Chapter 9: The Dinner “Invitation”

Miya Lancaster.

Miya froze, her breath catching, with the jade rod half-drawn from her. The knock repeated—insistent, confident, brooking no objection. Not the half-elf roommate, who always knocked quietly, timidly, as if apologizing for the disturbance, and never came this early. And not a messenger from the Academy—those always shuffled on the doorstep, scraped their feet, and began with a polite, “Forgive the disturbance, Magus.”

This knock was different. Professional. Official. The kind made by people accustomed to having doors opened for them.

Miya did not remove the rod. Instead, she mentally touched the weave embedded in the jade and switched the artifact into a mode of soft, barely perceptible pulsation—the very one she had programmed a week ago for long, lazy evenings, when she wanted to feel fullness without being distracted by active movement. The stone within responded immediately: a warm, rhythmic vibration spread through her lower belly, making the muscles of her vagina clench involuntarily around the jade rod.

Good. This made it even more interesting.

She rose from the bed lazily, unhurriedly, feeling the rod shift inside her under the weight of her body, sinking deeper into her wet, pliant depths, while the resilient jade protrusion pressed more firmly against her anus—teasing, but not entering, because the program did not provide for deep stimulation in this mode. Each step echoed within her with a dull, aching note somewhere at the very base of her spine, and Miya caught herself walking a little more slowly than necessary, savoring the sensation.

She threw a light silk robe over her shoulders—thin, almost transparent, peach-colored, which she wore only at home, because in public it looked provocative even by the Academy’s standards. The robe slid over her bare skin, barely covering her breasts and hips, and Miya did not even bother to tie the sash—let it hang loose, revealing a long strip of bare flesh from neck to pubic mound.

Her reflection flickered in the mirror by the bed—tousled black hair, moist eyes with dilated pupils, a light flush on her cheeks betraying recent arousal, and the translucent robe through which everything usually hidden from strangers could be guessed. Her skin glistened—just slightly, damp with sweat and with that steady heat that had not released her since she woke. She knew how she looked. Knew how she smelled—musk, warm skin, the faint scent of her own juices that no magic could conceal. And she had no intention of correcting any of it.

On her lips played that same light, half-predatory smile with which she now met any surprise. Her magical reserve, swollen within her, responded with a faint tingling in her fingertips—she was full of power, ready for any encounter. Whoever stood behind the door would not catch her off guard. But catching him off guard—that, perhaps, she could do.

Interesting, Miya thought, adjusting a stray strand of hair and taking a deep, calming breath that made her breasts rise expressively beneath the thin silk. Let us see who has come. And how he will react.

She turned and headed for the entryway, stepping barefoot across the cool wooden floor noiselessly, like a cat creeping toward a distracted guest. But not to frighten or attack—to throw him off balance, to knock him out of his rhythm, to make him forget why he had come.

With each step, the pulsation of the jade within her grew a little more noticeable—or was that merely her arousal?—and Miya caught herself thinking that she was suddenly, terribly curious who was out there, behind the door, and how long he could maintain an official expression while looking at her like this. The rod inside her moved in time with her breathing—slowly, thoughtfully, as if someone invisible were caressing her from within, in no hurry and demanding nothing.

She paused for a second before the door, listening to herself. The orgasm had receded, turning into a dull, aching anticipation somewhere deep in her lower belly, mixed with sharp, almost coquettish curiosity. The rod inside pulsed steadily, reminding her of itself with a warm, cozy vibration, and Miya suddenly realized she was grinning from ear to ear.

And yet, somewhere at the very bottom, beneath the layer of confidence and excitement, something cold stirred. Thin as a needle. Fear. The very fear that, half a year ago, had made her tremble before a circle drawn in charcoal. She drove it deeper—with a habitual, practiced effort of will, the way one drives away an unwanted thought.

Not now. Later. If necessary.

Miya opened the door without retreating into shadow, without covering herself with the robe, without showing the slightest trace of embarrassment or fear. She simply stood on the threshold—barefoot, with tousled black hair, in a translucent peach silk robe that clearly outlined the contours of her breasts and hips—and looked the uninvited guest straight in the eye.

A man stood on the threshold. Not a messenger, not the roommate, not anyone from the Academy. A stranger. Ash-gray hair, stiff as wire, slicked back. A face as if hewn from sandstone by a rough but skilled hand: heavy jaw, sharp cheekbones, a straight nose with a barely noticeable ridge. A dark hunting suit of thick leather. No jewelry. No magic that could be detected. Gray eyes looked straight ahead, expressing nothing.