Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 367: Doctor Anya’s Appointment

Jack took a step closer—face twisted with rage, hand rising fast, palm open, aimed straight for Mira’s cheek.

"Bitch, don’t act like I’m wronging you—"

I moved before anyone could blink.

I stepped between them—fast, deliberate—catching Jack’s wrist mid-swing. My grip was iron—unyielding—but controlled. Not enough to bruise, just enough to stop him cold.

"What are you doing?" I asked—voice low, calm, but carrying the kind of quiet threat that made the air feel heavier.

Jack’s eyes widened—shock flashing across his face before fury roared back. He tried to yank his arm free. I didn’t let him.

He shoved forward instead—chest bumping mine, face inches away.

"So you adulterous couple..." he snarled, spittle flying. "Defending your whore now? Can’t stand to see your lover get hit, right?"

The word whore landed like a physical blow. Mira flinched—hard—body jerking as if struck. A choked sob escaped her throat. Nicole whimpered louder, burying her face in her mother’s side.

I didn’t flinch.

I tightened my grip on Jack’s wrist—just enough to make him wince.

"Shut up," I said—voice flat, cold, carrying across the clearing. "You’re really wronging Mira. Here. There is nothing between her and me."

Jack laughed—bitter, ugly.

"Oh, really?" He jerked his head toward Mira. "Then why are you coming between our family? Why are you always touching her? Whispering to her? Giving her guns like some secret fucking gift? You think we’re blind?"

Mira’s voice broke through—small, shaking, but fierce.

"Jack—stop. Please. There’s nothing. He saved Bill. He saved us. That’s all."

Jack’s voice had cracked on the last word—raw, bitter, exhausted. He looked around—suddenly aware of every pair of eyes fixed on him: Lisa’s quiet shock, Paul’s grim frown, the girls frozen in place, Nicole’s tear-streaked face buried in Mira’s side, Bill staring at the ground like it might swallow him. The weight of their silent judgment hit him like a physical blow.

He stepped back—chest heaving, fists opening and closing at his sides.

"I’m going to get some air..." he muttered, voice thick with barely contained fury.

No one spoke.

Jack turned sharply—boots crunching on the dry leaves—and stalked toward the tree line without looking back. His shoulders were rigid, every step heavy with the kind of anger that has nowhere safe to go.

Bill watched him go for a long second—then, without a word to anyone, without even glancing at his mother, he turned and walked off in the opposite direction. His shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets, cheek still faintly red from Mira’s earlier slap. He disappeared into the underbrush alone.

Only Nicole stayed—clinging to Mira’s waist, small hands fisted in her shirt, whispering "Mom... Mom..." over and over like a broken record.

Mira stood there—arms wrapped so tightly around herself that her nails dug into her biceps, tears still falling silently. Her face was pale, lips trembling, eyes glassy and distant.

She looked down at Nicole—then at the scattered faces watching her with pity, confusion, and accusation.

"I want to be alone..." she whispered—voice hoarse, cracked. "Nicole... go back."

Nicole’s lip quivered. She shook her head—small, stubborn.

"Mom, please—"

"Go back," Mira repeated—gentler this time, but firmer. She knelt briefly, kissed the top of Nicole’s head, then eased her daughter’s arms away. "Please, sweetheart. Just... go back to the others. I need a minute."

Nicole hesitated—tears welling again—but Megan stepped forward gently, taking her hand.

"Come on, Nic... let’s sit by the fire."

Nicole let herself be led away—glancing back at her mother with wide, worried eyes.

Mira straightened—slowly, like every movement hurt.

Her gaze found mine across the clearing.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t need to.

The look said everything: I can’t do this right now. Not with them watching. Not with you watching.

I nodded—once, small—and stepped back.

I walked toward Angela—slow, deliberate—letting Mira see I was giving her space.

Angela reached for my arm as soon as I got close—eyes wide with concern.

"Dexter... what the hell just happened?"

I shook my head—quiet.

"Family stuff. Let her breathe."

Angela glanced toward the trees where Mira had disappeared—then back at me.

"She’s hurting."

"I know."

I gave her a small, tired smile—then stepped away again, moving to the edge of the clearing where the light was dimmer.

The afternoon sun was already sliding lower—golden light turning long, lazy shadows across the ground. Two full days had passed since everything started.

And I remembered.

Doctor Anya.

My appointment.

The fortress.

I looked around once—making sure no one was paying close attention—then slipped behind a thick stand of pines.

I activated the Magical Tool interface in my mind—sleek, glowing, godlike.

Jetpack transformation.

Power hummed through me—warm, electric. My back arched slightly as sleek, matte-black mechanical wings unfolded from hidden compartments in my spine—silent, seamless, part of me now. Thrusters flared to life with a low, almost inaudible whine.

I glanced back toward camp one last time—Mira’s figure had vanished completely into the trees, her absence like a hole in the air.

I kicked off.

The jetpack ignited—smooth, powerful—and I rose straight up through the canopy, branches whipping past, sunlight flashing across my face as I broke free into open sky.

The forest shrank beneath me—tiny figures around the fire, Jack pacing the perimeter alone, Mira still nowhere to be seen.

I banked northeast—toward the fortress.

The wind roared past my ears—cool, cleansing.

Twenty minutes later the villa came into view—sleek, modern, impossibly out of place in this wilderness. My private sanctuary.

I landed lightly on the rooftop terrace—thrusters powering down, wings folding away as smoothly as they’d appeared.

Inside, the air was cool, quiet, sterile.

I stripped off my torn clothes—dropping them in a heap—and stepped into the shower.

Hot water hit me like a punishment—scalding away dirt, fake blood, sweat, the lingering scent of Mira’s tears and arousal. I stood under the spray for a long time—head bowed, letting it pound against my shoulders, my back, my face.

When I finally stepped out—clean, fresh, hair dripping—I dressed in dark, simple clothes: black shirt, black pants, boots.

Nathalie was waiting in the living room—tall, elegant, calm as always. She looked up from her tablet as I entered.