Hi everyone :) Here's the latest chapter.
Chapter 12 (~11k words):
– Mazikeen –
Mazikeen stood near the back office door, arms crossed over her chest, staring at Lucifer Morningstar sprawled out on the velvet sofa. He looked absolutely wrecked. That was saying something, because Maze had seen Lucifer in every kind of state—drunk, brooding, smug, bleeding, stabbed through the chest, literally set on fire.
But this was different. This was… humiliating.
Lucifer's face was a disaster. Both his eyes were ringed with purple bruises that wouldn't heal, not even with all his usual supernatural perks. His bottom lip was split and swollen. There was a nasty, jagged scrape across his left cheekbone, dried blood crusting in a way that looked grotesquely human. The bridge of his nose was red and already ballooning with swelling. He pressed a melting bag of ice to his jaw with all the mournful dignity of a cat who'd fallen in the bathtub.
He winced every time he moved. It was almost funny. Almost.
The Lux wasn't its usual glamorous self, either. Someone had left the lights on a little too bright, and the thumping base of the house mix seemed to vibrate straight through the walls. Every time a burst of laughter from the crowd drifted back to the office, Lucifer flinched like a jumpy dog.
Mazikeen didn't bother hiding her disappointment—or her annoyance. She was still wearing her club gear, her black leather pants clinging to her hips, boots heavy on the floor. She felt more demon than human right now, and not in a good way.
She stalked across the room, arms swinging at her sides. She was pissed. She stopped only when she was standing right over Lucifer, looming. "Look at you," she said flatly. "You look like you got thrown off a building and run over by a lorry. Didi really did a number on you."
Lucifer made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. It came out lopsided and pathetic. "She does have a rather… forceful way of making her displeasure known." He tried for a chuckle, but it broke off into a groan. He pressed the ice harder to his face.
Mazikeen rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well, you deserved every second of it, you moron." She dropped down into the leather armchair across from him, legs spread wide, exuding a dangerous, pissed-off energy. "I told you, Lucifer. I told you not to fuck with Amara. You promised me you were just going to talk. Maybe flirt a little. NOT put her through some devil's trial bullshit."
Lucifer held up his free hand defensively. "I know, I know! I slipped, Maze. It was a mistake. Didi made that abundantly clear to me—believe me." He gingerly poked at his nose, wincing again. "She's got a right hook like an archangel."
Mazikeen glared at him. "She's not the only one who's pissed off, you know. Amara trusted me—she liked me. Now she probably hates both of us. You broke your word, Lucifer. That wasn't just cruel, it was fucking stupid."
She could feel her own heart pounding in her chest, anger mingling with a much more vulnerable anxiety. It wasn't just rage she felt. She was worried. Genuinely, pathetically worried that Amara might never talk to her again. Maze would have denied it if pressed, but the fear was gnawing at her insides.
Lucifer's bravado slipped, just a little. He looked… tired. "I am sorry, Maze," he said, softly. "I really am. I didn't mean for things to go so far. It's just… Sometimes I slip back into old habits. The devil makes cruel tests, that's what he does. Sometimes, I forget that's not who I'm supposed to be anymore. I was just so interested in this new demoness and wanted to see what she was capable of!"
Maze's expression softened. Only a little. She looked away, jaw set tight. "You don't need to apologize to me. I'm not the one who needs to hear it." Her voice was blunt, no mercy in her tone.
Lucifer sighed. He slumped back into the couch, ice pack sliding off his jaw and thumping to the carpet. He looked every inch a man who'd been thoroughly beaten—body and ego both.
There was a heavy pause. Silence, except for the muffled bass and the clink of glass out in the club.
After a moment, Lucifer said quietly, "Do you think she'll ever forgive me? I wasn't lying when I said I'd be interested in getting to know her better…"
Mazikeen didn't answer right away. She stared at her own hands, the black nail polish chipped from stress and too many fights. She wanted to say yes, but she couldn't lie. Instead, she muttered, "It's not really about you, is it? It's about Amara. She doesn't trust easily. She'll need time. Maybe a lot of it."
Lucifer was silent, brooding.
Maze felt her throat tighten. "If Didi hadn't shown up when she did, you know… you might've ruined her forever. Amara almost digested Mordred's soul completely. That would've fucked her up for life, you know that?"
She shook her head, running her hands through her hair, tugging sharply at the roots. "Didi said she fixed it. She pulled Mordred's soul out before it was too late. Put some other monster's soul in there instead so Amara wouldn't feel guilty. She patched it all up for you, cleaned up your mess. If she hadn't… well, I don't even want to think about it."
Lucifer winced. He looked genuinely remorseful, a rare thing. "I know, Maze. I really do." His voice dropped. "I owe Amara an apology. And you…"
Maze glared at him again, but the anger had drained away. Now it was just exhaustion, disappointment, and a desperate little hope that maybe, somehow, Amara would give her another chance. She didn't say it out loud, but it sat heavy in her chest, raw and open.
She finally stood up, boots thudding on the floor. "You'd better figure out what you're going to say to her, Lucifer. Because I don't know if I'll ever get the chance to say anything at all."
She left the office without looking back, leaving Lucifer to nurse his wounds—inside and out—in silence. Her thoughts drifted to Amara, wondering what she was doing right now?
– Amara –
I leaned back deeply into the plush, luxurious leather chair of the private jet, breathing in the comforting, faintly woody scent of expensive upholstery. The plane was exquisite, easily surpassing anything I'd ever imagined flying in—particularly since my previous experiences with muggle transportation usually involved cramped, uncomfortable seats surrounded by irritatingly loud strangers.
My gaze drifted lazily over the elegant interior. Polished wooden panels lined the walls, gleaming beneath the soft glow of tasteful, ambient lighting. There was a minibar fully stocked with various bottles of outrageously expensive alcohols I'd only vaguely heard of before. Several plush sofas were arranged carefully near the back of the plane, accompanied by crystal-topped tables.
Everything was spotless and expensive-looking, and I could hardly suppress the smug little smirk that tugged insistently at the corner of my lips.
This was absolutely fantastic. Being insanely wealthy in the muggle world genuinely was a completely new type of power—and one I was rapidly becoming addicted to.
The sound of high heels clicking gently on the plane's plush carpeting drew my attention forward. My eyes lifted, settling on the blonde stewardess as she approached me again. A warm flush rose immediately in my cheeks as my gaze roamed appreciatively down her body.
The stewardess's uniform hugged her figure almost obscenely—tight, dark navy fabric clinging to her slender waist, accentuating the generous curve of her hips and thighs. The crisp white blouse beneath her fitted blazer was buttoned dangerously low, leaving a tantalizing view of smooth, pale cleavage that nearly made me forget how to breathe properly. Her slim legs were encased in sheer dark stockings, feet perched gracefully in elegant black stilettos.
She stopped beside my seat and leaned down slightly, giving me an even clearer, closer view of her spectacular cleavage. The subtle scent of her perfume filled my nostrils.
