Chapter 73: Volume 1- [ - 74 ]
I opened the door.
Three faces. Sera and Lira, as expected — Sera holding a bowl of something warm, Lira balanced on her crutch with a second bowl. And between them, clutching a plate with a glass of juice that trembled in her fingers, stood Mirra.
Pink hair. Brown eyes. The mousy, round-faced healer who carried the blessing of the Goddess of Bad Luck like a stone around her neck. She had come with the sisters. She had brought juice. She had been trying to be helpful, to be useful, to be the kind of person who brought things and was not blamed for things.
She blinked. “Eh — what?”
Her eyes moved past me. Into the room. Onto the bed.
Seraphine lay there.
The blonde warrior was sprawled across the mattress like a painting of a woman after a war — a sexual war, fought and lost. Her hair was a tangled mess spread across the pillow. Her under-tunic was gone, her body bare, the skin flushed from forehead to navel. Her breasts — full, heavy, the pink nipples swollen and raw — rose and fell with each shallow breath. Her legs were parted, the thighs trembling, and between them, her pussy — blonde-haired, swollen, red — leaked. The cum — thick, white, copious — ran from her entrance in a slow, continuous stream that pooled on the sheets beneath her.
The marks were everywhere. Hickeys on her neck. Bite marks on her collarbone. Handprints on her thighs. The bruised, tender look of flesh that had been gripped and squeezed and used for hours.
And standing beside the bed, looking at Mirra with calm amber eyes, was me. Naked. My cock — ten inches, half-hard, the head still wet — hanging between my legs like a weapon that had just been sheathed.
Mirra’s whole body flinched. Her mouth parted. Her lips trembled. The juice glass tilted. Her fingers went slack.
“No — no, no, no, no — wait — I do not—”
The glass fell. The juice — red, sweet — splashed across the floor, the droplets scattering like scattered rubies. She did not notice. She was already turning, already running, her voice a high, panicked sound that echoed through the hallway.
“NO! Please forgive me! I should not have come! I should not—”
Her footsteps faded. The door to her room slammed. The sound was a period at the end of a sentence that read ‘I have seen something I cannot unsee.’
I sighed. Looked at the sisters. They stood in the doorway, the bowls of soup in their hands, their faces a study in controlled composure. Sera’s dark eyes flicked from the bed to me to the fallen juice glass. Lira’s green eyes did the same, her crutch shifting under her weight.
“We apologize for disturbing you, Lord,” Sera said, and her voice was measured, careful, the voice of a servant who had learned to navigate the moods of her master. “We will come back—”
She turned. Lira turned. Both of them moved toward the hallway with the synchronized motion of women who had been trained to retreat when the master was busy.
But their internal voices — those I heard. Those I always heard.
‘He has a new woman. A noblewoman. A warrior. Blonde, beautiful, strong. And we — we are—’ Sera’s thought was a spiral of inadequacy, the quiet, corrosive self-doubt of a woman comparing herself to a superior and finding herself lacking.
‘He did not even look at us the way he looked at her. The way he — with her — the marks on her body — he did that to her in one night. One night. And she is — she is so — and I am—’ Lira’s thought matched her sister’s, the mirror darker, sharpened by the stump where her leg had been, the constant reminder of what she had lost and what she would never be.
‘Commoners. We are commoners. He fucked us because we were there. Because we were easy. Because father was dead and we had nowhere to go. But her — the blonde one — she is a warrior, a noble, a woman worth—’
‘He is not interested in us anymore. He has gotten something tastier. Something he does not have to train. Something that was already—’
The sadness was real. Not performed, not strategic — the genuine, aching sadness of two women who had given everything they had to a man who was already looking elsewhere. They judged themselves, and the judgment was harsh, and the court was their own minds, and the verdict was ‘we are not enough.’
I grabbed Sera’s wrist. Then Lira’s. Both of them froze.
“Where are you going?” I said, and my voice was warm, amused, the voice of a man who could not understand why anyone would leave.
Sera yelped. “The food will fall, Master!”
I pulled. Both of them stumbled through the doorway. The door closed behind them — the click of the latch a small, final sound that sealed the room.
I took the bowl from Sera’s hand. Drank. The soup was warm — a thin broth with root vegetables and salted meat, the kind of country cooking that existed to fill a stomach rather than please a palate. It was good. Not because of the flavor, but because the body that had spent four thousand points of energy needed fuel, and fuel was fuel regardless of its presentation.
I set the bowl down. Sat on the edge of the bed.
Both sisters stood before me, trembling. Not from fear — not exactly. From the sight behind me. From Seraphine, lying there, her body a map of everything I had done, every position, every orgasm, every load. They looked at her the way a soldier looks at a battlefield — with the quiet, horrified recognition of what the victor is capable of.
“What are you doing here?” Seraphine’s voice was hoarse, raw, the voice of a throat that had screamed itself hoarse. She had opened her eyes — yellow, dazed — and found two women standing in the room where she had been fucked unconscious. “Go away. Do not look.”
She tried to sit up. Her arms pushed against the mattress. Her waist lifted — and collapsed. She fell back, a gasp of pain escaping her lips, her hand flying to her hip.
“My — I cannot — my waist—”
‘The pounding,’ her internal voice was a groan of mortified agony. ‘He — for hours — the angle — the impact — my hips — I cannot—’
I looked at Sera. “Suck it.”
The word was simple. The command was clear. The context — a blonde noblewoman lying fucked on the bed, two commoner sisters standing in the room, the air thick with the smell of sex and cum — was anything but.
Sera trembled. She looked at Seraphine. At the cum leaking from her pussy. At the marks on her body. At the evidence of a night that had been brutal and thorough and relentless.
Then she looked at me. At my cock. Half-hard, wet, the head still glistening with the residue of Seraphine’s pussy.
She knelt.
Her knees found the floor — the cold stone of the inn room — and her hands came up, both of them wrapping around my cock. Her fingers — small, practiced, the fingers of a woman who had done this dozens of times now — could not close around the girth.
She leaned forward. Her tongue came out. Licked. A long, slow stroke from the base to the head, the taste hitting her — Seraphine’s pussy, my cum, the mixture of fluids that coated the shaft.