Reborn as a Succubus: Time To Live My Best Life!

The clash of steel on steel rang through the training grounds. Sirah moved like water, despite her massive size, flowing around Raven's strikes with her stump behind her back.

Melisa shifted on the bench, trying not to notice how Sirah's muscles flexed with each movement. How sweat made her training clothes cling in ways that—

[Stop. Looking.]

Sirah's eyes flicked to her. Just for a second. A knowing smirk tugged at her lips.

Melisa's face burned.

"So." Margaret settled beside her, voice carefully neutral. "Let me get this straight. You're letting the woman who kidnapped you train you in swordfighting?"

"Yep."

"The same woman who held you captive?"

"That's her."

"And you think this is a good idea?"

Melisa watched Sirah duck under Raven's blade, her remaining hand snaking out to tap Raven's ribs. Point to Sirah.

"Probably not."

Margaret was quiet for a moment. Then:

"But you're doing it anyway."

"I need to get stronger, Mom. She's one of the best fighters I've seen."

"She's also the woman who—" Margaret stopped herself. "Never mind. You're an adult. I trust your judgment."

[Do you though?]

"Thanks."

They watched another exchange. Raven attacked with cold precision, each strike calculated. Sirah just... flowed. Like violence was a dance she'd been born knowing.

"She is very skilled," Margaret admitted.

"Yeah."

"And attractive, if you like the scarred warrior type."

"Mom!"

"What? I have eyes." Margaret nudged her. "So does your cousin, apparently."

Melisa followed her gaze. Isabella stood at the edge of the training area, practically vibrating. Her tail swished rapidly, and she kept biting her lip.

[Oh no.]

"Isabella, no," Armia said firmly, one hand on Isabella's shoulder.

"But look at her! The way she moves! The muscles! The—"

"No."

"I'm just saying, if she wanted to throw me around—"

"NO."

Sirah landed another point, this time sweeping Raven's legs. Raven hit the ground hard but rolled back to her feet instantly.

"Good recovery," Sirah called. "But you telegraph that low strike. Again."

Professional. Focused. Nothing like the woman who'd pressed too close three nights ago, voice full of dark promises.

[This is fine. Everything's fine.]

A knock at the front gate made everyone pause. Melisa stood quickly, grateful for the excuse.

"I'll get it."

The last person she expected to see was exactly who was standing there. Vira.

Koros's sister stood in the doorway, wringing her hands. Same eyes as her brother, but softer. Kinder.

"Melisa. Hi."

"Vira."

They stared at each other. Yeah, things were still awkward.

"I just—" Vira took a breath. "I heard the news. About Koros. That he won't be executed."

"Right."

"I wanted to thank you. I know it was probably not easy convincing the queen."

[I literally got taken prisoner by darians for the guy, so, yeah, it was "not easy". Sure.]

"You're welcome."

Vira nodded, already turning to leave. Then she stopped.

"I know things are... complicated. Between us. But if you ever want to talk, my door's open."

"Talk about what?"

"Anything." Vira's smile was sad.

Melisa looked away.

"I'll consider it."

"That's all I ask." Vira hesitated. "For what it's worth, I think you did the right thing. With Koros. Even if it doesn't feel like it now."

She left before Melisa could respond.

[I hope so.]

Back at the training grounds, Sirah had moved on to Armia. Despite being a full head taller and significantly bulkier, Sirah moved with surprising grace.

"You fight like a human trained you," Sirah said, easily catching Armia's strike. "All technique, no instinct."

"Technique wins battles."

"Does it?" Sirah twisted, using her superior strength to force Armia off-balance. Her hand tapped Armia's throat. "Dead. Again."

Melisa sank back onto the bench, planting her head on Margaret's shoulder.

"Tired?" Margaret asked.

"Annoyed."

"At?"

"Everything." Melisa closed her eyes. "Life's too complicated."

"Welcome to adulthood, sweetie."

[I didn't ask for this.]

Except she had. She'd wished for lovers, for a role that mattered. Well, she had both now. Isabella's libido alone could fuel a small city, and her magic made her important to the crown.

But importance came with politics. With moral compromises. With letting would-be terrorists live because killing them would cause more problems than it solved.

"Do you think I made the right choice? With Koros?"

Margaret's hand found her hair, stroking gently.

"I think you made the only choice you could live with."

"That's not an answer."

"Sure it is." Margaret's voice held that mom-wisdom that made everything seem simpler. "Right and wrong are rarely as clear as we'd like. You saved lives by letting him live. That matters."

[But what about next time someone dies because I showed mercy?]

"Melisa!" Sirah called. "Your turn."

Melisa groaned.

"Go on," Margaret said. "Show the kidnapper what you've learned."

"Not helping, Mom."

But she stood, stretching muscles already sore from two days of dawn training. Sirah waited in the center of the practice ring, practice sword casual in her grip.

"Let's see if you've been paying attention."

[I've been trying not to.]

Melisa picked up her own practice blade. The weight still felt wrong, unnatural. Magic came so easily, but this?

"Remember," Sirah circled her slowly. "Footwork first. Everything flows from—"

Melisa struck mid-sentence.

Sirah parried easily, laughing.

"Better! You're learning."

They exchanged blows, Sirah correcting her form between strikes. Professional. Distant. Nothing like—

Sirah stepped inside her guard, suddenly too close. Her breath ghosted across Melisa's ear.

"You're thinking too much."

Then she was gone, dancing back with that infuriating smirk.

[I hate her.]

"Focus, Red Eyes. Or do you need more... personal instruction?"

Heat flooded Melisa's face. She attacked again, wilder this time. Sirah flowed around each strike, barely seeming to move.

"There's that fire." Sirah's grin widened. "But anger makes you sloppy."

She demonstrated by disarming Melisa in one smooth motion. The practice sword clattered across stone.

"Dead. Again."

[I really hate her.]

"Maybe you need different motivation." Sirah stepped closer. "What would make you fight harder, hmm?"

"Back off."

"Make me."

They stared at each other. The training ground had gone quiet.

Then Isabella's voice cut through the tension:

"Oh my gods, just fuck already!"

"BELLA!"

Sirah laughed, stepping back.

"Your friend has interesting ideas."

"Ignore her."

Sirah retrieved Melisa's sword, offering it handle-first.

"Again. And this time, try to last longer than thirty seconds."

[Don't say it. Don't—]

"That's what she said," Isabella called.

"I'm going to kill her," Melisa muttered.

"After training." Sirah's professional mask slipped back into place. "Now. Footwork. Show me you've been listening."

They continued until Melisa's arms screamed and her legs shook. By the end, she'd lasted almost a full minute. Progress, apparently.

"Same time tomorrow," Sirah said, not even winded. "Wear something easier to move in."

She left without another word. Melisa stood there, sweat-soaked and exhausted, watching her go.

[This was a terrible idea.]

But tomorrow morning, she'd be back. Because she needed this. Needed to be stronger.

Even if it killed her.

Or drove her completely insane.

Whichever came first.