NOVEL NEXT Chapter 58: Blood Mistress
Before a mansion that sprawled across a territory taking up more than ten percent of the Underworld beneath Steeferce City, a noble carriage drawn by a beastlike variant of a horse came to a stop.
When the door opened, a woman in an alluring dress stepped out. A slave unrolled himself from beneath the carriage and waited for her to use him as a step.
She placed her heel on the small of his back, letting her weight linger as if testing a step, then drifted down the last inches with a languid roll of her hips. The slave behind her moaned and drooled, happiness written across his face. He looked like a gladiator from a famous movie—thick, well‑carved muscles—but even such a man ranked below a dog to the Blood Mistress.
Rows of maids and butlers already stood at attention. The butlers wore charcoal coats edged with thin silver braids, white gloves held flat against their thighs. The maids' skirts fell to the calf, crisp aprons snow‑bright against ink‑black fabric; a narrow iron tag glimmered at each throat where a collar would rest. Eyes forward, chins tucked, they breathed as one—measured, silent, trained to stillness until commanded.
She paid them no mind and glided past, a slow parade of perfume and satin; her hips traced an easy S‑curve with every step, the dress hugging and releasing like a tide.
Strangely, the slave on the ground didn't dare glance at her.
He knew a single look could crush his heart. He also knew it was better to bark and let her step on him than die in a ditch. To survive, he acted like a dog, forced a dog's smile, and drooled like one. He chose this path, believing fate would turn one day and let him reverse their roles.
If I make the Blood Mistress my dog, I'll fulfill my life's goal. I won't care about anything else.
"Amusing thoughts," the Blood Mistress said, halting as she raised her slender hand.
She flicked her fingers, and the dog‑man burst into blood.
Muscle and flesh ruptured like an overfilled balloon, splashing over the butlers, maids, carriage, garden, and lawn. Not a flinch: a tremor quivered through a glove, then stilled; a maid's lashes blinked once, slow as a metronome, before settling.
Under the Blood Mistress's pressure and smile, none dared move.
Her crimson eyes shone, amusement plain on her face—predator‑calm, indulgent.
A beat later the household machine restarted: two butlers stepped forward in mirrored lines, laid canvas sheets, and mopped with long, even strokes. A maid sluiced the flagstones while another wiped the carriage wheel clean. No one spoke.
Everyone here knew what happened if they flinched even once.
Death.
Their slave marks would make them explode just as the dog‑man had. This control extended over everyone in the mansion, down to the maids and other servants, and even to the personnel of the Nevolnik Dark Family working under them. It meant the lady behind the desk who had shared her life choices with Bellatrix could die with a mere flick of the Blood Mistress's hand.
Absolute control.
That was drilled into the Nevolnik Main Lineage as their slave business bloomed. Only the main lineage was spared slave tattoos or other orthodox methods of control.
Of course, mere contractors like Denver didn't have those tattoos. Only truly valuable people Nevolnik refused to let go were bound by new contracts that included slave tattoos.
After the Arena Pit entertainment, the Blood Mistress followed her usual routine.
She drifted to her grand bath to rinse away the grime and the hungry stares of Dark Practitioners, sliding into milk warmed to skin‑heat until it lapped at her collarbones. She reclined, unknotting her hair with lazy fingers, then rose in a sheen of white that clung and slid. She emerged and let the maids tend to her: towels pressed, oils smoothed at her shoulders and along her spine, hair drawn through a comb until it shone.
In her indoor dress, she went to her room and enjoyed a solitary glass of wine, then turned to the window.
Outside, the garden unfurled in tiers: blacksoil beds bordered by wrought‑iron ribs, trellises webbed with sanguine ivy whose veins pulsed faintly when the wind touched them. At the center stood a stone basin ringed with feeder tubes that dripped in patient beats, and the soil there breathed, dark and damp, as if sipping. This garden fed on blood, and the Blood Mistress loved to watch it thrive.
