Lust, p.1
LUST, page 1
Copyright
Lust Copyright © 2022 Drethi Anis
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
Table of Contents
OTHER BOOKS IN SERIES
Blurb
Acknowledgments
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
OTHER BOOKS IN SERIES
BOOK 1: GREED
BOOK 2: LUST
BOOK 3: ENVY
BOOK 4: GLUTTONY
BOOK 5: WRATH
BOOK 6: SLOTH
BOOK 7: PRIDE
Next book in the Series is Envy follow this Universal Link: https://books2read.com/EnvySevenSins
Blurb
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Heavily Inspired by The Book of Tobit
Lace, white, everything frilly and pretty. The theme to Sara’s life used to be that of a princess, one she romanticized. But when her previously perfect world turned upside down, Sara became convinced that she was cursed. She hid herself in the shadows to spare others from the agony she brought along.
The only person she could never hide from was her adopted brother.
Tristan Marcolf wasn’t the run-of-the-mill rich and successful politician. It was his ethereal good looks that left others bewildered. So much so, they wondered if his looks were a gift from God. Only Tristan suspected that the gift wasn’t from God at all, but from the Devil. Because the cursed gift gave him everything he wished for, except for the one thing he truly desired.
His adopted sister, Sara.
With Tristan’s unquenchable thirst for Sara spiraling out of control, the Demon of Lust, Asmodeus, rejoiced in the victory, for he loved to play with mortals. He had orchestrated the perfect setting to prove to God that humans would choose pleasures of the flesh and materialistic desires over the simplicity of LOVE. The two souls set out to prove him wrong and humble his vanity, but rarely do demons give in without a fight.
**There are no heroes in this dark PNR series, only villains. It consists of explicit content, dubious, and graphic situations that some readers might find offensive.
To Brooklyn, Dylan, Marissa, Billie, Talli, and Tara.
It was an honor to write with you all. I’m as humbled as our demons will be by the end of this series. Love you.
Acknowledgments
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Thank you to the wonderful Angie Hazen for sweating profusely and having panic attacks on behalf of my procrastinating self.
Thank you, Julia, for hopping on board last minute and staying on top of it.
A special thanks to Alexis & Ashley for your nonstop support of indie authors.
Thank you to my wonderful Beta readers—Alice, Tori, Robin, Erin, Ashley, Lindsey—for making my insane deadlines.
Last but not least, a huge shout out to Maria, Kathy, Crystal, Kelly, Karen, and Jill. All of you have followed me throughout this journey from the very beginning without wavering. You have no idea how much that means to me.
Each and every one of you on this page fills my heart with warmth.
“Blood was spilled on the holy land for the worst kind of LUST was driven by the desire for God.”
Karens ignore trigger warnings, only to later complain about said warnings. Don't be a Karen. This book contains somnophilia and a graphic non-consensual sexual scene that made some readers uncomfortable. It also includes unsavory topics such as suicide and abuse. This book is only intended for open-minded readers interested in exploring their fantasies in the realm of fiction while exercising good judgment to differentiate it from real-life situations
* * *
“And how does that make you feel?” I rolled my eyes at the most basic question a therapist could ask. For three hundred dollars an hour, I expected something less cliché.
How does that make me feel?
Frustrated that I was having this conversation in the first place.
“You are the expert, so you tell me. How do you think it makes me feel?”
Grabbing a water bottle from the mini-refrigerator stationed at the left corner of the plainly decorated room, Michael sat at the edge of his desk. He studied me closely, Nordic blue eyes gleaming with purpose. He knew I was fucking with him but decided to play ball.
“Frustrated,” he answered decidedly.
Goddamnit. I hated that he was good at his job and always had a direct line into my thoughts.
He stood to his full six-feet four-inch height and took the seat across from me. Michael didn’t look much like a therapist. He was young with shoulder-length honey-blonde hair. None of those traits reflected a sought-after clinician with the ability to change your life.
Yet, here he was, so successful that appointments with him were rare, client list exclusive. Mary pulled a lot of strings for me to be sitting here. Although I resisted the idea of therapy, her insistence wore me down.
And somewhere deep down, I admitted to not having returned to normal even three years after Dad’s death. Enough of this grief. Suddenly, the idea of a confidante in an enclosed space wasn’t so horrific. After months of dragging my feet, I was now a regular.
