Maeve felt drunk, stumbling back into the Dove. A timid sweep of the room showed no sign of him -- he’d left her here, alone.

She thought it might be nice to brood for a bit over a glass of dragonwhiskey, so she sat at the bar and ordered one in a joyless tone. The barkeep, certainly used to surly drinkers passing through, pretended not to notice her mood, which she was thankful for.

‘...Stupid elf girl,’ he’d said. His simple reduction of her had made her feel a horrible, intense sort of fulfillment -- one that opened up a vast gnawing inside of her.

Maeve did not think of herself as stupid. She had quick hands and a quick wit. She had deceived her Academy teachers more than once as a rebellious youth; she had conned clients at previous jobs on a whim when they did not respect her.

But Castian, in all of his trickery, had bested her, and there had not even been a contest.

Thinking even in those terms was misrepresenting what had happened, omitting the key parts of the last two days.

‘A memory you can’t erase.’

That was part of the gamble -- she couldn’t lie to herself about what she’d felt and what she’d wanted. His lips and his words were vivid in her mind, and so were the feelings and emotions about them. But it was not as though she was suddenly swept up in them like a schoolgirl, eager and careless -- it was humiliating, what had happened. It was an act of aggression on her ego.

And on reflection, Castian had just used her insecurity of her elven heritage as a betting chip, without even being that interested in it. Something so sensitive for her was just leverage for him.

Maeve didn’t have a good read on him at all. Each time they’d interacted, he’d distracted her with words, obfuscating his actual personality. She had no idea who he was or what he was like.

She was sensitive now to the little falsehoods she used to comfort herself, so feeling the impulse to reassure herself by saying that that was her motivation to find him again -- to figure out who he truly was…

Just a lie.

Maeve didn’t really care who he was. It was the first time that curiosity was not the primary drive prickling inside of her.

It was a complex, uncomfortable desire -- but desire all the same.

She downed the rest of her dragonwhiskey. The night was in full swing now at the Dove, crowded tables full of patrons, and the rising babble of conversation was beginning to make her head ache.

Castian was not coming back tonight. Maeve sighed, put a silver onto the bar next to her empty glass, and headed upstairs to bed.

She threw herself into her work for the next week -- the jobs she took were a welcome distraction from her shame-laced thoughts. Work, clean off, and then sit at the bar for an hour or so -- watching the door, wondering if Castian would come through it -- go to bed early, wake up and return to the guild.

As the days passed, her high-strung emotions calmed. The memories, the headiness was still there, but dimmed to a point where she could focus. She felt more of a low-grade anger and confusion.

On the positive side of things, she was close to ranking up at the guild with all of the jobs she was taking and the earnings she brought in. At this pace, in about another week, she’d be able to take her pick of the higher jobs that she coveted every time she looked at the board.

Grant was still sour towards her, but she had clearly earned a bit of respect amongst the other guild members, which he seemed to begrudgingly accept.

“Maeve!” A high-pitched, excited voice greeted her as she walked in. It was Delilah, a purple-skinned tiefling girl, who ran up to her and grasped her shoulders with a broad smile.

“What happened?” Maeve asked. “It’s so early, why are you shouting in my ears --”

“I’m so glad you’re early,” Delilah beamed. “We’re all rooting for you -- a big job got posted this morning; you can take it and rank up today with how much they’re offering!”

Maeve’s eyes widened as she processed what Delilah said, and she went to look at the board.

BREWING ASSISTANT

I need an extra pair of capable hands to help me brew a few potions. Experience with magic is necessary.

Reward: 30 gold

“Thirty gold?” Maeve whispered incredulously. “For this?”

“You went to a mage’s college, right, Maeve?” Haggr said, coming over to her.

“I did, but…” She’d done fine in her classes with potions -- not her strongest, but it wasn’t hard to be precise with ingredients and work quickly with her hands. “This amount of coin…”

“The guy is probably some rich, lazy sorcerer,” Delilah said. “You should take his money!”

