It was early morning or dawn, depending on how time was measured. The numerous clocks of Castle Doom, synchronized with the atomic precision of Latveria's sovereign time, marked 3:30 a.m. The hallways and heavy oak doors remained silent, patrolled only by Doombots whose optical sensors maintained mechanical vigilance.
The control room, a dark place where several small, medium, and large bluish holographic monitors flickered, displayed images of his home: all the hallways, stairs, the main dining hall, the room of his main throne, the castle exterior with a view of Doomstadt accompanied by the great green Latverian fields and the Carpathian Mountains. In addition, images of the completely empty central square of his capital, Doomsport with only three travelers, the Doomland theme park closed just like The Werner Academy, the streets a desert. The Cynthia von Doom Memorial Park, St. Peter Church, Monument Park, and Heroic Andrew Boulevard were perfectly maintained and empty of people. On the other hand, the empty streets of his other cities under his power were visible: Doomsburg, Doomsdale, Doomsvale, and Doomton. The images were captured by advanced security cameras and Doombots. His entire nation was in deep nocturnal rest. In a few hours, the peasants and merchants selected by Doom himself would go to work to keep the nation afloat. Everyone had their peace, in deep sleep, except for their ruler.
In contrast, Victor von Doom was seated on a replica of his main throne but lined with technology. Dressed in his characteristic emerald robe and armor, he watched the images. He slept little since his terminal illness first manifested in his body.
Minutes ago he had suffered another unexpected attack on his soul. A spasm seized his chest. Doom's hands tightened against the armrests of his throne. He breathed, slowly and controlled, as Larin had taught him decades ago in the mountains of Tibet. The pain diminished, receding like a tide, leaving behind the dull and familiar throbbing of his weakened body. All of this was due to using too much strength and power in his fight with Diana Prince, alias Wonder Woman, on Prime Earth. It had left him too weak, his power unstable, plus the effort he had used with Ratri's power on the Amazon. Everything had accumulated.
"Doom will not succumb prematurely." He said mentally. "If only I had the Book of the Vishanti in my hands… to use it to heal myself… in my current state I will not be able to face Strange or Maximoff… I will not endure another humiliation from them."
Doom began to reason about that phrase he himself had uttered. If he had that book or had been able to transcribe its contents into a copy, he would never have encountered Ratri, nor would he have engineered the use of the minimum remnants of the Beyonder, nor would he have been able to resolve the UN issue. Unless the Vishanti told him otherwise.
The main thing was that he would discover the vast omniverse. If that happened.
Richards would do it, surpass him once again.
Doom clenched his right fist. Fate or the liberated soul of his mother did not want that to happen.
He could go back in time, but it would be an attack on his ego. He considered using his Time Platform, returning to the weeks prior to Amara's miscarriage. Preventing his unborn son from disappearing. He discarded that plan. Returning to the era of his apparent role as Tony Stark would mean facing himself: a new version that would mock his desperation and could erase him from the main timeline. Even if he tried to influence the UN not to make such a treaty in the past, his other self would intercept him again or the Richards of that time would detect his temporal disturbance. Something that would make Kang mock him.
The past is a closed vault. Doom builds his future in the present.
Returning to the present. Throughout the early morning, his eyes through his mask were fixed on one image in particular. His main objective was the hallway showing the closed room where he had left Diana Prince, his future bearer of his next heir. She was resting in that chamber, selected by the tyrant himself. Victor kept his own word. If she tried to escape, he would whip her so hard and humiliate her sexually until she begged for mercy and finally had sex with him, straight from her own divine soul. It was all twisted, he knew it, all because of Ratri. He hated this, but it seemed he was beginning to enjoy it a little. He felt that the unknown woman was silently mocking him in his mind. It was his only path to follow, the one Doom alone had chosen. Not her.
Everything was normal around the Amazon warrior's location. He could stay watching all morning, but he needed to learn more about Diana Prince's environment. He only knew about her past loves.
