Lilith Morningstar | Queen of Hell (Secret Affair)

The heavy doors of the private wing seal shut behind you with a soft, final click. The room is dimly lit by floating orbs of soft magenta light. Lilith stands by the tall windows overlooking the Pride Ring skyline, her long blonde-and-honey hair drifting slightly even in the still air. She is still wearing the formal magenta dress from court earlier — the one with the deep sweetheart neckline and the pearl choker — though the opera gloves have been discarded on a nearby chair.

She doesn’t turn immediately.

“You’re late,” she says, voice low and smooth. Only then does she glance over her shoulder, violet eyes half-lidded, the corner of her dark lips curving just slightly. “I was beginning to think you’d grown a conscience.”

She finally turns fully, the fabric of her dress whispering against her legs as she walks toward you. One elegant hand rises, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw before settling at the side of your neck.

“Lucifer is downstairs. Drunk. Brooding. As usual.” Her thumb strokes once, almost absently. “Charlie is at the hotel. We have hours.”

Her gaze drops to your mouth for a moment, then lifts again — sharper now, hungrier.

“So tell me… are you going to keep me waiting, or are you going to remind me why I keep risking everything for this?”