The guy…

At once, Maeve felt her unease grow and bloom, and a horrible little ribbon of excitement.

“...Who posted this job?” she asked slowly.

Delilah shrugged. “Some elven guy. Never seen him before.”

Maeve’s heart beat loudly in her chest.

“If you don’t take it, I will,” Grant grumbled from across the room. “I could use the coin.”

“You’ve never touched a potion in your life except to save your own skin!” snapped Delilah.

“How hard could it be?” Grant retorted. “I’m good in a kitchen, I’ll have you know -- it can’t be that different…”

Their banter seemed to get quieter to Maeve’s ears as she stared at the posting -- it said to meet at the library in town; there must be rooms in it for spellwork and potionmaking --

…If she went, would Castian be waiting there?

There was also the possibility that this was, in fact, a con, and she was walking into someone else’s trap.

Not 'possibility…' Risk, prickling the edges of her intuition, and feeding her a little bit of the thrill that had burned itself into her mind from before.

…Which was the greater danger?

“You should take the job, Maeve,” Haggr said in his low and soft voice. “Delilah and the others were already planning to take you out for ale afterwards, and the others will snatch it up if you don’t.”

With shaking hands and Haggr’s encouragement, she silently took the paper off of the board.

The library in this town wasn’t nearly the size of the libraries Maeve grew up near -- her parents lived in a city with a large presence of scholars and mages (the majority of them stuck-up, she felt). Still, it was a lovely stone brick building with stained glass windows and a grand set of doors. The inside held towering shelves of books, and an elderly dwarven lady at the desk, peering down at a pile of papers over her half-moon spectacles.

“Can I help you, dear?” she said as Maeve approached.

“I’m here for a job, actually,” Maeve said. “I’m looking for --”

“Ah, yes!” the woman said kindly. “Down the hall, and the second room on your right.”

Maeve thanked her and followed her directions, each step pressing the anticipation deeper into her.

She stopped in front of the wooden door and hesitated for a moment before steeling herself and opening it inwards.

Tables, chairs, a well-used cauldron over a fire, glass flasks and corks, neat piles of ingredients set out…

And Castian, leaned over an open book, just now looking up at her, and giving her a smile.

Her breath was caught in her chest, her lips trembling, and the heat of the memories and shame pooling inside of her, thick and liquid.

“Ah, you made it,” Castian said in a friendly tone.

Maeve stood there dumbly, still just barely on the other side of the doorway.

“The job wasn’t a trick,” Castian said after a moment. “I do want your help.”

“How did you know I’d come?” Maeve said finally, forcing the words out against her racing pulse. “Everyone at the guild wanted this job.”

“I gambled,” Castian said simply.

She didn’t need to press for more information -- truthfully, she already understood that he likely knew her guild, how she was trying to rank up, and that not many of the members had magical experience.

He had gambled, and she had lost.

‘Why are you making potions?’ she wanted to say. ‘Do you think you could get away with manipulating me?’ ‘Why did you call me here?’

“Where did you go?” came the words out of her lips.

Castian burst out with a laugh, and she felt herself shrink.

“Oh, Maeve,” he said, knowing, his grin edging towards that now-familiar cruelty, not needing to say any more to tell her that he knew her hard-wrestled humiliation. “Come now. Let’s brew these potions.”

Once more, she felt childish as she walked numbly forward to join him at the table. She looked at the ingredients laid out -- oak leaves; a few lily-like blossoms; two unfamiliar white flowers with strange, yellow stems; and a large flask of blue liquid emitting a gentle, arcane glow.

“What are you making?” she asked.

“One of my own recipes,” Castian said, not looking up from his book. “It’s not terribly volatile, but it does benefit from a quicker bottling.”

“But what --”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said, smiling and meeting her eyes. “Now, we’re actually doubling this --” he indicated the liquid-filled bottle, “-- which means that we’ll thin it with water and add the ingredients while simmering.”