"Miss Black," the stewardess said softly, her voice low and smoothly professional—though there was a clear, unmistakable undercurrent of flirtation in her tone. "Can I refill your drink again, or perhaps… is there anything else I could possibly do for you during our flight?" Her full, glossy lips curled into a faintly suggestive smile, bright blue eyes watching me through long, dark lashes.
She tilted her body subtly closer, clearly and deliberately pressing her chest forward a bit further.
I felt the blush deepen across my cheeks and down the back of my neck, but I didn't avert my eyes. Instead, I openly admired the soft swell of her breasts beneath her blouse for several long, lingering moments before finally, reluctantly, lifting my gaze back up to meet hers.
I returned her playful smile with one of my own, speaking softly, voice a little huskier than I'd intended. "Thank you, but I'm perfectly fine for now."
She pouted slightly, lips pursing into a tempting little moue, and straightened again with a small sigh, seemingly disappointed but not at all discouraged. "If you change your mind at all," she promised sweetly, her voice dipping into a lower, sultry register, "just let me know, Miss Black. Anything at all."
The implication in her words was blatantly obvious, and I had to bite down lightly on my bottom lip to keep from smiling too obviously at her. She gave me one more lingering, suggestive glance before turning gracefully, hips swaying provocatively beneath the tight skirt as she walked back toward the plane's galley.
I watched her go, enjoying the sight a bit too much, though honestly, who could possibly blame me?
Shaking my head softly at myself with an amused smirk, I turned to gaze thoughtfully out the window.
I felt a strange heaviness settle over me again as I stared through the glass, suddenly reminded of why exactly I was taking this trip in the first place. London. The wizarding world. My birth family. The very same people who'd abandoned and betrayed me, who'd caused me nothing but pain and suffering throughout my childhood, and who'd indirectly gotten Sirius killed.
I closed my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply through my nose, fighting to push the painful memories away. Now wasn't the time to spiral into grief again. I had to remain composed, keep my wits about me. This wasn't a social visit—
Taking a long, steadying sip of my drink, I let my eyes drift closed again briefly. I needed to relax. I couldn't afford to arrive in London rattled or distracted. There was far too much at stake, especially since I was traveling alone.
A few minutes later, I calmed down and looked up again. The hostess was back. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do for you, Miss Black?" she purred, leaning down again so her perfume filled my head. "We'll be descending soon. I could… show you the first-class restroom. Or maybe you'd like a massage to relax before landing?"
I smirked and met her eyes, letting my own emerald-green gaze glow just a little—succubus magic, just a flicker. She froze, pupils dilating, lips parting in unconscious anticipation. I grinned wider, not bothering to hide the heat in my voice.
"Maybe next time," I whispered, deliberately brushing her hand as I took another sip of my drink. "But I promise, you'll be the first to know if I change my mind."
She practically shivered. She nodded, flustered, and hurried away, cheeks bright red. I shook my head in amusement. Being a succubus really did make life easier sometimes.
I turned back to the window, London's sprawling city lights coming into view as we dipped lower through the clouds. The city looked different from the air—beautiful, glittering, almost inviting. But I knew better. There was nothing welcoming about this place. I was coming back on my own terms this time, and I'd burn the whole city down before I let it hurt me again.
"Welcome home, Amara Black," I muttered to myself, watching the gray sky darken as we began our descent. "Let's see what kind of hell you have waiting for me this time."
….
I stepped off the private jet onto the tarmac, the sudden gust of crisp London air instantly chasing away the pleasant warmth of the cabin. A shiver slipped down my spine as I adjusted my jacket, tugging the soft leather closer to my body. The sky was a typical London gray, heavy clouds hanging above like an oppressive, wet blanket. The city hadn't changed a bit. It was still dreary and cold, exactly how I remembered it.
The stewardess from earlier gave me one last heated glance as she smiled warmly, leaning out of the plane doorway to wave me off. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "It was truly a pleasure having you on board, Miss Black," she called, her voice dripping with sultry suggestion. "Please fly with us again soon."
I gave her a sly, lingering smile, amused by how blatantly she'd flirted the entire trip. "Count on it," I replied smoothly, letting my gaze drift slowly down her curvy figure one final time before turning away.
Walking briskly toward the main terminal, I pulled my luggage behind me. It was just for appearances since everything I needed was in my [inventory.] As the automatic doors opened with a soft hiss, I stepped inside Heathrow's private VIP section, immediately greeted by the overly bright fluorescent lighting and faint smell of antiseptic and freshly brewed coffee.
As expected, there was hardly anyone around in the VIP terminal. A tall, middle-aged security agent with a carefully trimmed beard and neatly pressed blue uniform stepped forward to meet me, extending one hand politely. "Passport or identification, please, Miss?" he asked professionally, voice crisp and neutral.
"Of course," I murmured smoothly, slipping my hand into my purse to retrieve the new ID card the Court of Owls had provided. It felt sleek and expensive beneath my fingertips, depicting my full name and photograph.
Without looking too closely at it, I casually handed it over, offering the man a polite but bored smile.
He took the ID card from me, glancing down to read it and immediately froze in place, eyes widening dramatically. His mouth opened and closed silently for several seconds, before he made an odd, choking sound in his throat. My brows furrowed slightly in confusion as I stared back at him.
Had something gone wrong?
He snapped his gaze upward, meeting my eyes again with an almost frantic panic. "Oh my—oh, dear heavens, my sincerest apologies!" He suddenly bowed his head deeply, as if addressing royalty, his voice trembling anxiously. "Welcome back to London, milady Duchess Black! It is truly an honor to have you here! P-please forgive my earlier informality!"
I stared blankly, mouth slightly open, feeling distinctly dumbfounded for several long seconds. Duchess Black? Had I heard him correctly?
A duchess? Seriously? Me?
My heart did a funny little skip, disbelief mixing with surprised amusement. Were the Blacks somehow part of the British nobility? Had the Court of Owls genuinely managed to dig up some hidden hereditary title for me and officially register it without telling me, as some little surprise gift?
That honestly sounded exactly like something they'd do. A way to get me indebted to them or something…
A small smile tugged insistently at the corner of my lips as the implications fully settled into my brain. I was a genuine duchess now, apparently. Rich, powerful, beautiful, and nobility—this just kept getting better and better.
As if suddenly snapping back to reality, I realized the security man's panicked reaction had attracted unwanted attention. Every single person in the VIP area had stopped in their tracks and was now staring at me openly, eyes wide with surprise and awe. Dozens of gazes, utterly fixated and openly curious, slid slowly down my body, taking in every curve, every feature, and I could hear them muttering quietly among themselves.
"That's a duchess?" whispered an older woman to her husband. "My God, she's absolutely stunning!"
A younger man with messy brown hair nudged his friend sharply, his eyes glued shamelessly to my hips and chest. "Mate, just look at her. Nobility and drop-dead gorgeous—bloody hell!"
Despite my brief initial surprise, their open appreciation of my beauty brought a smug little smirk back to my lips. I'd never once tired of being called beautiful.
However, as amusing as this all was, I still needed to get out of here and on my way.
Clearing my throat quietly to gather my wits, I spoke again to the security agent, voice smooth but polite. "Thank you for the warm welcome," I told him gently, offering a gracious smile. "If it isn't too much trouble, could you arrange a private car to pick me up from here?"