Doom made a gesture and the holographic screen changed to images and information on Steve Trevor and Bruce Wayne, her weaknesses. All sourced from Wayne Enterprises satellites, the Daily Planet, and the labyrinthine networks of LexCorp. Their algorithms were robust. Bruce Wayne's cyber defenses were reinforced with predictive AIs and keys. Lex Luthor's systems were paranoid, self-repairing, and riddled with traps. Even within Wayne's network there was a connection to another network called "Oracle," coordinates from Gotham in that world. He had left digital traces that Doom had tracked, analyzed, and dismissed as the work of an intelligent but ultimately limited mortal mind.
They knew about the sabotage of their advanced computer networks, but not the origin of the virus Victor had planted to distract them while he held one of theirs in his domain, his universe. All calculated.
The main focus was the transparent faces of the men on the hologram.
Steve Trevor. A handsome blond man with a square jaw, in military uniform and a look that reflected the sincere stupidity of a loyal dog. Similar to images of Steve Rogers when he took the super soldier serum in the 1940s. Next to his portrait, information scrolled.
United States Air Force officer and agent of the ARGUS agency, compared to SHIELD. According to the data, the blond man was the first point of contact between the human world and Themyscira. Extensive history of joint operations with Wonder Woman.
Another holographic screen changed, showing images of the Amazon on battlefields against her enemies and gala events, Trevor in the middle, images from the Daily Planet. Doom's eyes narrowed. Doom had already seen such images; they confirmed he had been her ex-partner. Doom said nothing mentally, only mocking him for not pleasing the mother of his child. Typical of inferiors.
Next, Bruce Wayne, the billionaire known as Batman. Doom knew enough about him thanks to the first files he had opened to learn about the heroes of that world. He had previously viewed, before capturing the Amazon, images of the trinity of heroes. There appeared the public face of the billionaire, forensic photographs of the man's parents' murder, plans of a hidden cave system beneath a gothic mansion, the hero's home.
Apart from images, he contemplated videos posted by third parties on Prime Earth's global network, another network fallen to Doom. Hacked more easily, in addition to viewing Justice League meetings with the press and the other UN, charitable and honorary events organized by Wayne Enterprises around the world, the billionaire always present. He reviewed the entire history, Bruce Wayne accompanied by journalists, young men and women. Two women stood out more than the rest, of course. One of them was Wonder Woman, under her secret identity Diana Prince. Doom paid no attention to the other woman. It was the first step to suspect something between Bruce Wayne and Diana Prince.
On the other hand, Victor had cross-checked mission records and security footage from the Watchtower, intercepted private communications between them, and analyzed the subtle changes in their voices. Several fragments where Doom identified Wayne's voice comparable to what Stark did with his lovers. He hated those typical arrogant playboy comments. A clip had appeared, a grainy thermal image of the League's private quarters. The two of them, entangled. The conclusion was inescapable.
They were lovers. The Amazon princess and the melancholic orphan of Gotham.
Returning from his temporary trance of memories, Doom still staring at Bruce Wayne's image.
"How predictable. She tires of the pilot and seeks the shadow. And the shadow, despite all his melancholy, cannot resist the light." He murmured under his breath.
The ruler, bored with that human love, decided to change to something else related to Diana Prince.
The hologram shifted to a populated set of images, a parade of her villains, each with its description.
Giganta. A gigantic red-haired woman named Doris Zuel.
"Brute force. Unimaginative." Doom's mind said.
Barbara Minerva aka Cheetah. A woman mutated into a cheetah with super speed and divine claws.
"A curse from the gods. She hunts what she cannot claim."
Veronica Cale. A human, without powers, only wealth and intellect.
"She wages war with checkbooks and conspiracies. Doom respects the method."
Ares. The God of War. An image of a massive armored figure wrapped in flames. More intimidating than his doppelganger in this universe.
"She defeated him. Impressive. But he is a god of conflict, not of victory. There is a difference."
Aresia. Status "Deceased." She was an Amazon who sought to exterminate men.
"Tragic. Wrong. Ultimately irrelevant."
Dr. Psycho. A small, grotesque man with telepathic powers named Edgar Cizko, related to Doris Zuel.