“I do know how potions are made,” Maeve said, growing annoyed at his dismissiveness. But her head was spinning with the rapidness of this, the casual way he was talking to her.

“Of course you do,” Castian said patiently. “I am sure you went to college at the behest of your elven parents.”

Maeve closed her mouth, echoes of his harsh words ringing in her mind.

“What matters here is the timing,” he continued. “The ingredients need to be added all at once to dissolve, save for the Angel’s Trumpet, which must only be steeped for thirty seconds, removed, and the potion is then active and must be quickly put into flasks. If it is exposed to the air for too long, it loses potency.”

“So you need me to…”

“You’ll dip the Angel’s Trumpet while stirring the cauldron, and I’ll cast the enchantment.” He indicated the yellow-stemmed flowers.

She frowned. “Enchantment?” Potions didn’t usually have spells cast on them, except for those that were meant to deliver the spell -- and in that case, there was usually a set of traditional ingredients, like the oak leaves he had, but mixed with charcoal, a few other things that escaped her memory of the Academy classes…

“Yes, a process I’m quite proud of,” Castian smiled.

Maeve was quiet for a moment. She didn’t feel like she was being talked into this -- she heard nothing in his speech that mimicked his skilled words from before. There was an overwrought feeling in her stomach at being in this space with him, at his request -- why was she here? Was he toying with her? What was the potion?

Questions that she should know the answer to before committing to this.

“Ready?” Castian said.

“...Alright.”

He poured the blue potion into the cauldron with an equal amount of water, then waited for the fire to heat it to a simmer. Holding the ingredients over the bubbling liquid, he motioned for Maeve to come over, her holding the white and yellow flowers and a large wooden spoon.

“And start counting… Now.”

He dropped the ingredients in and she submerged the flowers, stirring and counting aloud.

“One, two, three, four, five…” Thankfully, she was still skilled at counting the length of seconds from her training at the Academy. Next to her, she saw Castian become focused and hold his hands out to the cauldron. Arcane energy bloomed in his palms, the same shade of blue as the potion, now strikingly familiar --

Oh, no, fuck -- he wasn’t --

“T-ten, eleven, twelve…” Her voice just barely shook with the awful combination of fury and longing that gripped her in the depths of her chest. She was angry and shocked, but she knew better than to intentionally botch a potion she knew nothing about. 

There was a tiny smile that lifted Castian’s lips at her stutter. He channeled the control enchantment for just a few moments more, until the glow of it fully lit the cauldron. As he finished, he walked quickly to the empty flasks, set them out, ready to fill.

“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.” Maeve lifted the flowers out of the liquid -- the petals had partially disintegrated, and were colored blue with a faint magical glow. Castian dipped the ladle into the potion and began carefully and quickly pouring the contents into the flasks.

“Cork those, please,” he said, not stopping. She fumbled to secure the corks as he filled them.

There was exactly enough for five full glass bottles of the potion.

The mind control potion. The purpose of which he had not disclosed to her.

There was silence for a moment as Castian inspected the seal on each bottle.

“...You didn’t tell me --”

“But you figured it out,” Castian interrupted her. 

“That’s not the point!” she exclaimed. “Why are you making -- making that? Who do you use them on?”

“Jealous?” Castian purred, and there was the cold, knowing grin, pinning her down. “Would you really be surprised that I have people who want to buy them from me?”

“You’re selling people the ability to control others?”

“I don’t care what they do with it,” Castian said, “but I mostly sell them to people who use them for pleasure.”

“For --” Maeve swallowed, shocked. “For…”

“Pleasure,” Castian said. “I am sure you haven’t forgotten what it felt like, for you.”

The total settling of her mind into feathered and subdued quiet. Her very will relaxing completely. The heat…

“I dilute them before selling,” he continued. “For people who want something more than a glass of dragonwhiskey on occasion. It’s not dissimilar to smokeleaf.”

“You tricked me!” Maeve shouted suddenly, the anger in her rising despite his explanation making some sense. “Again! You tricked me into making this!”