Technically, I knew very well that arranging personal transportation was definitely not part of the man's job. Airport security didn't typically deal with luxury travel arrangements. But, judging from the panicked way his eyes widened at my request, I highly doubted he'd object.
"Of course, milady Duchess! Right away, immediately!" he babbled frantically, practically falling over himself to accommodate me. He pulled a small radio from his belt with fumbling hands, urgently speaking into it. "Please inform the airport management immediately! The Duchess Black requires a private car, priority service! A limousine, yes, immediately!"
He looked back to me again, anxious and eager, as if desperate for approval. "Milady Duchess," he continued rapidly, gesturing politely toward a set of nearby double doors, "might I suggest waiting in our private lounge area until the limousine arrives? It's quiet, comfortable, fully stocked—of course, you deserve only the best accommodations. Would that be acceptable to you?"
I had to suppress a small laugh at his nervous enthusiasm. Instead, I merely nodded graciously, tilting my chin upward slightly in a manner I'd seen rich, entitled people do dozens of times before. "Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you."
"Wonderful, wonderful!" the man gushed happily, visibly relieved at my approval. He quickly stepped ahead to hold the door open for me, practically bowing again as I walked gracefully past him into the private lounge area.
Inside the room, plush velvet couches were arranged tastefully around polished mahogany coffee tables. A large flat-screen TV hung unobtrusively on one wall, and I spotted an expensive-looking espresso machine set into a polished marble counter alongside trays filled with gourmet snacks. Clearly, they reserved this room for only the most important VIP travelers. Or duchesses, apparently.
"Please," the security agent stammered politely from the doorway, voice still trembling slightly, "make yourself completely at home. I'll personally ensure your limo arrives within moments!"
He disappeared hurriedly out the door, closing it softly behind him, leaving me alone.
Shaking my head softly in amusement, I moved toward one of the plush velvet couches, sinking comfortably down onto the ridiculously soft cushions with a quiet sigh. My mind raced, still processing this bizarre yet undeniably pleasant development.
The Court of Owls really had managed to turn me into legitimate British nobility. I was now Duchess Black.
— Dick Grayson —
Dick Grayson stepped down carefully from the polished metal steps of the private jet, squinting slightly as the harsh, blinding glare of camera flashes immediately assaulted his vision. He blinked several times, barely resisting the urge to raise a hand and shield his eyes. The crisp, damp air of London brushed sharply against his cheeks, bringing with it the faint scent of rain and jet fuel.
Behind him, he heard his father, Bruce Wayne, sigh softly—an almost imperceptible sound of resigned irritation. Bruce stepped calmly to Dick's side, smoothing out invisible creases in his impeccably tailored dark charcoal suit jacket. Dick watched him silently from the corner of his eye, wondering—not for the first time—how Bruce always managed to look effortlessly poised and relaxed, even amid chaos.
Dick glanced down at himself, suddenly feeling self-conscious. His own suit, though obviously expensive and perfectly tailored to his lean, athletic body, felt somehow uncomfortable, almost suffocating. He subtly tugged at the dark blue jacket cuffs, shifting his shoulders slightly beneath the expensive fabric. He'd never quite managed to get comfortable with the extravagant and public-facing billionaire lifestyle that came so naturally to Bruce.
A small army of reporters surged eagerly forward from behind the roped-off security barrier, practically shoving microphones into their faces. Dick grimaced inwardly. He'd expected a bit of media attention, of course—this was a major public event, after all—but the sheer size of the eager, shouting crowd immediately put him on edge.
"Mr. Wayne! Mr. Grayson!" multiple reporters shouted simultaneously, each desperate to be heard above the others. "Tell us about Wayne Industries' newest division opening here in London!"
Bruce offered the crowd a calm, practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We're very excited to expand our business and bring new employment opportunities to London," he said evenly, voice smooth and professional. "I'm sure we'll have more to share with you at tomorrow's official opening ceremony."
Dick nodded politely along with his father's diplomatic response, hoping desperately that would be enough to satisfy the eager reporters.
Of course, it wasn't.
Almost immediately, the questions devolved into familiar territory—personal gossip, romance rumors, and tabloid nonsense. Dick suppressed a weary groan. The reporters crowded closer, cameras clicking incessantly, blinding flashes of light assaulting him once more.
"Bruce! Any new romantic interests lately?" one older reporter demanded bluntly, his grin openly predatory, eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Is there a lucky woman in your life right now?"
"Or perhaps several lucky women?" another younger female reporter added, voice playful and suggestive, causing a ripple of laughter from the crowd.
Bruce chuckled politely, smoothly brushing off the invasive questions with practiced ease. "Nothing to announce right now, I'm afraid," he said casually, giving them a charming, self-deprecating smile. "I'm just focused on business and spending time with family."
Dick watched Bruce expertly navigate the intrusive questioning, silently marveling at his father's flawless performance. Bruce always made it look effortless. But Dick knew himself too well—he wouldn't handle the next inevitable barrage of questions nearly as gracefully.
Sure enough, attention swung abruptly toward him next. A pushy young reporter with sharply gelled hair shoved forward, grinning widely. "And what about you, Dick? Gotham's favorite bachelor heir! Any new love interests for you to share?"
Dick coughed awkwardly, shifting his weight uneasily from foot to foot, suddenly painfully aware of every reporter staring eagerly at him. He offered them a weak, slightly strained smile. "No, I'm—uh—not really dating anyone at the moment," he managed, inwardly cringing at how awkward and unconvincing he sounded.
A female reporter with thick-rimmed glasses elbowed her way closer, raising her voice pointedly above the crowd. "What about the mysterious duchess who arrived earlier today from America?" she called out loudly, eyes bright with curiosity. "Duchess Amara Black arrived in London from Gotham City, just hours ahead of you two! Are you all here for joint business? Or maybe something more personal?"
The moment Dick heard the words 'Duchess Amara Black,' his head snapped sharply toward the woman, eyes widening in shock. His pulse skyrocketed almost instantly, a wave of heat rushing to his cheeks, ears, and neck. Before he could even think clearly, he blurted out in a startled, stammering voice, "Amara is here?"
A stunned silence lasted barely a fraction of a second, followed immediately by an excited, chaotic eruption of voices from the assembled reporters. Dick felt a heavy sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he realized his slip. He could practically see the dollar signs appearing in their eyes.
"They do know each other!" someone shouted gleefully from the back of the crowd.
More questions surged forth in rapid-fire succession, each reporter eagerly competing to be the loudest.
"Are you and the Duchess romantically involved, Dick?"
"When did you first meet Duchess Amara Black?"
"How long have you two been dating?"
"Are you serious about her?"
Dick stammered helplessly, his mind completely blank. He felt the heat deepen painfully in his cheeks, burning bright red under the intense scrutiny. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, his throat closing up from embarrassment and panic. How had he managed to screw this up so badly in less than ten seconds?
