“So. You’re the little holy girl.”

Lust stood in the doorway of the clay house, watching the white robed woman - girl, really - that sat in a chair, staring at nothing. This was the holy savior that these poor broken people had rallied about? How pathetic. She was only a woman-child, frail looking and as shattered as those that gathered about her. Lust hid her surprise and her disgust beneath a cheshire cat grin.

She said nothing, but Lust hadn’t expected her to. She knew the girl didn’t speak. She was the perfect icon - silent, sorrowful, pure. Lust didn’t care that this girl was a religious icon, or that she was mute, or that Lust’s own mistress wanted the girl‘s body. All that Lust cared about was that this girl, this maiden, had apparently caught the eye of her scarred man. And that would not do.

“Well aren’t you a pretty little thing.” The girl was pretty. Plump and endowed with the glow of motherhood, the holy girl held that certain quality that men so longed for. Ripeness, youth, vitality. She had the body of a goddess, the body of the eternal mother, not hidden beneath her robes. Her skin was flawless, her hair was thick, her bones were well made and delicate. It was easy enough to ignore the blankness in her eyes and the listlessness of her rosebud mouth.

“I wonder,” Lust went on, tapping her lips with a tapered finger. “Are you a real holy girl?”

The girl’s violet eyes - so different from Lust’s own - were uncomprehending, wide and soft as a doe’s. There was something painfully depressing about her. Beautiful and tragic, the way men preferred their holy women. Hadn’t the first holy mother been the lady of sorrow?

“I’ve seen you with the scarred prophet,” Lust snapped, her violet eyes narrowing with a flash. She wasn‘t one to play games when she had her own agenda. “Tell me, girl, does he consecrate you?”

There was a flash of something across the girl’s brown doe eyes, perhaps anger, perhaps fear, perhaps shame. Lust folded her arms beneath her breasts, still leaning against the doorframe. What had it been? Anger at the insinuation? A victim’s fear of men? Shame at being caught in unholy thoughts - or perhaps actions?

“He’s mine, you know.” Lust enjoyed this, conversation without her companion speaking. She couldn’t be interrupted. It made things so much easier. “He’s been mine since before you were born. If you know what’s good for you, you won’t entertain any ideas of symbolic sacrifices. Mm, do you get my drift?”

The girl only stared at her, wide eyed now and tense. Her doe eyes darted around her, searching for aide. But there was none. She was alone and vulnerable, a doe trapped against a thicket by a wild cat. She couldn’t even scream for help, the poor thing. She was at Lust’s mercy. Lust chuckled, one shoulder lifted in a sort of shrug.

“I see that you do. Stay away from him and we won’t have any problems. I’ve no interest in you.”

But Lust wasn’t satisfied. Perhaps because the girl couldn’t say ’yes’. Perhaps simply because Lust worried that she would slip into her scarred man’s bed and smell the holy girl on his sheets. But either way, she was not satisfied. She moved into the room now, her hips swinging and her hair falling around her heart shaped face. She moved like a predator.

“I know you’re a foolish girl. If you were a smart girl, you wouldn’t be used like this.” By him or by my master. “So perhaps you need a more… tangible warning?” Lust knelt before the holy girl’s chair, her cat’s eyes promising pain and destruction if the girl ignored her. She could smell the holy child’s perfume, figs and sand and musk.

“Now let me put it to you plainly.” Lust leaned forward, her face a breadths away from the girl’s. She watched the lines of the girl‘s face tighten and twist, gripped in soundless fear. This was better. Lust continued. “The scarred man? He belongs to me. And I don’t take kindly to little girls laying their hands on what’s mine.” One fingernail tipped up the girl’s chin, forcing her to meet Lust’s eyes. Her skin was soft, like a flower petal. “Find another prophet. Find another man. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you‘re desirable.” Lust extended the fingernails of her other hand. They slid outwards with a soft whir of noise, stopping at the girl’s throat. Lust dragged the tips along her neck, down over the swells of her breasts beneath her robes.

“You can find another man,” Lust repeated. “Do I make myself quite clear?”

The holy girl nodded, her doe eyes glistening. Lust nodded, her fingernails still moving with deadly slowness over the girl’s brown, bare skin. Up the pillar of her neck, to her rounded cheeks, tracing the delicate line of her lower eyelid, both of them well aware what damage those lance-like nails could do. It would be easy enough to strike the girl down, but Lust had no desire to. Perhaps months ago she wouldn’t have hesitated, but those months were long gone.

“Very good.” Lust withdrew her fingernails as quickly as they’d extended and the girl breathed a sigh of relief. Lust pinched the girl’s plump cheek and patted it before pressing her lips in a silent promise against the holy girl’s lips. She tasted like wine. Had Lust‘s scarred man kissed these lips? Never again, if he had. “I was never here. Do you understand?” Not that the girl could tell anyone, but Lust wasn’t about to take any chances.

She stood and smoothed down her dress, scoffing slightly as she watched the holy girl tremble. She would visit her scarred man tonight, and remind him as well. Lust ran a hand through her thick mane of black hair and turned on her heel, leaving the frightened woman-child behind.

Lust shrugged at no one as she slipped away into the night. It had probably been a waste of her time. The holy girl would most likely be dead before much longer anyway.