For our current session, we were discussing Mary’s upcoming nuptials to my soon-to-be stepfather.
“Why do you think I feel frustrated?” I asked curiously for his take on the topic. After all, I didn’t have a problem with my mother remarrying. She had suffered for long enough as a widow.
“If I told you, it would defeat the point of charging you three hundred dollars an hour. Don’t you think?”
The sly smile on my face was a rare, genuine one. Michael was upfront, the type of honesty that was unmatched in my society.
“Why don’t we start with your stepdad? Tell me more about him.”
I shrugged. “What’s there to tell?”
That was obviously a lie. There were tons to tell about my soon-to-be stepfather, Raguel Nineveh.
He had migrated from Brazil to the United States for college, then met the love of his life, Maya. They married shortly after and settled here in Washington, DC. The vibrant capital was also where they had Sara, their one and only darling daughter. All was well until Maya met her fate during a car accident, leaving Raguel a broken man.
Nonetheless, Raguel’s olive skin and distinct gray eyes attracted the attention of tons of other women, my mother amongst them. They recognized the despondency in each other’s eyes and decided to be together. They had only been together for six months when Raguel put a ring on it. Their fast-track relationship was supposedly a courtesy to “the kids.”
Raguel’s daughter, Sara, deviated toward Mary upon their initial meeting, craving the mother’s love she lost too early in life. In contrast, I was cold to her. Like every other person in my life, my mother couldn’t break through to me anymore. When Dad died, so did my ability to connect with others, landing me at Michael’s doorsteps.
Mary’s constant efforts to change my outlook were off-putting, whereas Sara was the poster child she craved. She wanted to adopt Sara, which brought on the formality of marriage. Raguel insisted on adopting me in return, which was plain weird.
“From what I understand, you like Raguel. So, why are you opposed to this adoption?”
“It’s a little weird to be adopted at my age, don’t you think?”
“You are only fifteen—”
“Almost sixteen.”
“Nonetheless. You’ve mentioned struggling with making real connections since your dad passed away. Clearly, you miss familial bonds. This would be a great opportunity to start over. Don’t you think?”
I was silent.
Logically, there weren’t any good reasons to oppose the idea. Not only was Raguel a good man, but he could also prove beneficial to my future career.
The Marcolfs were a family of politicians with every heir harboring secret dreams of running for Presidency. Due to his untimely death, Dad fell short of becoming a senator. By God, even if it were the last thing I did on earth, I would achieve his failed ambitions.
Raguel could help get me there. Our family’s ‘white privilege’ had long been brought into question. What better way to break the norm than by having a diverse father?
Not to mention, Raguel understood my political dreams and the weight the name Marcolf carried. So much so that he offered to change his and his daughter’s last names to match mine.
So, yeah, Raguel was a great man. And there were only upsides to this arrangement.
“I suppose that’s true,” I conceded.
Michael smiled. “This is great progress, Tristan. On that note, let’s finish our conversation from the last session.”
Dad. He wanted me to discuss the night of Dad’s death.
Michael looked me over with unfathomable eyes. This time he didn’t refer to his notes. “Are you still having the same dreams?”
I nodded.
He sat up, elbows leaning against his thighs. “Should we revisit that night?”
I had given Michael tidbits of the first time I had such a dream. It had been years since, yet the nightmares continued to haunt me. It was time to divulge and get to the bottom of this.
“I was a mess on the night of Dad’s accident. I had finally forced myself to go to sleep when someone appeared in my dreams with a… premonition?” I contemplated. “No, that’s not the right word. It was more like an offer.”
Michael watched me under hooded eyes. “What did the manifestation sound like?”
“Manifestation?”
“Our minds can sometimes manipulate our inner thoughts to help us cope,” he explained.
“The… manifestation,” I said tentatively, “sounded deep… distorted.” It was odd not to have a better description for the voice that had frequented my dreams for years.
“What did it say?” he prodded.
“He offered me desirable things if I gave up my heart and soul.”
“What kinds of desirable things?” he asked curiously.
I shrugged. “Money, women, power, looks… superficial things, I guess.”
I swallowed several times, then looked away. It sounded absurd. Like I had sold my soul to the Devil in exchange for power and women, or something equally ridiculous. Michael was probably seconds away from having me committed.
Nevertheless, it was hard to deny that life had, in fact, improved superficially. Dad’s previous investments had brought on significant returns out of the blue. My looks had changed, too. After turning fourteen, my amber-colored eyes had lightened to resemble gold, attracting attention I had never known.