Bruce smoothly stepped closer, a firm hand instantly gripping Dick's shoulder, snapping him sharply back to reality. Dick glanced sideways at Bruce, seeing his father's face carefully neutral, though a small vein pulsed faintly at his temple—a clear indication of irritation.
"We really have no further comments right now," Bruce told the crowd firmly, voice hardening ever so slightly. He gently but insistently steered Dick forward, guiding him swiftly toward their waiting limousine. "We're very busy. Have a good day."
Dick stumbled slightly under his father's firm grip, feet awkwardly shuffling forward, cheeks still bright red. His embarrassment was painfully obvious to everyone watching. As they neared the polished black limousine parked several meters away, the barrage of questions continued relentlessly from behind.
"Mr. Grayson, what exactly is your relationship with Duchess Black?"
"Are the two of you getting serious?"
"Is this a new royal-blood billionaire romance?"
Dick groaned audibly this time, his entire body tensed with discomfort and frustration. "God, please just get me out of here," he muttered under his breath, face burning brighter. "This is a nightmare."
As the chauffeur hurriedly opened the limousine's rear passenger door, Bruce gently pushed Dick inside first, climbing in immediately afterward. The soundproof door clicked shut behind them, and everything went quiet.
Then Bruce turned his head slightly, giving Dick one of those sidelong looks. The kind that made Dick feel like he was fifteen again and had just crashed the Batmobile.
"You want to tell me," Bruce asked calmly, "why you shouted 'Amara is here' in front of a dozen cameras?"
Dick ran a hand through his hair, feeling the embarrassment spike all over again. He groaned quietly and slumped deeper into the leather, staring at the car ceiling. "Yeah," he muttered. "I really, really didn't mean to do that."
Bruce's expression didn't change much, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth that might have been suppressed irritation. Or amusement. With Bruce, you could never tell.
"She's here," Dick said again, quieter this time. "In London. As a duchess now?" He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Of course she is. She never stops surprising me…"
Bruce's eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "Then this trip just got more complicated," he said bluntly. "So? What was that, Dick?" Bruce asked bluntly, arching one eyebrow slightly. "You completely lost your cool."
Dick sank deeper into the plush leather seats, groaning quietly and covering his burning face with both hands. "I have no idea," he muttered miserably, embarrassment radiating from him like heat waves. "It just slipped out. I didn't know she was coming to London so soon! I guess she's choosing to take Raven's advice and confront her parents that abandoned her directly," he speculated.
He noticed Bruce flinch at his words, just a tiny bit but it was there. His father Bruce Wayne—Batman—had a blind spot when it came to orphans or former abused kids. As soon as Dick had reported everything from his last—date?—with Amara, Kara, and Raven he had noticed something different whenever Bruce mentioned Amara Black. He was less harsh on her actions on Gotham. No doubt, he wanted her captured, but more so she could be rehabilitated and not locked up forever.
Basically, he was more onboard with Dick's original plan. Even if Dick knew he himself was already borderline on being emotionally compromised.
— Amara —
I stood in front of the mirror and actually scowled at myself.
I was wearing the worst outfit I'd put on in… honestly, maybe ever. An ancient pair of baggy blue jeans that hung off my hips weirdly, all warped and faded in patches, and a button-up flannel shirt with red and gray checks. Flannel. On me. It didn't just clash with my usual vibe—it actively attacked it.
The jeans were too big, so I'd had to cinch them tight with some ugly brown belt I'd found in the back of my inventory. Even pulled in, they did that awful bunching thing around my waist and hips, like a wrinkled paper bag had decided to cosplay as trousers. They completely drowned out my curves, hiding my ass so thoroughly you'd think I was trying to smuggle two pillows out of a department store. The flannel shirt wasn't any better. The cut was boxy and stiff, and when I looked at myself side-on, my boobs just made it puff out in this stupid triangle shape. No waist, no shape, just… lump.
And the worst part? I knew, objectively, that my body was ridiculous. I could make a potato sack look fuckable. But this? Somehow, these clothes were actually managing to fight back.
I let out a long, annoyed breath and dragged a hand down my face.
"Why the fuck am I dressed like a homeless lumberjack?" I muttered at my reflection. "I'm a goddamn duchess. I'm staying in a twenty-thousand-pound-a-night penthouse with gold taps and silk sheets. And I look like I should be asking myself if I can spare some change."
I knew exactly why, of course.
Because I was going to see my "family" soon.
Because I didn't want them to have the slightest clue who I'd become. No hint that their discarded squib daughter had turned into a rich-as-fuck, magically overpowered duchess-slash-succubus who could buy and sell their entire lives without blinking. No evidence that my life had become something huge and dangerous and actually mine.
So I'd done the most insulting thing I could think of.
I dressed like the version of me they expected. Poor. Forgettable. Background extra in my own story.
I forced my eyes back up to the mirror and just stared at my face.
The face was still my true one—raven-black hair, flawless skin, big emerald eyes, lips that looked like they'd been designed for sin. My horns were hidden for now. I hadn't changed anything about my features yet.
That was the real problem.
All I had to do was focus and pull on my Metamorphmagus ability. I'd done it before without thinking: blonde hair, blue eyes, different jawline, different cheekbones. Easy. This should've been the same. Just… twist the magic the other way. Undo the binding that Dumbledore slapped on me. Recreate that old, fake face.
The Heather face.
The pug nose. The too-wide jaw. The blotchy skin. The shitty, limp brown hair. The girl the world tripped over without ever noticing.
My fingers tightened on the edge of the sink. I could feel my magic waiting for the command, ready to reshape my features at a thought. I could almost see the ghost of that old reflection in my head, layered over this one.
But my stomach knotted up instead.
Because as much as I knew that face had been a lie—some fucked-up side effect of Dumbledore sealing my succubus bloodline—those eighteen years had still been real. The loneliness, the bullying, the being invisible, the way people's eyes slid right past me like I wasn't worth looking at. All of that had happened to her. To Heather.
I had spent my entire life thinking that was me.
And now I was supposed to just… voluntarily put her back on like a costume.
I swallowed hard, jaw clenching. My magic twitched again, waiting for the order. I stared at my reflection for a long moment, waiting for myself to move.
I didn't.
"Come on," I whispered to myself. "It's just a face. It's not real. You're not her anymore. You just need to fool them. That's all."
Still nothing. I was still hesitating when someone knocked on the suite door.
The sound snapped through the silence of the penthouse—three sharp knocks.
For half a second, I seriously considered ignoring it. Pretend I wasn't in. But whoever it was already knew this room was occupied, and the knock had that polite, confident rhythm that screamed staff or someone important, not some random cleaner.
"Great," I muttered. "Guess I get a break from my own emotional breakdown."
I let go of the sink and turned away from the mirror. My bare feet sank into the ridiculous plush carpet as I crossed the bedroom. I could feel the weight of the hotel around me—the high ceilings, the stupidly huge bed behind me, the floor-to-ceiling windows showing off London's gray skyline. It should've felt impressive. Right now it just felt like a very expensive waiting room.
I ran a quick mental hand over my magic, making sure my horns were still hidden, my aura damped down. Last thing I needed was some poor human collapsing from sudden horny demon overload in the hallway.