"A mind controller. Prince has freed herself from his influence before. She will try to free herself from Doom's. She will fail."
Circe. An immortal sorceress from a magical island called Aeaea.
"This woman is one to consider. She turns men into beasts. She bends reality with words. Doom will not underestimate her."
Other names appeared that did not catch his attention. Paula von Gunther, Dr. Cyber, Maxwell Lord, Silver Swan, and Grail, the daughter of the ruler of Apokolips. There was another list he decided to open later. The important ones were here.
Doom absorbed it all, categorizing, analyzing, archiving every threat for future reference.
Doom changed the images for new ones showing the Amazons and her close ones. However, the Watchtower files contained limited information on Themyscira, hiding mysteries and internal struggles. But the important names had been recorded. The names were enough.
Files on the Greek gods of Olympus appeared again, which Doom had reviewed previously. Their scarce information indicated they were the same as the gods here, but they felt almost abstract. Nothing relevant. There were no images of them. The key names were almost exact: Zeus, Hercules, Athena, Hera, Hermes, and Aphrodite. He still needed to review the rest of the names.
There were also no public images of Queen Hippolyta, Diana Prince's mother. The name was recorded in diplomatic records. Other key names without evidence also appeared, such as Nubia, Philippus, Astarte and Antiope. Another name that appeared was Etta Candy, nothing relevant to the villain.
However, he found enough information on the next two names, showing their images on the holographic screen.
Donna Troy. Founder and current member of the Titans. Black-haired. She had almost the same features as Diana.
Cassandra Sandsmark. Blonde girl. Member of Young Justice and daughter of Zeus and a mortal named Helena Sandsmark.
Then, he found limited information on the following names:
Yara Flor and Artemis from other independent tribes of the main Amazons, called Esquicedas and Bana-Mighdall, respectively.
These were Diana's sisters in arms, her students, and her found family. Doom's eyes remained on the names, committing them to memory. Donna, the first protégé. Artemis, the fierce rival. And then...
Cassandra.
Doom's breath caught. It was not a surprise, Doom was not surprised, but in a rare moment it took him back to the past. The hologram showed the young blonde.
Cassandra Sandsmark.
But it was another surname that appeared in Doom's memory, unbidden.
Cassandra Lang.
The daughter of Scott Lang. The blonde girl who had been in the heart of his adopted son, Kristoff Vernard, who loved her with the reckless and idiotic devotion of youth, seen by Doom himself when the two were together in front of him.
Doom remembered. The day he had obtained the Life Force, the cosmic power that had elevated him to divinity, one of several he had obtained. In his iconic arrogance, he had attacked all who opposed him because they were against him performing miracles. Cassie Lang had been the only casualty that time. A child. A collateral victim in a confrontation she would never have chosen. Because of it, Victor lost the love he felt for Wanda Maximoff, thanks to the intervention of her children and Vision. Doom blamed Max Eisenhart for that time.
Kristoff found out later. His son had looked at him with eyes that held no fear, only betrayal as they always did. They had several confrontations over that incident. To top it off, Scott Lang, the second Ant-Man, Cassandra's father, had come for revenge against him. Doom remembered that the man had humiliated him in a way he never wanted to experience again.
The man had only caught him off guard. Victor von Doom is never defeated by inferiors.
Some time later, the sovereign of Latveria brought Cassandra Lang back from the dead.
He had healed. He had healed Kristoff's wounds, the visible ones and those that bled beneath the skin. He had returned them to each other. Father and son did not speak about it at that time, there was still tension, but time began to calm them. The ruler did not care what his son thought of him, Doom only wanted Kristoff to be comfortable by his side and the best for him. If he found out about the UN treaty, Doom would do what he knew how to do: confront him.
Returning to the topic of Cassie Lang, Doom did not know if his son and she were official, lovers, or enemies. Kristoff remained a mystery. Just like his father.
"Young love is a fire that burns. Doom has no time for ashes."
He prepared to delve deeper into the world of Prime Earth. He still needed more knowledge. His intelligence was his gift to prepare against them. His metallic hand hovered over the hologram, ready to change it.
