Lord of the realm

Chapter 186: Threesome with family ladies

Jaenor was silent for several moments, genuinely considering the question.

"Meet with her," he said finally.

"Hear what she actually proposes rather than speculating based on a letter. She’s right that we need allies—I can’t face the Seven Sins, demon armies, and hostile Covens alone. If the Princess offers genuine support, refusing it out of caution might be foolish."

"And if she’s trying to manipulate you?" Morgana asked.

"Use you for her own purposes?"

"Then I’ll deal with that when it becomes clear," Jaenor said.

"It’s better to see than to speculate."

He turned back to face them.

"Besides, she’s not the only one who can play political games. I have advantages she doesn’t: power that can’t be matched through normal means, a divine beast that makes me impossible to ignore, and a bloodline that carries both power and capability. If she thinks she can use me and discard me when convenient, she’ll learn otherwise."

"So you’ll respond positively?" Morgana asked.

"I’ll respond with willingness to meet," Jaenor clarified.

"On neutral ground, with appropriate precautions. Hear what she actually wants and what she’s actually offering. Then make informed decisions rather than rejecting opportunities out of excessive caution."

"That seems reasonable," Emmanuelle said.

"Though you’ll want to craft your response carefully. Show interest without desperation and confidence without arrogance. Make it clear you’re considering her as a potential equal partner, not a superior whose favor you’re seeking."

"I’ll help draft the response," Morgana offered.

"I’ve had to navigate Coven politics for years; the principles are similar."

"Thank you," Jaenor said genuinely.

He looked around at his grandmother and his aunt.

They’d followed him through increasingly impossible situations and had stayed loyal despite having every reason to abandon a cursed bloodline and its complications.

"You know," he said quietly, "whatever happens with the Princess, with the Covens, with all of it, I’m grateful. For your support, your honesty, and your willingness to challenge my thinking when I need it. I couldn’t do this alone."

"Good thing you don’t have to then," she said simply.

The moment held, warm despite the late hour and the weight of decisions ahead.

Then Emmanuelle stood, practical as always.

She looked at Jaenor.

"Leave the Beaumonts’ response until tomorrow. Hasty decisions made at midnight are rarely good ones."

"It’s late. We should all rest."

Emma and Morgana stood up and were about to leave the room.

"No," Jaenor said aloud, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. He stood up, his bare feet silent on the cold flags.

"Not yet."

Emmanuelle turned first, one arched brow lifting in a sharp way, all gold and command wrapped in duchess velvet.

"Jaenor? The hour grows late. Decisions wait for dawn."

Morgana looked at him, puzzled.

He closed the distance in three strides, his tunic loose over his broad frame, the origin energy’s faint glow pulsing under his skin like embers.

"Decisions can wait.

But this cannot." He gestured towards both of them.

"We’ve danced around shadows all night—princesses, sins, covens. I want a drink. With you both.

Here.

Now. No leaving until the fire’s gone cold."

Emmanuelle’s lips curved into a knowing smile that held the edge of a vicious beast. She glanced at Morgana, then back to him, reading the hunger in his eyes.

"A drink, my dear? Or something more fortifying?"

Morgana shifted, her cheeks tinting rose.

"Jaenor, we should—"

"Stay," he cut in, his tone brooking no argument, the pervert lord awakening in his mood.

He reached the side table in the hall, where a decanter of aged brandy from the duchy cellars waited, pouring three generous measures into crystal goblets. The liquid gleamed amber in the low light.

He handed one to each, his fingers brushing theirs deliberately, Emmanuelle’s warm and steady, Morgana’s cool and trembling slightly.

They clinked glasses, the sound sharp in the stillness.

Emmanuelle sipped first, her throat working gracefully.

"To family," she murmured, eyes locked on his.

"Of Arkwrights."

Morgana drank more hesitantly, her gaze darting between them, but she did not pull away when Jaenor stepped closer, crowding her space with his height and heat.

The brandy burned sweet down his throat, loosening the knots of the night.

He set his glass aside and turned fully to Emmanuelle, who had not retreated.

She was the initiator always, the duchess who seized what she desired. Her free hand rose, tracing the line of his jaw, then down his neck, nails grazing skin.

"You’ve grown bold, my boy," she whispered, leaning in. Her lips found his in a kiss that started soft, testing, teasing—but ignited fast. Her tongue slipped past his teeth, brandy-laced and demanding, her body pressing flush against him.