Another knock came, a little more tentative this time.
"I'm coming, calm your tits," I grumbled under my breath.
I grabbed the handle and yanked the door open. And then I froze.
Standing awkwardly in the plush, carpeted hallway just outside my suite was Dick Grayson. Dick, with his annoyingly perfect jawline and ridiculously attractive face, looking entirely too handsome in an expensive navy-blue suit that hugged his toned body perfectly. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd nervously run his fingers through it multiple times before knocking. He stared back at me in obvious confusion, his dark eyes roaming down my ugly outfit and back up again, clearly baffled by what he saw.
For half a second, we just stared at each other like two idiots in a rom-com.
He blinked first. "Uh… hi there," Dick finally greeted, flashing me a nervous, boyish smile that sent an irritating flutter racing through my chest despite myself. And there was this awkward little lilt on the word Duchess, like he was both teasing me and still not entirely over the shock of it.
Then his eyes dropped. And he took in my outfit. The baggy jeans. The belt. The ugly flannel. His brows shot up so fast I thought they might launch off his face. "What are you wearing?" he blurted, completely unfiltered. "You look like you mugged a 90s trucker on his smoke break."
Despite everything going on in my head, a laugh just exploded out of me. It was short and sharp, but real. "Wow," I said. "Hello to you too. Nice to see you're still a smooth talker, Grayson."
He realized what he'd just said and winced, dragging a hand over his face. "Shit, no, I didn't mean— I mean, you look— you always look good, it's just— that shirt is a hate crime."
I folded my arms across my chest, partly to cover how the stupid flannel puffed out and partly because it gave me something to do with my hands. I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe, squinting at him. "What are you doing here?" I asked flatly. "Lose a bet with Batman? Did he make you come scold me for my fashion choices as punishment?"
He huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh and glanced down the hallway, like he was checking to make sure we were alone. There was nobody else in sight—this was the VIP floor, so it was quiet, just tasteful wall lights and thick carpet and a vase of flowers that probably cost more than my old rent.
Then he looked back at me, and the joking edge faded a bit. His expression turned more serious, but not in that judgy-hero way. More like… cautious.
"Can I come in?" he asked. "I promise I'm not here as Nightwing. No lecture. Just… Dick."
I stared at him for a second, weighing that.
Every instinct I had screamed don't let people into your territory without thinking it through. Especially people who half-work for a paranoid bat-themed control freak. But Dick had thanked me for saving Robin. He'd sat and listened to my trauma dump at a burger place. He'd spent the day bowling and movie-watching and clubbing with me like a normal person.
And, honestly? I didn't want to be alone with my own brain right now.
I sighed, stepped back, and swung the door wider.
"Fine," I said. "Get in here before a maid hears you calling me a duchess and has a stroke."
He slipped past me into the room, shoulders brushing mine as he went by.
I closed the door quietly behind Dick, hearing the soft click echo strangely loud in the suite. Turning back around, I crossed my arms again, giving him a carefully blank look.
My heart was doing this annoying little flutter inside my chest at having him here, in my room, alone with me again. I really needed to figure out why he had this stupid effect on me—probably the annoyingly charming smile.
"So," I said, keeping my voice steady and calm, even if inside my nerves were twitching slightly. "Did you follow me all the way from Gotham or something? Because if you did, Dick, that's borderline stalker behavior. Like seriously, Batman-level creepy."
Dick paused in the middle of the plush, expensive carpet, turning his head to glance back over his shoulder at me. He gave me an annoyingly unashamed, boyish grin that made his eyes crinkle at the edges, and shrugged casually. "Honestly? As the former partner of the Dark Knight, I'm completely used to being a stalker," he admitted shamelessly, his grin widening further. "Sneaking around, following people without their knowledge… I practically majored in it."
I snorted out a quiet laugh despite myself, unable to help the small smile that crept onto my face. "Wow. And you just admit it outright? That's shameless, Grayson. Seriously shameless."
He chuckled lightly, turning fully to face me now. His expression shifted, becoming just a bit more sincere. He looked into my eyes and spoke more gently, as if wanting me to understand he was being honest now. "That's not actually why I'm here, though," he assured me quietly.
I lifted one skeptical eyebrow, clearly indicating that I was waiting for his explanation. Instead of speaking immediately, he glanced briefly around the opulent suite, his gaze pausing on the large, expensive couch nearby. Without waiting for an invitation, he strode over and lowered himself smoothly down onto the plush, overstuffed cushions.
He stretched his arm along the backrest casually and gave me a gentle nod, indicating the empty space beside him. "Come sit?" he invited softly, his tone open and warm.
I hesitated briefly, unsure exactly why my heart gave another annoying little jump at the suggestion. With an exaggerated sigh of mock-reluctance—mostly to convince myself—I moved toward him and sank down onto the soft, comfortable couch cushion next to him, pointedly leaving a little space between us. Immediately, I was acutely aware of his closeness—the faint, appealing scent of his cologne, something subtle and clean that vaguely reminded me of warm spices and fresh air.
Then, before I could even process or mentally prepare myself, Dick reached out confidently and gently took my hand, closing his warm, calloused fingers comfortably around mine.
I froze in shock, feeling my cheeks instantly flare into a stupidly obvious blush at the unexpected, intimate gesture. My pulse raced in my chest, my breathing hitching embarrassingly.
Damn it. I silently cursed my traitorous succubus instincts as I quickly glanced sideways at him, eyes wide and startled.
Dick noticed my blush immediately, and his lips curled into a slightly smug, entirely too pleased smirk. He squeezed my hand gently, his dark eyes twinkling with playful amusement. "Oh, you're blushing," he teased softly, voice dropping lower, more intimate. "Didn't expect that. The great villainess Amara Black embarrassed by just holding hands?"
I scowled lightly, trying to hide my flustered reaction behind a glare. "Shut up, Grayson," I muttered unconvincingly, refusing to pull my hand away despite myself. His touch was… nice. Infuriatingly nice.
He laughed quietly again, clearly amused and pleased with himself, before finally getting more serious. He shifted slightly to face me more fully, leaning toward me earnestly. "Anyway," he said gently, giving my fingers another reassuring squeeze, "I really didn't follow you here. Not intentionally, at least. I'm actually in London on League business."
My embarrassment faded a little, replaced by mild surprise and genuine curiosity. "League business?" I echoed questioningly, tilting my head slightly. "Here? Why? I thought you weren't even a full member?"
Dick's face grew slightly more serious, his expression turning thoughtful and concerned. "I'm not a full member, but I still work with them all the time. I'm here to investigate the magical wizarding world that you told me about back in Gotham," he explained clearly, voice low and grave. "After everything you revealed to us at Big Belly Burger, we couldn't just sit around doing nothing about it. Not after what you told us—that these magical governments secretly control large parts of Europe."
I nodded slowly, considering his words carefully. "Yeah, and it's not just Europe either," I pointed out bluntly. "There are also hidden wizarding governments in Russia, India, and China too. Probably others we don't even know about."