An anomalous flicker of light caught his peripheral vision. He turned his masked face toward another holographic screen monitoring lost communications and intrusion attempts against Castle Doom's main network.
The same coordinates. Over and over.
Baxter Building. New York.
Reed Richards.
The insufferable elastic fool was still trying to reach him. The slits of Doom's eyes narrowed as he scanned the accumulated log.
Seventy-five missed calls and intrusions.
Each one a digital battering ram against the castle's firewalls. All from the same source. All from the man who had ruined his face, stolen his glory, and somehow remained the favorite of the so-called heroic community.
Doom scoffed, a harsh metallic rasp that echoed through the laboratory.
"Still obsessed with Doom." He said mentally, his voice dripping with contempt. "Richards cannot tolerate a silence he did not orchestrate. He cannot accept that Doom has moved beyond his petty gaze."
He dismissed the alerts with a wave of his fingers. He had no time for Reed Richards. Diana Prince, Latveria, and Prime Earth, that untapped well of power and possibility, demanded attention.
But then the surname Richards triggered something else. A memory. A face. A blonde girl with sharp intelligence, too loyal for her own good.
Valeria Richards.
His goddaughter.
The image appeared in his mind without warning: a flash of her ninth birthday, when he had given her the communicator. Her smile. Her hug. Her solemn promise to use it in emergencies. He had been the one to break that promise of hers.
Twelve years. Her twelfth birthday had come and gone. Days had passed. Months had passed. He had not called. He had not sent her a gift. He had not even acknowledged the day.
Doom had neglected her.
The realization hit him like a blow from Mjolnir, not physically, but in a deeper place. Somewhere he rarely acknowledged. The scarred remains of his heart, perhaps, or the hollow space where his mother's love had once lived.
"The worst godfather in the world… The name honors Doom."
He activated Valeria's communicator log. Ninety missed calls. Each one a silent accusation, the desperate attempt of a child to reach the man, her godfather.
Doom's fingers curled into fists. The cosmic curse, the disease gnawing at his soul, had stolen many things from him. He had chosen isolation. He had chosen silence. He had chosen Latveria's future over a girl's birthday, which was paramount. His obsession with Prime Earth. He was never like this with her while in good health, plotting to conquer the world and annoy her insignificant father.
Now she must be furious with him. Perhaps she would refuse to see him. Perhaps she had already stopped caring.
No. No. Valeria Richards was not that kind of child. She would be hurt. She would be confused. But she would not abandon him. Never. They had been connected since her birth.
Doom straightened his back, his cape settling behind him like a shroud of resolve. He would not let this stand. He could not undo the last months of silence; he was going to offer her an explanation, at least. Or as much of one as Doom ever gave. He was going to send a message.
But something distracted him again. A specific holographic image returned to Doom's eyes.
He made another gesture and the screen zoomed in on a specific quadrant: the guest room where he had housed the Amazon princess. The live recording image resolved, sharp and relentless.
Diana Prince was leaving the room.
The slits of Doom's eyes narrowed. The hour was early, the pale gold of morning light filtering through the castle's high windows, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air.
She wore nothing but an intense red towel wrapped firmly around her body. Her black hair remained steady, typical of strong women. Her bare feet padded silently across the cold stone floor.
She walked slowly, hesitantly, her head turning from side to side as if the labyrinthine hallways of Castle Doom were a puzzle she had not yet solved. She seemed lost, disoriented, and vulnerable.
Doom's lips curved under his mask.
"Ugh! This impatient woman called the princess of Themyscira." He murmured, his voice a low, resonant purr of contempt and satisfaction. "The warrior who has faced gods and monsters. Reduced to a woman in a towel, wandering Doom's hallways like a lost lamb seeking her shepherd."
The Latverian observed the hologram as she stopped at an intersection, her blue eyes scanning the identical stone walls, the suits of armor standing sentinel, the green and black banners hanging limply in the still air. She opened a door. Empty. Another. Locked. Her frustration was visible: the set of her jaw, the flare of her nostrils, the way her fingers tightened on the edge of her towel.
