Primordial Villain With A Slave Harem - Chapter 1655 Stinky Pig

Each stab came with its own sound, a bright exhale or a girlish grunt that had no business being as cute as it was. Vivienne’s face between the strikes was flushed, alive, having the time of her life.

“Wh… why…” Alastair managed between the wounds, the word bubbling up through the blood in his throat.

Vivienne paused with the dagger raised, breathing hard, and looked down at him with her head tilted. Then her nose wrinkled.

“Papa… You stink like a pig.”

A giggle burst out of her, bright and offended.

“I told you many times to bathe when you got home! Stinky Papa!” She drove the dagger in again with a petulant “Hmph!” as if the smell were the real crime, then twisted it and left it there. “You never listen to me… Do you know how hard it was to always pretend that I liked sleeping in your arms! Blergh!”

Across the bed, Amara leaned closer to her mother. Ophira’s thrashing had weakened, the single stab wound in her stomach doing exactly what it needed to do to a woman with no combat class and no Vitality worth mentioning. The Duchess’s eyes were wide and rolling, her screams reduced to wet gasps behind Amara’s palm.

“Shhh…” Amara whispered, her lips close to Ophira’s ear. “It’ll only hurt more if you resist…”

A pause. The giggle returned, soft and pitying.

“But, well… Mom, I think you might be done anyhow.”

Their eyes met. Mother and daughter, inches apart, one pinned and bleeding and the other perched on her stomach with a dagger still embedded in her gut. Amara released the hand on Ophira’s mouth and brought both palms to her mother’s cheeks, cupping her face between her fingers and angling it toward her with a grip that left white marks in the skin.

Ophira’s mouth opened to scream but what came out was a thin wet gasp, and then Amara’s tongue dragged a slow wet line from the base of her jaw to her cheekbone.

The Duchess recoiled so hard her skull cracked against the headboard. Her neck twisted, her face wrenching sideways to escape, every fiber of her body rejecting what had just happened.

“Ah-ah~” Amara’s fingers tightened on her mother’s jaw and forced her face back. “No running, Mom…”

“Stop…” Ophira begged, with no result.

Her eyes were blown so wide the whites showed all the way around, her chest heaving in short panicked bursts as her daughter held her still and licked a second line up the other side of her face with the lazy patience of a woman savoring something she had been denied for a very long time. Up her neck, across the hollow of her throat, along the edge of her chin, and Amara’s breath was hot against her skin between each pass.

“Truly…” Amara murmured against Ophira’s cheek, her lips brushing the wet trail she had just left. “What a gorgeous mother I have…”

Her tongue found Ophira’s lips and traced them, slow and purposeful, and the sound that left the Duchess was a mewl dragged up from a place where comprehension had already broken.

Amara pulled back just far enough to look at her work. Ophira’s face was wet, flushed, streaked with tears and saliva, her mouth trembling, her eyes staring at the creature above her with the blank horror of someone whose mind had already left.

“You have no idea,” Amara whispered, tilting her head as the moonlight caught the sheen on her mother’s skin, “how long I’ve wanted to torture someone. It’s a pity that it ended up being my mother, but…”

She shrugged. “At this point, I have to take what I can get.”

Her eyes were lit from somewhere behind the iris with something no daughter should carry while looking at the woman who bore her, and the hunger in them was old and deep and finally, finally being fed.

Vivienne paused in her work long enough to glance at her sister, her chest heaving beneath the thin nightgown that clung to her with sweat and her father’s blood. The flush on her face and the rise and fall of her breasts with each hard breath gave her the afterglow of a lover’s marathon, not a murder, and the grin that split her face was the mirror of Amara’s.

“Finally,” Vivienne breathed, pure relief flooding the word. “We don’t have to pretend…”

Amara’s grin sharpened.

“And for a job well done…” She looked back down at her mother’s glazing eyes with starry eagerness. “He said our sentences might be reduced~”

Both twins giggled, bright and eager, the sound so identical it seemed to come from one throat.

Vivienne turned back to Alastair and drove the dagger into his shoulder with a cheerful “Hyah!” twisting the blade to keep the sap active, to keep his Level 74 body from regenerating around the wounds the way it was already trying to. The Duke grunted with each twist, his enormous frame shuddering on the blood-soaked sheets, his eyes locked on the creature wearing his daughter’s smile.

“Why…” he managed again, the word weaker now.

“Shhh, Papa,” Vivienne cooed, pressing a finger to his lips the way he used to do to her when she was small. Ophira’s mouth opened, her voice a thin reedy whisper that had no resemblance to the measured Duchess who had been pulling pins from her hair an hour ago.

“What… has happened… to you…”

Amara looked down at her with genuine curiosity, head tilted, as if the question were an interesting specimen she had not considered.

Then another giggle filled the chamber.

It came from neither daughter.

It came from the far corner of the room, where moonlight painted a silver wash across the floor and the tall reading chair sat beside the window. Alastair’s eyes snapped toward it. Ophira’s followed a heartbeat later, both searching for a sound that should not exist in a room with only four occupants.

“You two vile bitches are truly something else…”

A woman’s voice, low and warm and carrying an amusement so dark it could have curdled milk.

Their eyes found the source.

Alastair’s favorite reading chair sat in the wash of silver light from the tall window, and in it sat a man.

He was tall enough that even seated, his presence filled the corner of the room with a weight the Duke could feel against his bleeding skin. Dark armor caught the moonlight along its edges in thin crimson threads that pulsed once, slow, like a second heartbeat. His legs were extended, one ankle crossed over the other, and in the crook of each arm a woman sat against him with the easy comfort of a lover.

His eyes were open and aimed at the bed.

They carried nothing. No anger, no satisfaction, no cruelty. They were flat and dark, as distant as a man watching insects cross a table he owned. The stillness of him in that chair was absolute, as if he had been there since before the Duke and Duchess walked through their own door.

The brunette on his left had her legs crossed, one hand resting against the armored chest she leaned into. Her blue eyes watched the bed with quiet amusement, entertained and content to observe.

The woman on his right thigh was the one who had spoken. Caramel hair fell past her shoulders in a loose wave, and she was perched on the man’s leg with her own legs crossed, one elbow propped against his pauldron, her chin resting in her palm. Her green eyes held the bed with a warmth that had nothing warm about it. The snicker still sat at the corner of her mouth.

Alastair’s bleeding heart stopped.

Ophira’s breath died in her throat.

“No…” the Duchess whimpered, and her voice cracked on the single syllable in a way nothing had cracked it in thirty years.

Alastair’s lips moved. Blood ran down his chin and pooled in the hollow of his throat, and the word that left him was not a Duke’s word, not a father’s, not a warrior’s. It was the sound of a man who had just seen a ghost rise out of a grave.

“Eveliana…?”