Dick's dark eyes widened noticeably at that revelation, clearly startled by the sheer scale of the situation. He pulled his free hand up to rub roughly down his face, groaning quietly in exasperation. "...This problem keeps getting bigger by the second. It's genuinely insane that none of us knew anything about it before."
I shrugged lightly, not really surprised by his reaction. "Honestly, I was pretty shocked myself when I realized the Justice League had absolutely no clue about any of this magical stuff. I mean, how the hell do you guys just miss something that huge?"
He sighed heavily, shaking his head slightly. "To be fair, America's really one of the few countries actively welcoming a bunch of superheroes openly running around in spandex. And that's mostly because the Justice Society helped win World War II decades ago. They kinda earned goodwill and trust by literally fighting Nazis."
I stared blankly at him for a few seconds, blinking slowly in confusion. History had never exactly been my strongest subject, and I really didn't remember learning anything significant about the Justice Society or World War II superheroes at my shitty muggle school.
"Right, yeah," I finally said vaguely, nodding slowly. "Sure. Makes sense."
Dick gave me an amused look, clearly sensing I was completely lost, but mercifully didn't comment on my obvious ignorance of world history. Instead, he smoothly changed the subject, tilting his head curiously toward me again, his expression shifting to one of gentle intrigue.
"Okay, enough about superhero politics. Seriously though, Amara—what's the story with this duchess thing? I heard about your new fancy title as soon as I landed. You definitely weren't a duchess back in Gotham," he said teasingly, lifting one eyebrow slightly in playful suspicion.
I rolled my eyes lightly, sighing again. "Honestly, the duchess thing completely caught me off guard too. Sirius Black—my adopted father—never mentioned anything about us being British nobility, like ever. He either had no clue himself or just never bothered telling me about it."
Dick nodded slowly in understanding. Then his expression softened, eyes filling with genuine concern. He squeezed my hand again, his voice becoming more careful, softer, gentler. "And… the reason you're in London? Is it because of that letter your mother sent you? Are you really here to confront your birth family?"
My stomach tightened uncomfortably at his direct, painfully accurate question. It felt oddly vulnerable, admitting to him the truth of my reasons for coming here. But I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet his gaze honestly.
"Yeah," I admitted quietly. "You guessed right. I'm here because of that stupid letter. I'm here to see my shitty birth family again."
I gestured vaguely toward my hideous flannel shirt and baggy jeans with my free hand, grimacing slightly. "You kinda caught me at a bad time, actually. I was trying to make myself look like… well, like I used to look."
Dick's brows furrowed instantly in genuine confusion, clearly not understanding what I meant at all. He tilted his head, eyeing me up and down skeptically. "What exactly are you talking about? Look like you used to look?" he repeated, puzzled.
I swallowed awkwardly, my heart suddenly thudding heavily in my chest. Of course Dick wouldn't know what I meant. Only Morgana knew that my beautiful face and perfect body were actually the result of finally unlocking my succubus bloodline.
I opened my mouth slightly to respond, but nothing came out at first. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs, pulse quickening to an almost dizzying pace. I felt my throat tighten uncomfortably, my stomach twisting into anxious knots. The truth about my appearance was something I'd kept closely guarded from almost everyone. Only Morgana really knew—only she knew the ugly, humiliating truth behind my transformation, and I desperately wanted to keep it that way.
I adored my new look.
I loved being a succubus, loved the seductive power that now radiated naturally from me. I loved looking exactly like Morgana—beautiful, irresistible, and alluring.
I couldn't bear the thought of Dick seeing the pathetic, ugly Heather-face I'd been forced to endure my entire childhood. Even the idea felt humiliating and shameful, like admitting weakness or defeat.
I shook my head slightly, looking down toward my lap, my voice soft and evasive as I tried to dodge Dick's question. "Look, it's…complicated. Really complicated. Can we just—not talk about that right now?"
Dick watched me closely, concern flickering across his handsome face. He clearly wanted answers, but to my relief, he didn't push further. Instead, he gently reached out again, sliding his fingers under my chin, coaxing my face upward so our eyes met again.
"It's okay," he whispered softly, voice gentle and understanding, his eyes holding a genuine warmth that softened something deep within me. "You don't have to tell me right now if you aren't ready, Amara. We all have our secrets."
My chest tightened painfully at his gentle acceptance, my breath hitching softly in surprise. A sudden rush of warmth filled my cheeks and chest, completely unexpected, leaving me momentarily speechless and vulnerable.
Before I could fully recover, Dick suddenly moved, acting on an impulse that startled me completely. His arm swiftly wrapped around my back, strong hand gripping the fabric of my ugly, baggy flannel shirt, and he firmly tugged me forward toward him, closing the small space I'd purposefully left between us.
I let out a soft squeak of surprise at the sudden movement, my eyes widening dramatically as my chest was abruptly pressed firmly against his broad, muscular torso. Even through the thick layers of my horrendous shirt, I could clearly feel the firm, warm strength of his chest muscles beneath his thin suit jacket, the intimate contact sending an immediate rush of heat radiating through my entire body.
"Dick, wha—?" I began, voice startled and breathless, but I never got the chance to finish my surprised question.
He abruptly captured my lips in a deep, passionate kiss, instantly silencing me. His mouth moved confidently, his lips surprisingly soft but assertive, gently coaxing mine to respond. The sheer intensity of his kiss stunned me completely. His tongue traced insistently along the seam of my lips, teasing and urging me to open for him. It was heated, demanding, and sensual—a kiss that left absolutely no doubt about his attraction or intentions.
My succubus instincts purred loudly in pure delight and satisfaction. My body immediately reacted on instinct, my lips parting willingly beneath his, giving him full access. A low, helpless moan slipped unbidden from my throat into his mouth as our tongues met for the first time. He tasted incredible—like mint, faintly sweet but completely intoxicating.
My free hand instantly found its way onto his thigh almost unconsciously, sliding upward along the firm, muscular surface of his leg, driven by sudden overwhelming need and desire. My fingers brushed firmly over the distinct hardness pressing insistently upward through the fabric of his expensive pants. I gasped slightly against his mouth in surprise and excitement, my heart skipping a rapid beat of anticipation and desire as I felt the undeniable proof of how aroused Dick was for me already.
I stroked my hand slowly and deliberately upward along his cock, feeling its thick shape outlined clearly against my palm, reveling in his deep groan of pleasure into our kiss. He twitched slightly under my touch, his hips unconsciously shifting forward, pressing himself harder into my exploring fingers.
Breaking apart briefly from our heated kiss, he sucked in a deep, shaky breath. His dark eyes met mine intensely, lips still barely brushing against mine as he whispered breathlessly, "I thought you could use a small distraction, is it working?"
I stared directly into Dick's warm, playful eyes as his lips hovered just a breath away from mine. My entire body felt charged, electricity sparking across my skin, heat flooding through my core.
My succubus instincts screamed at me with overwhelming clarity to just let go, to push Dick flat onto his back on this ridiculously plush, expensive couch and ride him until neither of us could think straight anymore.
He was right. His little distraction was absolutely working.