The air above it held a faint sweetness, threaded with iron.
She valued them more than human or Demi‑Human lives.
A knock sounded behind her.
"Enter," she said, touching the glass to her cherry lips and tilting her head to drink. The wine traced the bow of her mouth; she caught a stray drop with the tip of her tongue, smiling at its bite.
A man entered and bowed low.
He kept his gaze on the floorboards just past the toes of her slippers, measuring his breath to quiet the tremor in his chest. The collar at his neck ticked where the mark warmed.
Steady. Don't gulp. Don't stare. "I passed your orders to Denver. He will give you a report by tomorrow afternoon, Blood Mistress."
"Good work. You handled that quickly."
"It's an honor."
"Wait for his report and bring it to me tomorrow."
"Understood!"
His tongue felt too large in his mouth. A thread of sweat crawled from his temple to his jaw and stalled at the hinge like a bead on a wire. He willed it not to fall.
The Blood Mistress smiled and looked back at her garden.
She rolled the stem of her glass between finger and thumb, watching the liquid climb the bowl and slide down in a slow red sheet. You need some fresh new blood, don't you, sweeties? Mommy will bring you some high‑quality blood soon.
The flowers swayed left and right as if they could read Mommy's thoughts.
—
The man returned with Denver's report.
He had waited in the anteroom where the walls listened. Hours stretched—first a bow‑backed chair, then standing, then the chair again.
He counted the drips from the garden's feeder lines and tried not to imagine the tick quickening under his collar. If he misses the hour, it's on me. If he lies, it's on me. If she is displeased, it's on me. When Denver finally arrived, the parchment still damp with ink, he took it as if it were hot and did not run, though his legs felt borrowed.
The Blood Mistress had napped, eaten, and enjoyed her usual comforts while the messenger waited for Denver, worrying the man wouldn't finish by afternoon and that he would take the brunt of the punishment. He rehearsed responses in a whisper no one would hear. Say as little as possible. Answer quickly. Don't contradict. Don't assume. Fortunately, Denver finished in time.
The Blood Mistress read the report.
She didn't hurry. She turned each page with a fingertip, pausing at margins as if tasting the handwriting. "Hmm… so he's found a partner in crime whose eyes can discern talent amid the lot. He found those slaves in another fortress, their home for years, so his new partner's eyes worked just fine. Haha! Does he really think I'll believe such a ruse?" She crossed one knee over the other as she spoke, heel dangling, the silk at her thigh whispering with the motion.
The man licked his lips.
His mouth had gone dry in the time it took her to lift her eyes. The room felt too warm; the fire had been banked, but heat collected where fear had nowhere else to go.
"Answer," the Blood Mistress said.
The single word slid down his nerves like a blade.
"I think he does."
"Why?" she pressed, enjoying the man's discomfort.
He swallowed and found no spit. Give her what she already knows. Don't try to be clever.
"I think… he's that limited…"
"Wrong," the Blood Mistress said, drawing a lazy line along the rim of her glass with one fingernail, and the man's heart dropped into his stomach.
His knees sparked with a cold, bright ache—precursor to collapse—so he shifted his weight to disguise it as a bow.
Will I die now? he wondered.
She crossed her legs, lips curving; the dress hugged her like a secret. "It seems his partner in crime doesn't want to be locked in the mansion with me. Even women love being with me, so he's a rare breed. I like it. I'll play along. Tell Denver he will be sent to a Demi‑Human territory with Nevolnik's best slave merchants. I'll make them both play a nice game."
She laughed—low, warm, unhurried—the kind of sound that promised pleasure and delivered fear.
To the man, it felt as if a demon laughed across from him.
He gulped, committed her words to memory, and backed out under her laughter.
In the hall the air thinned; the portraits of past Nevolniks watched with varnished patience. He walked heel‑to‑toe to keep from hurrying, repeating the message in exact order.
Only when the door at the end clicked behind him did he let the breath out of his chest in a ragged stitch.