Sins of the Succubus

1. Neela

1

NEELA

T he acrid stench of cheap ale and sweat assaults my nostrils as I weave through the crowded bar, balancing a tray of drinks. My skin crawls with each leering gaze that follows me, but I force a smile, knowing it's expected. The weight of the tray strains my arms, and I can feel my dress sticking to my skin in the stuffy air.

"Hey, sweetheart," a gruff voice calls out. "How about a little extra service with that drink?"

I turn, my stomach churning. The man's bloodshot eyes roam over my body, making me feel naked and exposed. "Sorry, sir. I'm just here to serve drinks," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

His meaty hand grabs my wrist, yanking me closer. The sudden movement nearly causes me to drop the tray, and I wince at his vice-like grip. "C'mon, don't be like that. Your husband says you're always available for the right price."

My eyes dart to the bar where my husband, Thaelar, stands watching. His dark elven features twist into a cruel smirk as he nods, giving the patron permission. I feel a wave of despair wash over me, knowing there's no escape. My heart races, and I can taste bile in the back of my throat as I realize what's coming next.

"Please," I whisper, my voice trembling as I try to pull away from the patron's iron grip. "I have other tables to serve. You're hurting me." The fear in my chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. I can feel the bruises already forming on my wrist.

"Let her go," a new voice interrupts, firm and authoritative. "Can't you see she's not interested? Or are you too drunk to understand basic decency?"

The grip on my wrist suddenly loosens, and I stumble back, nearly spilling the drinks on my tray. My heart races as I steady myself, looking up to see a young human man standing there. His eyes are blazing with righteous anger, fists clenched at his sides.

"Mind your own business, boy," the first patron growls, rising unsteadily to his feet. "This doesn't concern you."

"Neela is my business," Thaelar's smooth voice cuts in as he approaches, his footsteps silent on the grimy floor. A chill runs down my spine at the sound. "And she'll do whatever I say she does." He turns to me, his obsidian eyes cold and unfeeling. "It's almost time for your dance, girl. Don't keep the customers waiting. You know how they get when they're... impatient."

I swallow hard, tasting bile in the back of my throat. My legs feel weak, but I force myself to nod. "Yes, husband," I murmur, my voice barely audible over the din of the bar. As I turn to leave, I catch a glimpse of the young man's face. The pity in his eyes makes me want to scream.

As I make my way to the stage, I hear Thaelar addressing the young man. "You're new here. Let me explain how things work. My wife is the main attraction. For the right price, she'll do anything you want. Anything."

The pole feels cold against my palm as I take my position. The lights dim, and the music starts. I begin to move, my body on autopilot as my mind drifts. How did I end up here? Forced into marriage at 18, sold like cattle to a man who sees me as nothing more than a commodity.

As I spin around the pole, I catch glimpses of the crowd. Some faces are familiar – regulars who come to leer and grope. Others are new, like the young man who tried to help me. His face is a mix of pity and disgust.

I finish my routine to raucous applause and catcalls. Thaelar's voice rises above the din. "Who wants a private show with our star performer?"

The room erupts into a frenzy of raised hands and shouted bids. My stomach twists as I watch Thaelar's eyes gleam with greed.

"Fifty gold for an hour!"

"Seventy-five!"

"One hundred!"

The numbers blur together, each one a nail in the coffin of my dignity. I stand there, frozen, as my husband's voice cuts through the chaos.

"Sold! To the gentleman in the back for one hundred and fifty gold."

My eyes find the winner – a portly merchant with a cruel smirk. I force down the bile rising in my throat and plaster on a fake smile.

Thaelar's hand clamps down on my shoulder, his fingers digging into my skin. "Make him happy, dear. We need the coin."

I nod mechanically, my voice barely a whisper. "Yes, husband."

As I lead the merchant to a private room, a serving girl rushes past with a tray of food. The aroma makes my stomach growl painfully, reminding me of the meager scraps I'm allowed.

"Hungry, are we?" The merchant chuckles. "Maybe if you're good, I'll toss you a bone."

I bite back a retort, knowing it would only lead to punishment later. Instead, I murmur, "That's very kind of you, sir."

Hours later, I collapse onto my small cot in the back room, every muscle aching. Thaelar saunters in, counting a stack of coins.

"Good night's work," he says, not bothering to look at me. "But you're getting soft around the middle. No breakfast for you tomorrow."

"But I haven't eaten since yesterday morning," I protest weakly.

He finally turns, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. "Are you complaining? Do you know how many human women would kill to be in your position? Married to a successful businessman, living in comfort?"

I bite my lip, holding back a bitter laugh. Comfort? Is that what he calls this life of constant degradation and hunger?

"I'm sorry," I whisper, hating myself for the words. "You're right. I'm grateful for everything you've done for me."

Thaelar nods, satisfied. "That's better. Now get some sleep. You've got a long day ahead of you tomorrow."

As he leaves, I curl up on the thin mattress, wrapping my arms around myself. Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them away. Crying won't change anything. It never has.

I lie awake on my cot, staring at the cracked ceiling. The faint sounds of the bar below filter through the floorboards, a constant reminder of my prison. My stomach growls, protesting its emptiness, but I ignore it. Hunger is an old friend now.

"There has to be more than this," I whisper to the darkness. "Doesn't there?"

But even as I voice the question, I know the answer. On Protheka, human women like me are little more than property. We have no rights, no power, no choices. I've tried to change my fate before, each attempt crushed more swiftly than the last.

I remember the time I tried to learn to read, sneaking glances at patrons' newspapers and books. Thaelar caught me tracing letters in spilled ale one night.

"What's this?" he had snarled, grabbing my wrist. "Trying to get ideas above your station?"

The beating that followed taught me to keep my eyes down and my mind empty.

Then there was the time I attempted to save some of my tips, hoping to buy my freedom. A barmaid named Lyra had told me about a secret pocket sewn into her skirts.

"It's how I'm gonna get out of this hellhole," she had whispered, eyes shining with hope.

I had been so inspired, I spent weeks carefully hoarding every copper I could. But Thaelar, ever watchful, noticed the discrepancy in his books.

"Where's the rest?" he had demanded, looming over me.

"I-I don't know what you mean," I stammered, heart pounding.

His backhand sent me sprawling. "Don't lie to me, you worthless whore!"

He found my pitiful savings easily enough. That night, he made me watch as he burned every coin, the flames reflecting in his obsidian eyes.

"This is all you'll ever be," he had hissed. "Accept it."

A tear slips down my cheek at the memory. I brush it away angrily. Crying solves nothing.

"Focus on the little things," I tell myself, voice barely audible. "Find joy where you can."

It's a mantra I've repeated countless times. The warmth of sunlight on my face during my rare moments outside. The taste of fresh bread when a kind-hearted cook slips me an extra roll. The fleeting camaraderie with other girls trapped in similar situations.

These small mercies are all I have left. They're the only thing keeping me sane in this nightmare of a life.