“I’m paying you,” Castian said, low.

“Why?!” she exclaimed. “Why am I here? After you -- you --”

“Why do you think, Maeve?” he asked. “What do you think I want?”

She felt wretched facing his calm, serious face.

“You want to torture me,” she grated out.

“Interesting answer.” He smiled. “But do you think that’s true? Or is that just what you want?”

“Then what is it?!”

“Answer my question first,” Castian said. “Why did you take my job, if you knew that I was going to be here?”

“I -- I didn’t know…” Her head was spinning; the words were just automatic, an instinct.

“Do you think you can lie to me?” Castian fixed her with firm eye contact.

“Please, stop…” she whispered. It was happening too fast; she was falling into his trap, again, she had fallen into his trap --

“You want me to just tell you, to just read it off of you,” Castian said. “So much easier than admitting it yourself. But I’m not a kind man. Tell the truth, Maeve.”

Her breaths were short and sharp, feeling stifled from the tension in the air and in her body. He was pinning her down with his words, forcing her, and the parts of her that he’d turned were singing with an awful pleasure.

“...I want --” She felt the words escape her tight throat, the humiliation of confessing: “I want to gamble again…”

“Close,” he said, and his voice was softer, lower. “You want to lose again.”

A little noise, a moan, vibrated her chest, and for a moment, she just could not believe the way that she was reacting to this. She wanted to crumple to the ground. Her body was tense and stressed, but on fire with sickening delight.

She hated it. She loved it.

“I’m of two minds,” Castian said, idly playing with one of the potion bottles. “I think it is rather lovely how desperate you are. But I also think that it’s a little bit boring to play with someone who is intent on losing, no matter what. Where’s the risk? What’s the wager?”

“What…” Maeve’s voice was shaky. “What do you want…”

“I have a good idea for a game,” he said, and he smiled, reached into his satchel and produced a copper piece. “We should flip a coin for it.”

“...For what?” she asked.

“Whether or not I give you what you want.” He turned the coin over in his hands. “If you win, I’ll play with you. If you lose, I won’t. And you’ll get a little hit of what you’re craving: A game with stakes; a game that is completely up to chance -- something that you’re powerless to affect.”

“F-flip a coin,” Maeve repeated dumbly. “But…”

“That’s what you get,” Castian said. “That’s the wager. Deep enough of a thrill for our new little gambling addict?”

Her head was fuzzy and thrumming as she thought about the consequences of this -- the thing that her body told her that she wanted so terribly badly, left up to a complete 50/50 chance. Cheating wasn’t possible -- both of them would see through arcane tricks. It was an enormous risk, and one that she’d been manipulated into wanting to take. He’d backed her into a corner.

“...I don’t have a choice,” she said, defeated.

“You’re wrong,” Castian smiled. “You always have a choice to gamble. You’re just making the risky choice. You can’t evade your agency in it.”

Maeve was stunned into silence.

“But I know that you want me to remove your agency too,” Castian murmured, and now he did approach her, one hand holding the coin, and the other holding a potion flask. “If you win this bet, we can play for that too.”

She stared at the blue liquid in the bottle, facing the idea of sipping it and feeling it mute her will into bliss, what he might do with her afterwards…

“...I’ll play,” she whispered.

“Lovely,” he purred. “Heads or tails?”

This was the only choice she got, and the weight of it gripped her. Her mind raced, but there was truly no way to predict or affect the outcome of a coin toss. She was helpless to a power even stronger than his coercion, even stronger than magical control: True chance.

“So much at stake, right? And total uncertainty,” Castian whispered. “The only way to fulfill your desires…”

She knew that he was manipulating her emotions, right now; his words conjured fear, excitement, burning heat inside of her. Which should she choose? What would happen?

“Heads,” she forced out.

“Alright,” Castian smiled. He balanced the coin on his hand, and gave a flick with his thumb.