My fingers curled more deliberately around the clear, thick outline of his cock pressing insistently up against my hand, and I shivered slightly at the feel of his arousal beneath my fingertips. My breath hitched softly as a vivid image flashed instantly through my mind. My hands rapidly undoing his suit trousers, pulling his erection free, and straddling his muscular thighs right here in the penthouse suite, my ugly flannel shirt quickly discarded on the floor…
Fuck.
I clenched my teeth, fighting down that overpowering surge of desire. No matter how badly I wanted him—and right now, god, did I ever want him. I knew exactly what would happen if I let this continue.
My day would spiral even further off course than it already had, and I'd never manage to focus on confronting my birth family if Dick Grayson fucked my brains out beforehand. Plus Morgana would be disappointed at me throwing away my virginity and not saving it for a useful ritual.
I summoned every ounce of self-control I had left and reluctantly pulled my lips away from Dick's tantalizing mouth. With a small sound of genuine frustration, I pushed both hands firmly against his strong, broad chest, gently forcing distance between us.
Dick blinked rapidly, looking momentarily dazed, eyes still darkened with lust as he stared questioningly back at me. "Wait, Amara—?"
I exhaled sharply, forcing my voice steady and clear. "Dick, stop. We have to stop. We really can't do this right now."
He paused, clearly registering my words, and instantly pulled back, the haze of desire clearing noticeably from his expression. He immediately released his grip on me, shifting himself backward slightly on the couch cushion to give me space again. He ran a frustrated hand through his messy dark hair, breathing heavily and looking slightly embarrassed, though his arousal was still very obvious, bulging insistently against his trousers.
"Shit, you're right," Dick muttered breathlessly, shaking his head at himself. "I—god, sorry, Amara. That got way out of hand too fast. I just meant to… fuck. I don't even know what I was thinking."
I immediately gave him a wry, teasing smirk, despite how badly my own body still wanted him. "Pretty sure neither of us were thinking clearly at all, Dick. That's part of the problem."
He chuckled softly, glancing sheepishly down at his lap, shifting awkwardly as he clearly tried to subtly adjust the erection pressing painfully against his thigh. "Yeah, uh, you're definitely right about that. Just give me a second to... compose myself."
I couldn't help laughing quietly, leaning away from him slightly on the couch, letting some of the heated tension between us slowly dissipate. "Seriously though," I said with a small sigh, reaching up to brush some stray black hair away from my flushed cheek, "thanks for stopping by, Dick. But I really do have plans for today. Like… super serious, emotionally draining plans."
Dick immediately looked up again, eyes filling with genuine concern as he studied my expression carefully. "Right, your family," he murmured thoughtfully, nodding in clear understanding. "Of course. Yeah, Amara—I completely understand. Really. No pressure."
Then his playful grin slowly returned, along with that infuriating, charming gleam in his eyes. He leaned forward again slightly, gaze dropping briefly to my mouth as he gently cupped my chin. "But, hey—thanks for letting me distract you a little, at least. You look a lot calmer now than when I first showed up at your door."
I immediately pouted dramatically, folding my arms across my chest with a mock scowl. "Well, great job distracting me. Now I'm all worked up for nothing, you asshole."
Dick laughed warmly, shaking his head in amusement, though his eyes still watched me closely with genuine warmth. He lifted one hand to brush his thumb affectionately along my jawline, speaking softly again. "Sorry about that. Honestly. But I'm glad I managed to make you feel better. Even if I got a little carried away."
I snorted quietly in mock-annoyance, reluctantly smiling again despite myself. "Yeah, yeah. You can make it up to me another time," I said without thinking, and then realized what I just said to him.
Dick raised one playful eyebrow, lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Trust me—I definitely plan to."
Rolling my eyes lightly again, I rose smoothly from the cushions, standing up straight and casually smoothing down my horrendous flannel shirt, trying and failing to make it look slightly less terrible.
Dick stood up a moment later, casually adjusting his suit jacket. His dark eyes suddenly turned thoughtful again, as if remembering something important.
"Actually, Amara. I did need something else," he said slowly, looking somewhat awkward as he shifted his weight between his feet. "I actually wanted to ask you how to find Diagon Alley."
I blinked at him in surprise, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Diagon Alley? Why do you need to go there?"
He shrugged sheepishly, scratching lightly at the back of his neck. "Like I said, League business. Batman and I thought it'd be the best place to start our investigation into Britain's magical world."
I sighed, rubbing at my temples briefly. "Of course Batman's in London too. Because why wouldn't he be?"
Dick laughed softly at my obvious irritation, giving me an apologetic shrug. "Sorry. You know how it is."
"Yeah, unfortunately," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head slightly. "Well, Diagon Alley's entrance is located on Charing Cross Road. But, honestly, it's pointless. You and Batman are both muggles. Non-magical humans can't even see the entrance—there's powerful illusion magic hiding it from view."
Dick's face instantly fell, clearly disappointed. "Oh. Seriously? Shit, that complicates things."
I paused thoughtfully, chewing lightly on my lower lip as an idea slowly formed in my head. My eyes flicked toward the ornate coffee table nearby, focusing on the slender crystal vase containing a single, vividly red rose. "Unless…" I murmured softly, walking deliberately toward the table.
I reached down smoothly, gently plucking the delicate rose carefully from its vase. Closing my eyes briefly, I concentrated deeply, summoning forth the esoteric magical knowledge I'd learned directly from Morgana over the past few weeks. Dark, subtle magic pulsed softly beneath my skin, flowing gracefully down into my fingertips. The petals of the rose shimmered faintly for a moment, a subtle aura of magical energy now emanating gently from the flower.
Turning back toward Dick, I held the enchanted rose casually toward him with a faint, self-satisfied smirk. "Here. Take this with you. Keep it close."
Dick chuckled warmly, eyes twinkling as he took the flower from my hand, studying it curiously. "Seriously? A magic rose? Didn't peg you for the romantic type, Amara."
I rolled my eyes dramatically, crossing my arms over my chest again. "Oh, shut up, Grayson. As long as you keep that rose close to you, you'll be able to see through magical illusions—including Diagon Alley's entrance. It'll also provide basic protection against minor mind magics."
He raised an eyebrow appreciatively, giving the rose a closer, impressed inspection before carefully slipping it securely into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. "Wow. That's actually incredibly useful. Thanks, Amara. Seriously." He paused awkwardly again, shifting his weight slightly. "Uh… but, do you think maybe you could… make another one of those? For Batman?"
I groaned loudly, throwing my head back dramatically. "Fine. Of course. Can't let Batman miss out on my generosity, can we?"
With another small sigh, I quickly repeated the magical enchantment on a second rose, passing it reluctantly to Dick. He tucked the second flower carefully beside the first, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Walking slowly toward the penthouse suite door now, Dick glanced briefly back at me over his shoulder, flashing me a teasing, boyish grin. "You know… Kara and Rachel are gonna be pretty jealous when I tell them I got to kiss you first."
I scoffed loudly, rolling my eyes at his smug expression. "Yeah, whatever. Don't let it go to your head…"
Dick closed the door behind him with a soft click, and the second it shut I let out a noise I didn't know I was capable of.
