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She lets you look at her because she wants it to hurt. The thought of your face twisting in pain at the sight of her—those gaping wounds, her dead, greyish skin—it makes her heart race, that crazy bitch. Does it sting, Harrowhark? She smirks. Does it ache? Knowing this is all your fault? Shifting in her gilded seat, excitement thrumming through her pulseless heart, she wants nothing more than to rub salt in your wounds. I hope you are in agony.
She lets you come closer because she thinks it’ll be fun to torment you. She holds her mangled body in the same way I used to, and it makes that bruised brain of yours run in frenzied circles. She enjoys it, watching your eyes widen in horror at the cavalier who came back Royal and Wrong and oh so fucking angry. She holds out her palm, and yes, the calluses are still there—just the way I left them. Her fingers twine through yours, and she laughs, triumphant. The sound is sinister, and it makes your stomach turn.
She lets you touch her because she hates you. Your fingers search for a heartbeat they’ll never find, and even the smell of me is different—something perfumed covering those starchy new clothes—and it makes you want to weep. It makes you want to scream. She draws you into her lap, your thighs pressing uncomfortably on either side of her hips, your knee jamming painfully into the pommel of her rapier, and she gets off on the way you shudder away from her touch. Her hands skim beneath your robes, against the warm skin of your back, your torso. Her fingertips brush your nonexistent tits, and you gasp, pressing your palms into her cold, waxy skin. Her fingers skate lower, and you tug her closer, trying your damnedest to transfer even a fraction of your warmth into her body with your chest, your lips. But she discards your heat the same way she swallows your whimpers: using her corpse to dissolve that energy into nothingness.
She slides herself inside you because you’re nothing but a toy. A desperate roll of your hips, and that last bastion of warmth becomes so achingly cold that you shiver all the way down to your bones. You wish you could deny it—how horrifically wet you are—but even I can feel your cunt throb in time with every heartbeat. She curls her fingers against you, and you cry out, letting her free hand guide your hips in a perfect rhythm, your clit slipping against the rough heel of her palm again and again and again. She nips along your neck, and you whimper. She sucks at your breast, and you mewl. She thrusts into you, unable to stop the movement of her own greedy hips as you shamelessly ride her fingers, and she coaxes you along until you pant and moan and paw at anything you can get a hold of. Your vision goes wobbly, and she lets you prod inside those jagged, broken places that no longer hurt, licking away each hot tear as they fall.
She lets you cum because she wants to destroy you. Reverend Daughter, Ninth Saint to Serve the King Undying blah blah who gives a shit? To her, you are less than nothing, even as you unravel in her arms, hips bucking as your orgasm devastates you. It’s like drowning in the River all over again, and she lets you feel it all—the bliss, the grief, what’s left of the memory of me. Slowly, slowly, you come down, and when she pulls out, you let out a single, gut-wrenching sob for the Prince and the girl you lost forever.
But unlike me, Harrowhark, Kiriona doesn’t give a fuck.