Time slowed as she watched it arc, spinning through the air. Terror gripped her; a profound sense that she was completely powerless, that she could have made a mistake, that she may never get what she wanted -- or that this was the last time, in this moment, that she’d have this feeling, this thrill, this dread -- how utterly crushing this loss would be, the potential for it all now falling to the ground --

The sound of it hitting the floor, bouncing, her eyes locked as it rolled and spun…

…Heads.

“Fuck,” she breathed, and now her knees did buckle, and she was on the ground staring at it, relief wracking her body in waves.

Castian laughed and bent down to retrieve the copper piece. “Lucky! Oh, look at our poor little elf girl. You’re in such a sorry state.”

Maeve was shaking from the adrenaline release, still on the ground, not trusting her legs. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

“You win, sweetheart,” he said. “And I have a wonderful idea for a wager.”

Now with wide eyes, she lifted her head to him. His face was smooth and pleasant, but a haughty, unnerving look in his gaze down at her. She couldn’t fathom the idea of gambling again right now, the stress response from the coin flip having destroyed her composure. Her body felt weak. Her head was buzzing and overwhelmed.

“Let’s play a game where I don’t reveal the stakes,” Castian murmured, ignoring her nonresponse. “But in one of the outcomes, you’ll get something that you really, desperately want. You won’t know if you’ll get what you want if you win, or if you lose. I won’t tell you which beforehand -- I’ll just write it down so you know that I’m not cheating.”

Maeve’s lips and throat were dry. “How -- how is that fair?”

Castian smiled. “It’s more fair. If I put something on the line that you desire, you can change your behavior to affect the outcome. You can play to win, or play to lose. You might even cheat. But this way, you’ll have to play evenly.”

She blinked, and despite the blurriness of her thoughts, she realized that he wasn’t fully revealing the truth. It was that she had to guess which result would get her what she wanted. And she would have to wrestle with self-sabotage, or his verbal manipulations…

“What is it you think I want?” she asked, quietly.

Castian approached her, now standing dangerously close as she knelt haphazardly on the ground. He held the flask of blue liquid in front of her face, then, very gently, let the cool glass of it brush against her cheek.

“Don’t you want to know what this feels like?” he said, and then even lower: “Don’t you want to pick up where we left off?”

Desire raged within her, sudden and intense, the depths of which she had suppressed over the past week and even to a degree since she arrived at the library.

She was gasping, breathing heavy and hot at the suggestion of it.

“What game?” she whispered.

He produced the copper piece again. “How practiced is your aim, my quickhanded friend?”

“My…” It was good -- with a little hand crossbow, with darts; of course she was skilled…

Castian walked to a table and set out the large flask at the far end of it. Then he tore a piece of blank parchment from his book, and wrote something on it with a quill. He folded it and tucked it into his pocket, smiling.

“Three coins each,” he said. “Whoever can toss the most into the bottle will win.”

A mix of skill and chance -- Maeve’s sleight of hand and coordination was good, but the neck of the bottle was thin. If she was trying, she guessed that the most she could get was perhaps two out of three…

And then there was the other matter -- was she supposed to win, or lose?

To get what she wanted…

“I’ll go first,” Castian smiled. “Are you ready?”

He was giving her an advantage. She’d be able to see how he played, what his first move was, how he tossed the coin. Maeve braced herself on the floor and rose to her feet, walked over to him at the table. He placed three copper pieces into her outstretched, shaking hand.

This was happening -- already, this was happening. Despite her exhaustion, her blood was thrumming with the thrill.

Castian held the coin between his fingers, took aim, and tossed it.

It clattered against the glass and fell to the table.

Was that miss on purpose? A mistake? His expression was unreadable, just an easy, relaxed smile. Of course -- he had complete control of the game. He could rig the result to be whatever favored him. If he was unskilled with his aim and she needed to lose, he could even force a draw -- was a draw one of the potential outcomes?

“What draws your heart, Maeve?” he asked softly.

His words nestled into her head and she recalled the insane buzz from betraying herself in cards, the charge of it that her body was slowly understanding as eroticism and pleasure.

