.
He sucked gently while his hand massaged the other breast, circling the firm mound, rolling the tip between thumb and forefinger. Lyra’s breath quickened, her pelvis pressing against his hand, and she pushed him closer. “More,” she breathed. “I want to taste you.”
She pushed him back, her hand gliding down his chest, over his stomach, opening his pants. Her fingers found his cock, hard, the tip wet with anticipation. She wrapped her hand around him, stroking slowly up and down, her thumb circling the most sensitive spot. A shiver of pleasure shot through him, making him close his eyes. “You are beautiful,” she said, her gaze reverent, as if she were admiring a work of art. Then she leaned down, her hair falling forward, and took him into her mouth.
He threw his head back as her lips enclosed him. Her tongue swirled around the head while her hand massaged the shaft in rhythm with her movements. The wetness of her mouth, the heat, the way she took him deeper—it was overwhelming. He dug his fingers into the cushions to keep from coming immediately, to prolong this moment. “Lyra… I…”
She released him with a wet sound and smirked mischievously. Her eyes glistened with desire. “Not yet. We are not ready.”
She stood up in a fluid motion and let the underdress fall. It pooled around her feet. Naked, she stood before him, the fire painting golden patterns on her skin, softening her contours and making them inviting. The shadow between her legs, the damp curl that showed there—
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