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Could cruelty and misery embody beauty? Could beauty embody cruelty? Valtor was convinced of it. When Bloom had transformed into that corrupted fairy, wearing that black outfit that suited her so well, it struck him like a sun blazing straight into his face, with absolute power. He had waited for her so long, desired her so much, imagined her endlessly in his prison, wondering in what form his beloved would appear. And there she was, regal, exalting power. She was beautiful, so beautiful, with her eyes shifting from a fitting blue to a deep gold. Beautiful with her white skin, so pure, so untouched. Beautiful with her hair that seemed made of fire, carefully woven to fit her perfectly. Her curves, her movements—everything was perfect for the Dragon, and thousands of years beyond his fantasies, so grand she was. Those lips, that nose, that little laugh line at the corner of her mouth, that chin perfectly fitting his hand, those collarbones he longed to kiss and cherish. The power in her gaze, the softness of her neck, those hips carved from marble, those long legs and ankles he dreamed of throwing himself upon, those feet he dreamed of kissing before the embodiment of perfection she was.
After all, she was beautiful. Beautiful when, with a wave of her hand, she destroyed worlds in the flames of her draconic strength. When she brought entire peoples to their knees, burned countries—innocents and guilty alike—when she wrote epitaphs to violence in their vendettas against those who had created, manipulated, and tormented them. When she tortured, ripping off wings, fingers, and lives, when she exulted in cruelty as she forced survivors into concentration camps. She had been sublime when she described the magnificent horror of those places, those prisons barely like her own. She was beautiful when she took the form of her Cruellix, those dragon wings and the dress worthy of an empress. When she wore her crown of silver and sapphire. When she wore that sadistic smile, that vicious look, that body overflowing with magic normally positive and glorious. When she made those wrist movements announcing something, when she licked her red lips. When she walked down corridors, when she was in her bath. When she blushed when he teased her, when she laughed in those moments that belonged only to them.
She was beautiful in the flames of desire, when she arched beneath him, her gaze softened by love, her lips inviting him for more, her throat gasping, sweat dripping gently, her legs wrapped around his hips or sitting on him, moving her hips as she lifted her hair. When she moaned under his love, when she let go and had no restraint. When she decided to bring him to his knees, to make him hers for the night. When her perversity revealed itself sexually with him, when she kissed him, licked his throat, bit his ears. When he ran his hands through the softness of her hair, skin against skin. When he did everything to satisfy her, because she was everything to him. She was beautiful, his empress. She was magnificent, radiant, wonderful, delicious, sumptuous, his queen. He loved her to damnation, to destruction, to alteration, to corrosion—just to let her shine, just to let her let him love her, even if he had to die for it, even if to please her he had to cut his own throat. Even if she ordered him to tear out his eyes, his tongue, his fingers, even if she ordered the worst crimes. He loved her to devastation, his heart exploding with the power of the dragon and magic, his throat tightening whenever he saw her, his eyes sparkling with love. The most unhealthy, most fatal, morbid, perverse, immoral, pernicious love—but it was just as much a pure and deep love, miraculously true, a love for which he would die, he would rot, he would agonize and cease to be. She was his sovereign, and the world was on its knees before her.