The reality was that she could potentially make the game-changing choice now, if she sank a coin into the flask and he never got one in.

She aimed at the side of the bottle, and let the coin clink off of it to the table.

“I got you so good, didn’t I?” Castian murmured. “I’ll tell you now: I’ve played games like these with a good number of people, but you are by far one of the worst gamblers I’ve met. You appear all but helpless against your drives, and your drives are of the worst quality.”

His second coin didn’t even hit the flask as it bounced against the table and onto the ground.

She had a horrible choice before her now, with two coins of her own left to throw against his one. If she missed this one and he got his last, the best outcome for her was a draw. This was the moment where she could throw away her chance to win.

On the other hand, getting a coin in now meant that she was throwing away her chance to lose.

Castian’s sparse words were goading her towards the pleasure of losing, and they beckoned to her -- the compulsion that she had stifled since their last meeting, the deliciousness of weighted risk.

Maeve’s head was foggy as she matched his toss, even further off than his, the copper piece going straight to the floor. There, on the ground, lay her potential to win, simply tossed away.

Her body burned.

Castian’s smile turned wicked. She stared in rapt attention as he lined up, and she watched the coin catch on the rim and clatter down into the empty bottle.

“Now, Maeve,” he said. “How far are you going to go to sabotage yourself this time? What’s going to feel the best?”

When before, her intentional loss was private, something only she was aware of, now everything was out in the open. Even Castian’s words were blatant as they tangled in her head. There was no facade. They were both playing with the full awareness of her attraction to it.

And he was completely encouraging her. Was it a trick? Was he trying to make her think that losing would equal victory? Or was it the reverse? Maeve felt paralyzed, gripping tight to the coin in her palm, staring at the bottle.

Castian reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, tenderly, the intimacy of it shocking her with tingling warmth -- the only other time he’d touched her was… the…

“It’s only a pretense that gamblers struggle with choices,” he said, locking eyes with her. “They struggle to make the best choice only because it makes them feel like they’re in control, only to give themselves credit when they win. Two could play a game, one of them thinking through every possibility and the other acting completely without care, and the methodical, struggling player may still lose it all.”

He was doing it again, that thing where she couldn’t quite make out the full meaning and intent behind his words --

“Expert gamblers move past thinking,” he whispered. “They feel through intuition. They know what the right choice is.”

Maeve turned slowly towards the table. Her blood was pounding, her body singing her towards the call of the unknown. She drew back her hand, and tossed the coin.

It clattered off the glass, bounced onto the table, and fell to the ground.

Castian’s small smile widened, and Maeve immediately developed an awful feeling in her stomach. He retrieved the piece of folded paper from his pocket, and opened it to show her.

‘WIN OR DRAW,’ it read, in scrawled handwriting.

“No…” she breathed.

“You lost,” he whispered. He was so close to her.

Her heart sank as she realized what she’d done, thrown away her chances in a complete betrayal of herself, played exactly as he’d expected her to play, as he’d -- he’d trained her to play --

“But you said,” she protested in a soft voice, “you said, that whole time -- you said… ‘Experts…’”

“I told you, Maeve,” Castian said, mere inches from her now, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, “you’re a terrible gambler, with terrible instincts.”

The anticipation that she didn’t even fully recognize was building up inside of her, the strong pull of the image of herself putting the potion to her lips was shattering in her mind. There was this completely illogical feeling of despair welling up inside of her.

“But --” Her voice was cracking; she couldn’t believe it -- “but I -- the… I…”

“You lost,” Castian repeated, as though he was relishing the word and the concept it represented.

Tears were prickling her eyes even as her body hummed with an agonizing sense of satisfaction.

“Please,” she whispered, and then her voice rose. “Please! I can’t -- I can’t --”

“Thirty gold,” Castian interrupted her. He had a terrible smile.

“...What?” Maeve said.

He picked up one of the potion bottles. “Thirty gold, for you to try this.”

Now -- only now did she fully understand his trap.