I threw myself face-first into the couch and just screamed into my hands. It came out as this muffled, high-pitched squeal that probably would've gotten me killed on the streets of Gotham, but right now I didn't care. My whole body felt like a live wire—my lips still tingled from his kiss, my hand still remembered the feel of his cock, and my brain was just looping one phrase on repeat.
What the actual fuck was that?
"Great," I muttered into the throw pillow, voice all warped from being half-smothered. "Now I've got that to unpack later. Future me can deal with it. Present me has shit to do."
I sucked in one more shaky breath, forced myself to stop flopping like a fish, and pushed upright. My heart was still thudding, but it wasn't that panicky, tight feeling from earlier. The guilt and the dread about Mordred and Lily and everything else had been this huge, suffocating weight pressing down on my chest.
Now it felt… lighter. Still there, still ugly, but not making it hard to breathe. I had to admit it, even if it made me want to punch myself. He'd helped.
"Fucking hero," I grumbled, scrubbing my hands down my face. "Of course the boy scout shows up, makes out with me, and somehow fixes my anxiety. Figures."
I pushed myself off the couch and padded back toward the bedroom. The penthouse was quiet except for the distant city noise filtered through the thick glass windows. The stupidly expensive carpet was so soft it was like walking on a cloud, but my brain was already shifting gears—away from Dick, away from the warmth still sitting low in my stomach, and back to the reason I was in this overpriced hotel at all.
Lily Potter.
The mirror over the dresser caught my reflection as I walked in, and I stopped dead in front of it again. I looked like I belonged draped over the hood of a sports car, not trudging into some shitty suburban sitting room to listen to my birth mother cry about how hard abandoning me was for her.
I stepped right up to the mirror until my toes nudged the skirting board. I stared at myself for a long, solid beat, forcing my breathing to even out. My cheeks were still a little pink, my pupils a bit blown, but the wild, brittle look from this morning was gone. I actually looked… calm. Not happy, exactly, but stable. That would have to do.
"Okay," I told my reflection quietly. "Time to stop stalling."
I closed my eyes and pulled on my magic. Not the flashy, burn-everything-to-the-ground kind. The other kind. The slippery, shifting current that sat under my skin ever since the succubus bloodline woke up—Metamorphmagus magic.
I pictured what I needed. Not this face. Not Amara. I pictured her.
Heather.
It was like remembering a nightmare. The image was fuzzy at first, like an old photograph, but then it sharpened: the too-wide jaw, the flat, tired brown eyes, the stupid little pug nose, the blotchy skin, the limp, mouse-brown hair that never did what I wanted. The girl who'd never been pretty enough to be seen, never important enough to be loved.
My stomach twisted, but I didn't let go.
I pushed my magic into my skin, bone, cartilage. It felt gross and wrong, like forcing myself back into clothes three sizes too small. My nose tingled first—sharp, prickling heat as the bridge shortened and the tip rounded, nostrils spreading. My jaw burned dully, bones grinding and shifting under the skin, the elegant lines Morgana had admired blunting and squaring out. My cheekbones sank, my face flattening, losing all its sharpness and symmetry. The skin across my cheeks and forehead crawled, little pinpricks of heat popping up as old phantom blemishes "remembered" where to sit and bloomed back into existence.
I clenched my teeth and rode it out step by step.
I felt my lips thin slightly, losing that soft, natural fullness that made everything I said sound like an invitation. My hair was last. The silky weight of it seemed to die in my hands, the strands roughening under my fingers. The colour drained out of it like someone had pulled a plug, black bleeding into a dull, lifeless medium brown. It fell flatter, hanging around my face without shine or bounce.
When the magic settled, I opened my eyes. Heather Potter stared back at me from the mirror.
For a second, my whole body wanted to recoil. She looked exactly how I remembered. The cheap flannel shirt and baggy jeans suddenly made perfect sense on her. On me—on this version of me. The clothes and the face matched. If I hadn't known better, I would've believed this was the real version and the succubus face was the disguise.
My chest clenched, a sharp, ugly spike of old humiliation trying to push up my throat.
I leaned in until my nose almost touched the glass, studying every awful detail. The slightly crooked teeth. The way my eyes looked smaller without the frame of long dark lashes and sharp bone structure. The way my whole expression seemed to scream background character.
I waited for the panic to hit, the choking rage, the urge to claw my own skin off.
It didn't come.
Did it suck? Yeah. Did it still make me feel like shit? Also yeah. But it didn't feel like I was about to implode. The breakdown that had been crouching in my chest all morning was… quiet. Maybe Dick knocking on my door and shoving his tongue down my throat had shaken it loose. Maybe talking to him like a person instead of a target had made something in my brain click.
Either way, I could look at Heather's face and not completely shatter.
I straightened slowly, rolling my shoulders back. The flannel still hung off me like a crime against fashion. The jeans were still a disaster. But in this skin, in this face, it all served a purpose.
"With this face," I said out loud, voice rough but steady, "I'm not Amara Black." I stared at the girl in the mirror. "I'm Heather Potter again. The unwanted squib. The mistake they threw away." The name tasted bitter, like ash on my tongue. I actually grimaced. "God, I fucking hate that name," I muttered. "Heather Potter." It felt like saying the name of a dead person. In a way, it was.
I tugged at the ugly belt, tightening it another notch, making sure nothing about the outfit hinted at the woman I'd become. No trace of duchess. No trace of a dark witch or a succubus. Just a girl who looked like she belonged in a council estate, not a pure-blood manor.
Memories flickered at the edges of my mind, uninvited but persistent. The last time I'd seen them. James had cursed me—literally. The way he didn't hesitate to draw his wand on his own daughter. The flash of red light. The feeling of my body hitting the floor. Waking up in a freezing, piss-stinking alley with my memories half-torn up and thrown away.
They'd tried to steal my house. My name. My inheritance. Everything Sirius had left me. If Morgana hadn't stepped in and ripped Grimmauld Place out of their grubby hands and shoved it behind wards even Dumbledore couldn't sniff at, I'd have nothing.
And now Lily wanted to talk.
I snorted.
"Oh, I am absolutely dying to hear this," I said, voice dripping sarcasm. "Can't wait to hear what brand of bullshit you've cooked up, Mum. Was it all Dumbledore's idea? Were you 'young and scared'? Did you 'have no choice'?"
I held Heather's gaze in the mirror one more time. The fury was there, simmering low and steady like banked coals. Not the wild, out-of-control blaze from before. This was focused heat. Controlled. Dangerous in a different way.
"Fine," I told my reflection. "You want Heather Potter? You can have her. For an afternoon."
On the surface, I was just a plain girl in shitty clothes, coming to hear her birth mother out. Inside, I was still Amara Black. And I was very, very ready to hear whatever excuses Lily Potter thought would work on the daughter she'd thrown away.
XXX
Thanks for reading!!! You can check out more of my stories on my profile.
Do you also want to read chapters ahead of my posts on this site? You can!
You can check me out on "Pat-reon.-com / Starwaves" to support me and read ahead of everyone else!
Right now, this story is on Chapter: 17 over there!