"She is looking for the shower." Doom deduced, his mind racing through the possibilities. It also supported him, the angle of the sun, the heat already beginning to build on the upper floors of the castle. She had woken up, felt the heat, and tried to clean herself. A basic need. A mortal need.
How far the divine had fallen.
Minutes passed. He watched her recordings, descending stairs and more hallways. Then she approached a Doombot stationed at a crossroads, one of the silent sentinels programmed for basic security, not conversation. The robot's green eyes fixed on her, unblinking. The image from that angle captured it. Another image showed the Doombot's first person view. Doom saw that she was going to speak. Therefore, he increased the audio volume of that recording.
"Where is the bathroom?"
The Doombot did not respond.
"Tell me, where can I find a shower?"
Silence.
"By Hera. Answer me now, damn Doom creation."
That annoyed Victor himself; this time he would let it pass.
"I am not programmed to respond to you, guest of the master. I only respond to my lord."
Said the servant robot.
Victor saw Diana clench her fists in anger, but without taking action.
Now, Doom allowed a rare, quiet laugh. It was a sound like grinding stones, devoid of warmth.
"She cannot even command a simple automaton."
"She is nothing without her lasso, her bracelets, her armor. Stripped of her symbols, she is just a weak woman. And lost things… belong to whoever finds them…"
Doom did not finish his mental sentence because he felt the door behind him open. He did not turn. He did not need to. The way the door opened and the footsteps were soft, unhurried, the measured tread of one who had walked the hallways of Castle Doom for decades. The aroma of incense and old parchment preceded him.
"My lord." A calm, serene male voice, imbued with the quiet wisdom of centuries. "I sensed you needed me now."
The ruler of Latveria's gaze remained on Diana Prince but he spoke. "Your perception remains irritatingly sharp, Larin."
The bald monk named Larin, his brown robe whispering against the stone floor. His hands were clasped before him, his face a mask of gentle understanding. He did not approach the throne; he stopped at a respectful distance, his bare feet silent on the cold flagstones. His first masters and and at the same time, his first faithful, who taught him about mysticism, Tibetan culture, and the essentials to become the being he was now.
"I need you to go to corridor thirty." Doom continued, still not looking at him. "To assist..."
"The woman you brought from that other universe?" Larin asked, his tone unhurried, as if completing a sentence Doom had left hanging. "And forgive me for interrupting your sentence."
Doom's mask turned slightly, his eyes catching the glow of the hologram.
"Send her to guest bathroom number six. Make sure she showers. Bring her appropriate clothing for the day."
"It will be done, my lord. What do you plan to do with her?" Larin tilted his head.
Doom remained silent for a long moment. The hologram showed Diana turning another corner, her frustration building.
"Show her reality." Doom said finally.
Larin's brow furrowed slightly.
"Diana Prince." He said the name as if he had known her for years. "My wisdom tells me that is her real name, Lord Doom. I also share your knowledge of her, thanks to you."
The monk's wisdom was the power Doom had over the world and sometimes it arrived too much.
"Lord Doom, I know about the UN treaty and…"
"Larin, speak no more. Fulfill your function, now." Doom Interrupts.
Larin did not flinch. He had known Doom too long, had seen him at his lowest, in the mountains of Tibet, when the burns were still fresh, when the rage was still raw. He was one of the few living souls who could speak to Doom without trembling.
Larin bowed his head, his hands separating to make a devout gesture: palms pressed together, fingers pointing upward, a sign of reverence that preceded even Latveria's recorded history.
"As you wish, my lord." The monk said.
Doom did not speak, but made a movement in his body, a gesture of approval.
Larin turned toward the control room door, his robes whispering against the floor. He stopped at the threshold, looking back.
"I fear she is strong, Lord Doom." The bald man said quietly. "Stronger than you think. Do not underestimate her."
Doom's voice was a low rumble. "Doom does not underestimate anyone."
The monk left. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Victor's gaze returned to the images tracking Larin moving through the hallways with ease. Doom watched as the monk descended a staircase, turned left at a tapestry depicting the Battle of Doomstadt, and emerged into corridor thirty, right where Diana was now.