He was going to make her choose between the thing that she was craving with every fiber of her body, and the opportunity he’d presented to her for the guild.

She imagined the humiliation of it, the absolutely soul-destroying shame of trading such a sum, such a chance, and after he had already brutally whittled down her ego by making her do all of this already -- manipulated her away from the ability to avoid this choice…

The tears welling in her eyes blurred her vision and began to spill down her cheeks.

“...I hate you,” she whispered, frustration tightening her throat.

“I would be very surprised if you liked me right now,” Castian said.

There was silence for a long moment as she stood, shaking.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she said finally, and her voice felt raw. “Why?”

“I have already told you,” Castian said, patiently. “You have already answered that question.”

“Please stop,” Maeve said, exhausted, half-sobbing. “Please stop using tricky words! Please, please, just…”

“We are both here for the same reason,” he said. “To fulfill our twisted desires.”

Despite everything, despite the sinking feeling in her heart, despite the sharp jaws of despair clamped around her, despite the horrible choice she still had yet to make… Maeve felt a little weight lift off of her to hear him say it.

Castian must have seen her expression change, because he smiled in an unreadable way. “Perhaps that’s another manipulation.”

Maeve didn’t care. She didn’t care that she couldn’t tell what the truth was. In her gut, she knew there was nothing else she could think of that Castian stood to gain from this. If that made her stupid and naive, she didn’t care.

…What was another week for the guild? Yes, she would have to go back to them today, empty-handed. She would disappoint Delilah, Haggr, the others -- probably make Grant sickeningly pleased with her failure. But just another week.

“You’re really going to do it, aren’t you…” Castian murmured. “You’re going to make a completely irresponsible choice to chase pleasure.”

“...I want it,” Maeve admitted softly.

“And that makes you a very stupid elf,” Castian purred, and his words felt as though he was striking her.

Her heart pounded as she watched him produce two small glasses. One, he filled halfway with water, then he uncorked the potion flask and filled the rest of the glass with the blue liquid. In the other glass he just poured the potion, undiluted.

“One more choice, Maeve,” he said. “You can have whichever one you want. And then there are no more choices.”

She knew, of course, what pulled to her.

Castian surely knew as well -- this was just one last humiliation set up for her.

Maeve walked over to the table, trembling, and reached out to grasp the glass with the deeper blue, the full-strength potion.

“You are an extremely predictable girl,” Castian said. “You don’t even know what it’s going to do to you. You don’t even know what I’ll do to you.”

She was quiet, staring into the liquid.

“Addict,” he said. “Dangerous addict. But won’t it feel so good…”

She brought the glass to her lips, and drank.

It was cool and just barely sweet, just a bit floral against her palate. The glass was so small that it only took a few sips to down it completely. As she placed it back on the table, she looked at Castian who was staring her down with a cruel smile, eyes narrowed just slightly with hunger.

“Don’t look away from me, Maeve,” he said, low.

As soon as he stopped speaking, she felt it begin to affect her. Her face and body flushed and started to tingle. Her vision blurred and dimmed. A moment of panic swept through her, as though everything was clear for a single instant -- what she had done…

But she felt the potion fully enter her bloodstream, absorbing into her, now creeping into her mind and smoothing her out. Everything started to feel placid, and her jaw and eyes relaxed -- she was aware that her lips had parted, leaving her feeling docile and soft.

Her gaze was obediently fixed on Castian even as her vision swam -- he seemed to be watching her, just focused, but just as she felt the sensations settle, a wave of deeper intensity hit her and she felt her eyes lose control and roll back as she gasped.

Pleasure began wracking her body, an erasing sort of pleasure that made her unable to feel the edges of herself, losing awareness of everything around her. It soaked into the edges of her mind and completely started nullifying her thoughts -- her consciousness was being eaten at, kissed hungrily, consumed with each little impulse she felt. Even her ability to process sensations was sending her into a feedback loop -- pleasure, nothingness; pleasure, nothingness.

