The alchemist came to collect Fire Salts again today. He held his crucible under my wrist, watching the molten essence drip into the cold glass. His breath hitched. He thinks I don't notice the way his eyes linger on the curve of my thigh, the way his knuckles turn white gripping the table. He thinks it's just a transaction. But I saw the bulge in his trousers when a drop of my essence splashed onto his glove. He'll go home, smell the sulfur and ozone on his skin, and imagine my flames licking up his cock instead of the inside of his bowl. Mortals are so fragile. So easy to scorch from the inside out with just a look. I wonder if he'll taste the salt and think of my cunt.