She had been beautiful.
No, more than that.
She had been a work of art, and he had found exquisite pleasure in that. In simply observing her as she went about her day, performing her duties as the living decoration owned by a man who was, quite simply, too gross, too roughly hewn to suit her.
He had always liked Kurzicks. Found the facial structure and delicacy of the bloodline to be aesthetically appealing. And she was everything he had most admired about them, embodied.
Always draped in fine fabrics and adorned in suitable jewels, she had to be a work of art to stand by the man that owned her as he performed the rites that he swore would bring the Unseen Ones back to prominence.
The rituals had bored him, and as he found less of use in the cult, he had found more use for her.
And he knew she favored him. It was impossible to mistake how her eyes had strayed towards him from her position at the man’s side, how her gaze followed him when he went about the few duties that he didn’t delgate to those beneath him.
It had amused him greatly, luring her into betraying the man who she had once claimed had saved her life. Had saved her from being slaughtered, brutalized, misused.
Under his attentions, she had changed her tune, and when she had come to him, blood-stained and pale, trembling from having committed the ultimate betrayal, he had smiled. Taken her in his arms and treated her gently, soothed her terror with a few carefully chosen words.
She had willingly let him into the inner sanctum then. Had helped him select the antiquities that caught his eye and stripped her wardrobe of the jeweled pieces that he found best to his taste.
Oh, she had been the embodiment of beauty, and he had greatly enjoyed the hope in her wide, violet eyes when he had told her to pack hastily, to prepare to flee. They would leave the cult and go into hiding, together. He would care for her, and she would never have to consider herself an object, a belonging ever again.
And it had been the sweetest of delights, seeing the confusion on her face when he led them into the room where the man still lay, bloated and bloodless. Where she, guilt written all over her delicately sculpted face, had stood, packing her clothing in great haste.
It was a pleasure never to be forgotten, the way her emotions had moved so swiftly through her eyes. From confusion to shock, from shock to horror, from horror to agony, and she had held his gaze as they had dragged her away. Cried his name when they threw her at the base of the altar, and it had been the last word on her broken lips when the final stone fell.
He didn’t think of her often, but the desire to find a Kurzick that matched her in beauty rose anew, now and then. And he kept an eye out for one, knowing that the pleasure in breaking her would be as superb.