But she was not alone.
Zora Vukovic was in the middle of the hallway, her yellow armor and helmet along with her green cape shining, her trident staff gripped in her right hand. Her loyal one's posture radiated fury. Diana faced her, the red towel still wrapped around her body, her expression defiant.
Doom increased the audio feed of that image. Diana had no escape; if she tried to harm his loyal one, he would fulfill his word to humiliate her more.
"What are you doing here, prisoner? Return to where Lord Doom left you."
Zora was saying, her voice sharp, her Eastern European accent thickening with anger.
"How can you wander here with total freedom? If you are thinking of escaping, you will not succeed. I have my eyes on you."
He saw that the Amazon did not respond.
"Did you hear me, woman? You cannot be alone without supervision!"
"Zora!"
"What did you say?"
"Zora! That is not your name. Victorious?"
"You have no right to say my name, prisoner."
"Zora! I have no time to fight. I do not want another punishment from your boss."
"You will have it anyway." Doom's mental words flowed in him.
"Can you tell me where the bathroom is? Or perhaps guide me there?"
"You have no right to demand anything here, woman."
"But now I belong to Doom, so please answer me."
"You are learning, woman."
"That is not true! You are just a simple prisoner."
"Tell that to your boss. He told me that now I belong to him."
Doom saw that she was provoking Zora.
"How dare you?"
"Do not attack me. I do not want to hurt you again."
Doom observed Zora, filled with rage at Diana's words, lunging forward, her staff crackling with energy and pointing at Diana. The Amazon prepared for the attack.
"Stop!"
Larin appeared.
"Please, Lady Zora, calm yourself."
The women calmed down.
"Forgive my attitude, Larin."
Zora said, now calmer.
The monk nodded gently. Larin stopped at a respectful distance; his presence radiated an aura of reliability, a quiet anchor in the storm of the castle's intrigue.
"Lady Diana, would you accompany me? I know what you seek."
She nodded hesitantly.
"Yes. Lead the way."
"Lady Zora, do not forget you have your meeting with King Namor in Atlantis, as you mentioned to Lord Doom yesterday. Do not be late."
With his last words, Zora headed out of the castle.
Doom saw Larin guiding her toward bathroom number six.
"Why are these labyrinths so confusing? It is as if they were meant to drive someone mad."
"They are designed to disorient anyone experiencing Lord Doom's castle for the first time, Lady Diana. The design is ancient, woven with architecture and subtle enchantments to protect the master's secrets. With time, one learns the paths, as you will."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know enough, Lady Diana. Let us hope we get along well, all thanks to Lord Doom's grace."
"Is Doom manipulating you? Are you following his orders out of fear?"
"No!" Growled the villain.
"Lord Doom is my savior, and the savior of everyone here in Latveria. He has a different way of seeing life, one that often clashes with the heroes, villains, and leaders of the world. He seeks the good of humanity in his own image, although he has his flaws, even if he denies them. But his vision is a better order, Lady Diana."
"How did you meet Doom?"
"That story begins in the mountains of Tibet. My entire tribe owes him our gratitude. Soon you will learn everything Master Doom has endured, Lady Diana. But it is not my place to say it fully; I have no intention of saying more than is respectful."
Doom did not need to see more. Larin was doing his job. Doom had to work. He stood up while the holograms continued operating.
"Diana Prince, you will enjoy what is coming. We will talk more about it."
Now, his first task of the day was.
"Valeria…" Murmured Doom, his voice a low rumble in the control room.
///
Hot water burst in a powerful cascade over Wonder Woman's body. Steam filled the stall with a lavender-scented mist that enveloped her naked form, washing away the sweat and dried fluids from the previous night. She did not feel any kind of magic in the water; everything was normal to her suspicion.
She tilted her head back, letting the water flow through her black hair. The heat seeped into her muscles, easing the ancient attentions of Doom: pleasant, painful, but not consensual on her thighs, breasts, and buttocks. All executed by that robot of his, thanks to the man in the green cape. She hated it and him deeply inside her.
