Kill Me Like A Lover « Enver Gortash & The Dark Urge [fem+named] » 🔞 ✔️

Urge! But not to kill.

Getting into the Wyrm's Rock is laughably easy. I know the guards would just let me pass, but there's no way in the Nine Hells I would embarrass myself like that. Little ol' me going to see "Lord" Gortash in my casual clothes in the middle of the night—what a delicious story for the Baldur's Mouth it would make. So I utilize every last muscle memory from the past I don't remember, slipping in completely undetected.

He's in the throne room, but not sitting on the damned thing. The main section is drowning in darkness, but I see a sliver of light coming from behind the door to one of the adjacent rooms. A study, maybe?

I almost trigger one of the traps as I'm sneaking towards him. There are Steel Watch still stationed around the room, but they appear less than attentive this time. Do they have some sort of down time? Or did Gortash put them in do-not-disturb mode?

I'm trying to not get myself executed, so I push down the instinct to grip the dagger I'm hiding under the cloak. If he wanted me dead, he wouldn't have made such theatrics to gain my cooperation this morning. The question of whether I wanted him dead remains to be answered.

I take a quiet peek into the warmly lit room and suppress a whistle. It's a study alright, but one Gortash seems to be using as an apartment—a wide, comfortable, richly adorned bed stands next to his desk, draped in red silk. He's not in it, though—he sits by the desk, bent over a document, clad only in what looks like a bathrobe.

I try to filter myself through the crack in the door, but the stupid hinges creak so loud I gasp and just inelegantly stumble inside.

Gortash jumps off his chair and twirls around, body taut, eyes alert, a quill in his left hand held like a weapon, the other hand ready to shove the metal claws of his fancy gold netherstone-adorned gauntlet into someone's eye. I grit my teeth and consider pulling out the dagger—but the second his gaze lands on me, he straightens and lets out a half relieved, half amused chortle.

"Sneaking up on me again?" He shakes his shaggy head. "Are Bhaalists simply incapable of setting up a meeting, like the rest of us?"

I open my mouth, a scathing comeback ready, but as soon as I let the air in the room in, I'm stunned. There's a distinct fragrance of soap and perfume, a freshness that only comes from thoroughly scrubbing yourself clean, and, among them, the unmistakable scent of him. The musk that speaks directly to the undamaged parts of my brain.

I can't believe how clean Gortash looks now. He evidently didn't plan on any public appearances this late at night, so even his hair is not styled into spikes anymore and it's just messily sticking out in natural directions, still a little damp from the bath. Funny—he didn't think to wash before his big inauguration, but he washed now, when no one important is scheduled to see him?

He takes my silence as an opportunity to speak more, instead of waiting for an answer. He tilts his head, gaze slowly gliding down my body, and smirks.

"Shouldn't you be curled on your bed next to the enormous druid, sleeping soundly? Wouldn't he be oh so hurt if he knew you were seeking another man's company?"

"What the fuck would you know?" I snap, his tone setting off a charge of anger inside me. "You don't know him. Hells, you don't know me! You don't get to make snarky remarks about my enormous druid."

Gortash cackles quietly and puts up his hands in a calming gesture.

"Of course I don't." His smirk deepens, his eyes studying my face. "But trust me, kitten. No one..." he takes a seductive little step towards me, "knows you like I do."

"I doubt that," I rasp barely audibly, a lump forming in my throat. My guts clench, breath shortening in panic. It's all just an elaborate joke, I'm sure... but it feels so familiar.