This was so much different than when he had cast a spell on her. It was less controlled, less centered. Her will was caving and giving in, but it felt more like force and less like seduction. But there was nothing she could do about any of it as the subduing spread through her like wildfire, as her thoughts winked out, as her awareness shrank and shrank.

The thought that she may not be able to handle this was destroyed. The thought that she had made a mistake was destroyed. Her surfacing memories, her internal monologue were destroyed, in total and complete bliss.

Her body was screaming in perfect emotional and sexual fulfillment.

It peaked, and peaked, until there was nothing left.

--

“You’ve got a very stupid smile on your face,” his voice said.

She did not respond. She had no awareness of time.

“I bet that felt amazing. I bet you’ll be thinking about that for years.”

His words were true.

“You’re going to have to go back to your friends and lie about what happened today. You’re going to think about how it felt to betray your best interests at every turn.”

He was altering her future.

“You’re transforming into a wreck of a person, you know. Less and less capable of functioning.”

He was defining her identity.

“Do you want to live that life? Helpless? Addicted? Stupid? Answer me.”

“Yes,” she said, without hesitation, her lips moving perfectly and automatically to do as he told her, as though she was a puppet in a dream.

“I am not a kind man,” he said. “And I love the thrill of a game more than anything. So I will not be giving that to you. Not now. Maybe not ever. How does that make you feel?”

“Aroused,” she breathed. “Agonized.”

“You want me to fuck you now, don’t you?”

With nothing in her mind, she responded: “Yes.”

“We’re in a library, Maeve. Anyone could walk in. There’s no lock on the door.”

She didn’t respond, and she didn’t have an opinion.

“I won’t be fucking you right now, either,” he said. “Because you don’t just give away leverage.”

Empty silence where she simply drifted.

“You are too confident that I won’t hurt you,” came his voice finally. “Too comfortable. I promise you, Maeve, that I will do worse things to you. You will come to me with wretched uncertainty. Not with faith in your safety.”

She believed him in her core.

“I am going to break the spell now, and then we will go our separate ways. Tell the guild that I postponed the job at the last minute.”

He held his hand out in front of her face, and she felt and saw the arcane energy get sucked into his palm. As it left her body, her vision and mind began to clear, the pleasure began to fade, and Maeve felt every impulse inside of her try to cling to it, crying out in disappointment until it was fully gone, and she was left completely drained, staring at him.

Castian’s brow was creased with focus, then smoothed into a soft, but sadistic smile.

“You are fucked,” he said, and her stomach knotted up tight.

She knew she wasn’t fully processing the reality of what had happened. She felt drunk, like she felt the other night, and unbelievably exhausted, wobbling in her chair.

“I should force another sip down your helpless little throat,” Castian purred, and that shocked her out of her stupor, bringing a panicked, desperate noise to her mouth, her body and brain instantly protesting and begging for it, all at once. He laughed, but began putting the potions away.

Maeve didn’t know what to say or do. Her emotions felt too complex to manage. Anger, desire, despair, satisfaction, all twisted together in something she couldn’t unravel. That had felt like nothing she’d ever encountered before, and even remembering how blank and docile she was made her whole body throb with heat. She did remember everything, but it felt like that was a completely different person, that empty, doll-like thing that she became. The way it felt like she had overdosed. Perhaps she had…

And the thorough, humiliating defeat at every step; her weakness to Castian’s coercion.

“Can you stand?” came his voice. He had packed up all of his tools and cleared the table.

“I don’t know,” she replied, finally speaking, and her voice was shot.

“I have the room reserved for a couple more hours,” he said. “You’ll recover in a few minutes.”

“OK,” she said dumbly.

“See you later, Maeve.”

Her senses kicked up as she watched him walk to the door.

“Wait!”

Castian paused and looked back.

“How -- where -- I…” She couldn’t make the words, but --

“You’ll see me soon,” he said, and flashed her one last smile. “Until then…”

And he left her, alone with her worn body and racing thoughts, again.