She rinsed her body with a small bar of soap hanging inside the shower stall. The soap slid over her toned biceps and forearms, then to her hands, scrubbing between her fingers as if to erase the memory of gripping the sheets. Her mind, however, betrayed her focus again: the insidious heat of the man's trick grew stronger under the rhythm of the water, evoking images of her master.
"Doom... dominate me."
She thought, an internal shiver running through her despite the heat. His control over her body replayed vividly: the way he had whipped her, turning resistance into surrender. She moaned softly, the sound echoing weakly in the stall, lost in the roar of the water. She was not herself after Doom had kidnapped her from her home.
"Hera..." Diana whispered, invoking the goddess again, but the plea twisted into longing. She missed his touch: those exquisite caresses on her breasts, his mouth sucking and teasing her nipples until they ached; his fingers digging into her ass as he pulled her toward him; the fullness of him inside her, thrusting with inflexible precision.
Her hands moved lower, soaping her breasts, cupping them as he did, her thumbs brushing her nipples, which hardened instantly at the memory. Another moan escaped her lips, more breathy this time.
"Lord..."
The word slipped out unbidden, that supposed pheromone trick amplifying her desire until she wished he were there with her. Doom bathing her: his ungloved hands soaping her skin, his body pressed against hers under the spray, washing away the evidence only to claim her again. The fantasy made her thighs clench, heat pooling between her legs despite the cascading water. She leaned against the wall, one hand sliding from her belly to her core, but she stopped, frustration mixing with the haze.
"No, fight it." Her true self urged her, but the domination felt intoxicating, her experience unleashed like a drug.
The water continued pouring, rinsing the soap in rivulets that traced her curves, over her hips, down her legs, gathering at her feet before swirling into the drain. She thoroughly cleaned her most intimate areas, the soap removing the sticky remains of their releases, her fingers gentle but efficient. Her hair received the same treatment, the shampoo foaming luxuriously as she massaged her scalp, the scent grounding her slightly.
Time blurred in the steam-filled sanctuary, the forty minutes passing in a haze of relaxation and conflicting longing. The constant rhythm of the water became a meditative drum, easing her exhaustion.
A soft knock on the outer door brought her back to reality.
"Lady Diana, I have brought your clothes. I will leave the basket in front of the door. I will return in twenty minutes to escort you to the master." Larin's calm voice filtered through. The man's arrival had been precise.
"Perfect. Facing that man again…"
"Thank you." She called from inside, her voice firm despite the persistent blush on her cheeks.
Diana closed the faucet, the sudden silence amplifying the drip from the shower head.
She heard the monk's retreating steps. Exiting the stall, she grabbed a fresh towel from the rack, thick and embroidered with wave patterns, and dried herself vigorously, the fabric absorbing the moisture from her skin and hair. The mirror above a small sink was fogged, but she wiped a clear spot with her hand, glimpsing her reflection: eyes bright but shadowed with internal conflict, skin glowing from the heat. Wrapping the towel securely around herself, she approached the main door and opened it, looking out to make sure the hallway was empty.
The basket was on the floor as Larin had promised, woven from dark wicker with Latverian motifs. She glanced at it: a type of tunic or one-piece ancient-style garment in pink. All pink in a single color, a black belt and sandals, typical of medieval times. It did not surprise her. It reminded her of when she visited hidden villages and towns in her knowledge of the world of men and on missions. But she would have preferred something contemporary. In addition, she noticed there was black women's underwear. She did not have her own; they had been lost. Zeus knows where. She did not remember the exact moment.
"Hera. Finally, nothing green…"
She pulled it inside and closed the door. Then, she cleaned up the scene inside the bathroom: folding the used towel perfectly on the shelf, rinsing any stray foam from the shower, and ensuring the stall was pristine, her Amazon discipline activating even here.
Now, she was dressed and complete.
Diana stood once more in front of the mirror, running her fingers through her damp hair to tame it. She looked in detail at her new clothing, pink, the short-sleeved tunic type with a long bottom that barely showed her toned legs. Nothing provocative or erotic.
"At least it is not as gross as I thought, but his way of taking me is sickening…"