Jaenor’s hands found her waist, pulling her curves into him.

She was no slip of a girl; Emmanuelle’s body was lush, ripe with the authority of years ruling the duchy alone. Her breasts strained against her gown, full and heavy, nipples hardening under the fabric as he deepened the kiss.

Morgana stood frozen nearby, goblet clutched tight, her breath quickening as she watched. She couldn’t process what’s happening in front of her and couldn’t even believe that they were being shameless right before her.

Emmanuelle broke the kiss with a gasp, her green eyes dark with lust.

"See, Morgana? The blood knows its own. No more shyness tonight."

Jaenor grinned, feral now, the pervert lord fully roused. His hands moved to the laces of Emmanuelle’s gown, fingers deft from memory. He tugged them free, the velvet parting like a secret revealed. The fabric pooled at her feet in a whisper of silk, leaving her bare save for a thin shift. He gripped the hem and yanked it up, over her head, tossing it aside.

There she stood, illuminated by the hall’s sconces, curvy perfection. Her skin was pale cream, marked faintly by the years: stretch marks silvering her hips like duchess decrees etched in flesh. Full breasts hung heavy, nipples dark and pebbled, begging for touch. Her waist curved inward before flaring to wide hips made for bearing heirs. And lower, a thick bush of dark curls, untamed and wild, framed the slit he knew tasted of salt and power.

Too much bushy hair, a forest guarding her core, damp already with arousal.

"Gods, Grandmother," he growled, palming one breast, thumb circling the nipple until she arched. "Look at you. Ruling the duchy by day, my whore by night."

Emmanuelle laughed low and throaty, shoving him back against the wall.

"Watch your tongue, or I’ll bind it." But her hand dipped to his breeches, freeing his cock—thick, veined, already throbbing hard, the head slick with pre-cum. She stroked him once, firm, making him hiss.

Morgana whimpered softly, still clothed, her eyes wide on the scene.

"Jaenor... this is... we can’t..."

"You can," he said, eyes locking on her.

"You will. But first, her."

He spun Emmanuelle, bending her over the side table, her heavy breasts spilling forward, ass presented—round, plush, cheeks parting to show that bushy thatch glistening. He kicked her legs wider, gripping her hips, and thrust in with one brutal stroke. She was soaked, her cunt gripping him like a velvet fist, the coarse hair scraping his shaft deliciously.

"Fuck!" Emmanuelle cried, nails digging into the wood. He pounded her relentlessly, hips slamming, balls slapping wet against her. The table rocked, goblets rattling. Her curves jiggled with each thrust—breasts swinging, ass rippling. He reached around, fingers delving into her bush, finding her clit swollen amid the curls, rubbing hard.

"Yes, my darling! Harder—claim your gran!" She bucked back, meeting him, her walls clenching.

Morgana backed against the opposite wall, hand pressed to her mouth, but her thighs rubbed together, betraying her. Jaenor watched her over Emmanuelle’s shoulder, fucking deeper, the wet sounds obscene.

"See this, Aunt? See how she takes me? Your turn next. Strip, or I’ll rip them off."

Emmanuelle came first, shuddering violently, her cunt spasming, juices soaking his cock and thighs.

"Jaenor! Gods, yes!"

He didn’t stop, rutting through her climax until she sagged, panting.

He pulled out, cock gleaming with her cream, veins pulsing.

Turning to Morgana, he stalked forward, a predator. She trembled but held her ground, shy eyes burning with want.

"Jaenor, please... I’m not like her. I—"

He silenced her with a kiss, rougher than with Emmanuelle, hands already at her robes. The witch’s garments were layered—spell-woven silk, buckles, and hidden ties. He tore at them, buttons popping, fabric shredding under his impatient strength. Her shift went next, ripped clean off, leaving her exposed.

Morgana’s body was a revelation—slimmer than Emmanuelle’s but no less womanly. Pert breasts with rosy nipples and a narrow waist flaring to hips that promised endurance. And her bush... gods, even thicker, a wild tangle of midnight curls spilling over her mound, down her inner thighs, framing puffy lips already slick. Too much bushy hair, a witch’s untamed secret, begging to be parted.

"Beautiful," he murmured, shoving her robes fully away.

Naked now, both women flanked him—Emmanuelle recovering, stroking her own breasts, and Morgana flushed and shy.