CinderBeast

CinderBeast Lilith K. Duat Broken Wings Media Copyright Copyright © 2023 by Broken Wings Media All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters engaged in sexual situations are of legal age. This book is recommended for mature readers 18+. Printed in Canada Kindle Edition - First Printing, 2023 ASIN: B0BVHH6QQL Broken Wings Media brokenwingsmedia.com | Twitter.com/BWMTweet Cover design by Marie MacKay. Contents A Message From the Author 1. One 2. Two 3. Three 4. Four 5. Five 6. Six 7. Seven 8. Eight 9. Nine 10. Ten 11. Elven 12. Twelve 13. Thirteen 14. Fourteen 15. Fifteen 16. Sixteen 17. Seventeen 18. Eighteen 19. Nineteen 20. Twenty 21. Twenty One 22. Twenty Two 23. Twenty Three 24. Twenty Four 25. Twenty Five 26. Twenty Six 27. Twenty Seven 28. Twenty Eight 29. Twenty Nine 30. Thirty 31. Thirty One 32. Thirty Two 33. Thirty Three 34. Thirty Four 35. Thirty Five 36. Epilogue Thank You for Reading Also By Lilith K. Duat Acknowledgments & About the Author A Message From the Author Lilith K. Duat believes in having a good time. If you, the reader, want to go on a fun journey without being spoiled, please read on. If you wish to be informed, and to know what sort of troubling material, kinks and the heat level presented in this book, please click here for a complete list of content. We want everyone in possession of this story, and all of Lilith’s books, to be happy, safe, comfortable, and have a pleasurable experience. Please, sit back and enjoy yourselves. For all the Ellys out there, I hope you find your Thorns… …Whoever that might be. One Before she had even opened her eyes, Elly had to force away the encroaching tears. “No.” A cloud of her breath chased the single word, then dissipated. She balled herself up tighter under the blanket that she had crocheted for herself. “I don’t want to.” The same intrusive thoughts that she conjured up first thing every morning for the last thirteen years. Why couldn’t she just go to sleep and never wake up again? She opened her eyes and saw almost nothing. There was no light in the back of the root cellar except for the glow from the candles and oil lamps that shone through the cracks in the floorboards above. Elly liked the dark. It was safe. Cold was merely something she had acclimated to. She exhaled and another cloud escaped her lips. She got out of bed, and smoothed out her blanket. From there she commenced with her morning routine. She brushed out her long black hair and twisted it into a bun at the nape of her neck, then wrapped her breasts tightly in a length of wide bandages. Madame Fiona had told her that they were too large, too obscene and they would distract the patrons. Once the bandages were secure, Elly dressed in her work uniform; a black peasant-styled dress and white pinafore that was both a little too tight and a little too loose in all the wrong places. The dress had belonged to her mother, and had been the most beautiful shade of sapphire blue, but over time it had become worn, and the beautiful lines that highlighted her body were mocked and nitpicked. Elly dyed it black to cover the wear, using ash and soot, quill ink and charcoal from the hearth and ovens. She sewed and re-sewn the hem and seams, adding and removing fabric over time to hide more and more and more of her body in its darkness. At least the pinafore was clean, white and presented forth order and tidiness. She fixed the black cowl around her shoulders and pulled the hood over her head so that none of the guests would be disgusted by the scars, like climbing ivy, crawling up her right cheek. She slipped a foot into a work slipper and her toes touched something warm and fuzzy. Quickly Elly pulled back her foot and picked up the slipper. “Walter, come out of there.” She upended the shoe and out tumbled a sleek spotted rat. He perched on her palm, and Elly carefully set him onto the floor. “Go on, now. Be careful.” She heard the rodent scurry away into the darkness. Elly crept out of the root cellar and into the kitchen, where she would spend most of her morning. With a sigh, Elly began to prepare the batter for crepes, and when it was satisfactorily silky and without lumps she passed the bowl to Greta, the house chef and head of the kitchen. Greta ladeled it onto the hot griddle. Elly worked prep, and prep only. She set about cutting fruit into elaborate rosebuds, and saved the rinds and stems wrapped in a cloth and stuffed in the pocket of her pinafore. She had use for the scraps. Once breakfast was cooked and plated, Elly carried the plates to the dumbwaiter. “Dumbwaiter’s stuck between floors,” said Greta. “Gotta carry it up by hand.” “Again?” Elly groaned as she put the three dishes onto a large tray, and covered each one with a silver cloche so the meal would keep warm for the journey. Both hands holding the tray, she carefully pushed the swinging door open with her back, and walked out of the kitchen. The master bedroom was on the third floor of the manor, and that was where step-mother Fiona resided. Her daughters, Madeline and Adaline, also resided on the third floor. It was quite a walk from the kitchens to the master suites. Elly took the grand palatial stairs up to the second floor and she took a brief rest at the landing. She stared at the wall that was papered in red with a trellis design in a deeper red. It