I could make no sense of these fortunes. Instead, I gave into my teenage urges and started having sex. Lots of girls, older ones, threesomes. Everything. My appetite had become insatiable to the point that it scared even me.
“He said I could have everything I desired. My looks will only grow with age. My image and success will be unmatched. More money than I’ll ever need.” I looked at Michael and smiled, “And the female interest will never waver.”
“In exchange for?”
“Love,” I replied simply. “Or anything real for that matter.”
“Lust versus love,” he rephrased. “Materialistic desires in exchange for love.”
“I guess.”
Michael didn’t speak for several moments. “Do you believe in God, Tristan?” he asked abruptly.
Surprised by the turn of conversation, I frowned. “I suppose.”
Michael put his notebook away. “It’s popularly believed that God had dismissed seven angels from Heaven for defying him. These fallen angels became the Princes of Hell, carrying out sins God had warned humanity against.”
I tried to recall my knowledge of religion. It wasn’t extensive. At most, it stemmed from rare church attendance on select occasions.
“One of the Princes of Hell is Asmodeus, the Demon of Lust.”
The name was unfamiliar to me, but something in Michael’s voice made me believe that he was drawing a parallel between us.
“This Demon, Asmodeus, wasn’t like the other princes of hell,” Michael continued thoughtfully. “He didn’t revel in cruelty and loved music, had a passion for dancing, intoxication, and all types of… fun. He didn’t see anything wrong with it and believed it was humans who turned merriment into a sin.”
“What does that have to do with me—”
“You see, Asmodeus rarely showed himself in physical form. Instead, he came to men in dreams to lead them astray. Or he whispered in their ears with temptations of things they ought not to desire.”
“You’re not suggesting that this Asmodeus came to me in my dreams?” I asked incredulously. Surely, Michael wasn’t some religious nut. It’d be a huge disappointment were it to be the case.
Catching my drift, Michael quickly added, “It’s just… ironic, I guess. Because you have a new sister named Sara. Asmodeus had a woman named Sarah in his life, too, except his Sarah had an H at the end of her name.” He smiled though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And Asmodeus was known for coming to men in their dreams with similar offers. I’m only pointing out that your life has relevancy to his story.”
“Oh, okay,” I said uncertainly.
“Would you like to hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“Asmodeus’ story and how he met Sarah.”
I looked at my phone. “Umm. Our time is up—”
“It’s on me,” he dismissed. “I think you might find it helpful.”
Before I could open my mouth to tell him that I didn’t care, Michael transported me to a different world, his words so eloquent that I could almost see the story unfold in front of my very eyes.
* * *
It was a languid afternoon with all the promises of a summer day. Sarah lay on the grassy lawn of her favorite garden, a thick head of mane spread around her, coating her with all the softness of ethereal beauty.
A pauper interrupted her contemplations, begging for money. She didn’t have her coin purse. In its stead, she took off her jewelry and gave the man all she had.
However, a cruel passerby stopped the pauper a mere distance away to taunt him for his gout and accuse him of stealing the lady’s jewelry. Sarah watched the scene unfold. Her beautiful gray eyes twinkled, and when the passerby sat on a bench, she crawled underneath it to tie the man’s shoelaces together.
Asmodeus watched her mischief, mesmerized. He could hardly distinguish whether it were Heaven or Hell inside the girl’s heart. She was sweet and warm with a tender heart. She was equally wicked and sought out mischief.
She was his perfect match.
Asmodeus had spent eons as a lover rather than a fighter. He indulged in all women, his appetite voracious for the pleasures of the flesh.
In between his pursuits, Asmodeus enticed humanity with temptation because it was dreadfully dull to enjoy merriment by your lonesome self. For the first time in his eternal life, he felt far from weary because Sarah’s smiles didn’t permit it. Nor was there any place for cold-heartedness because she was warmer than the sun.
There was a feeling stirring inside him, a foreign one he couldn’t understand. And for the first time in his wretched life, Asmodeus' needs surpassed the desires of the flesh.
* * *
Michael paused just as the story had piqued my interest.
Other than the fact that the lust demon showed himself in dreams and someone named Sara was to join my family, I couldn’t draw any other connections. I chalked it off to coincidence, but Michael wanted me to walk away with a lesson.
