Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 392: Angela’s Calculated Ridicule

When Mira reached us, she stopped, looking between Angela and me with eyes that held nothing but exhaustion and quiet devastation.

Angela slipped an arm around her waist. "Come on, sister."

Mira nodded once, numbly.

I fell into step on her other side—close enough that my arm brushed hers, close enough that she could feel my warmth without me needing to touch her yet.

She didn’t speak as we walked. She simply leaned a fraction toward me, then toward Angela, as though she couldn’t decide which side felt safer. Her breathing was shallow, her shoulders still trembling faintly.

Inside my chest, the dark satisfaction uncoiled wider than ever.

She had been stripped of everything tonight—husband, children, reputation, dignity. Every person who should have protected her had turned away. Every word of love or loyalty had been replaced with venom.

And now she walked between the only two people who hadn’t condemned her.

Angela, who trusted me without question.

And me, the man who had orchestrated the perfect fall. Lisa was following behind.

We slipped away from the tense clearing where everything had exploded, footsteps muffled by fallen leaves and pine needles. The night air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of resin and damp earth.

No one spoke at first—Mira walked between Angela and me, head down, arms wrapped tightly around herself as if holding her pieces together. Lisa trailed a few steps behind, silent but watchful.

After what felt like an eternity of quiet trudging, the trees thinned into a small, almost perfectly circular glade.

Soft grass carpeted the ground like velvet under moonlight; ancient oaks and firs ringed it like silent sentinels, their branches interlocking overhead to form a natural dome.

It felt secluded, almost sacred—far enough from the house that Jack’s rage couldn’t reach us yet, close enough that we could still hear the distant rustle of wind through the canopy.

I dropped the small bundle of gear we’d grabbed in the scramble. "Here. We rest."

Without waiting for agreement, I knelt and began gathering dry twigs, branches, and larger logs scattered at the edge of the clearing.

My hands moved with practiced efficiency—stacking kindling in a tight teepee, tucking wisps of dry moss beneath as tinder.

A flick of my lighter, a breath to coax the flame, and soon orange tongues licked upward, crackling hungrily. Warmth bloomed outward, pushing back the chill that had settled into our bones. Sparks drifted lazily toward the stars like tiny fireflies.

I sat back on my heels and glanced at Mira.

She hadn’t moved since we arrived. She stood frozen near the fire’s edge, staring into the flames with vacant eyes.

The flickering light played across her face, illuminating the angry red handprint still stark against her cheek—a perfect five-fingered brand from Jack’s palm.

The skin around it looked swollen, hot, and the edges were already purpling toward a bruise. She hadn’t cried again, but her lashes were clumped with dried tears, and her lips were pressed into a thin, trembling line.

I turned to Lisa. "Water bottle."

She rummaged in her pack without a word and handed it over. I unscrewed the cap, then pressed the cool plastic into Mira’s limp hand.

"Here," I said softly. "Wash your face. Get that off you."

Mira stared down at the bottle as though it were foreign. Slowly, her gaze lifted to mine—wide, wounded, searching. She shook her head once, small and stubborn.

"No... It’s a waste of water. We might need it later."

Irritation flickered through me, but I masked it with a low, commanding tone—the one I knew worked on her when she was fraying.

"Just do what I tell you, woman. Why don’t you ever listen?"

Before she could protest again, I took the bottle back, poured a generous stream into my cupped palm, and leaned in. My fingers—gentle now—tilted her chin up.

I let the water trickle over the inflamed mark, then used the heel of my hand to smooth it across her cheek in slow, careful strokes.

The cool liquid ran in rivulets down her jaw, dripping onto the collar of her coat. As my skin made full contact, I channeled a subtle pulse of Eternal Vitality—warm, golden energy flowing from my fingertips into her flesh like liquid sunlight.

The burning eased instantly. The handprint faded before our eyes: angry crimson softening to pink, then vanishing entirely, leaving only smooth, unmarred skin glowing faintly in the firelight.

Mira blinked, startled. She touched her own cheek tentatively, as if expecting phantom pain.

I kept my voice quiet, intimate. "Better now? Or is it still hurting?"

She wiped at the fresh tears that had welled up—different this time, relief instead of despair. "No... I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore." Her voice was small, almost childlike. "Thank you... I..."

I cut her off gently, shaking my head. "It’s all my fault." I let guilt color the words, heavy and sincere on the surface. "I should have explained better to your husband. I let this misunderstanding fester, let him think the worst. Seeing you hurt like this... I feel so damn bad."

Mira shook her head fiercely, dark hair swinging. "No. It’s not your fault."

Angela, who had been lounging against a tree trunk, watching the exchange with hooded eyes, let out a derisive huff.

"Hmph. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s that pathetic husband of yours." Her voice dripped mockery, sharp enough to cut.

"He didn’t even let you finish a sentence. Just flew into a rage, slapped you in front of the kids like some rabid animal. Didn’t care who saw, didn’t care what it did to them—or to you. Worse than a beast. At least beasts protect their own."

Mira went very still. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks upward. She stared at the ground, shoulders curling inward as Angela’s words sank in.

Angela pushed off the tree and sauntered closer, hips swaying with deliberate grace. She crouched beside Mira, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, and dropped her voice to something almost sisterly—yet laced with poison.

"It’s not your fault, sweetie. You don’t have to carry all this guilt and sadness just because he accused you. If you keep acting like this—head down, apologizing for existing—doesn’t that just prove his point? Doesn’t it scream that you have something to hide? That maybe he’s right to be suspicious?"

Mira’s breath hitched. She looked up slowly, eyes glassy. "Yeah... I didn’t do anything wrong. Why should I be punished? Why should I feel guilty for... for nothing?"

Angela’s lips curved into a slow, satisfied smile. While Mira’s gaze was fixed on the fire, Angela flicked her eyes toward me—lowering her lashes in that deliberately slutty way she knew I liked.

A quick wink, playful and conspiratorial, as if to say: See? I’m doing the work for you. Softening her up. Handing you this broken little beauty on a silver platter.

I held her gaze for a beat, letting one corner of my mouth lift in silent acknowledgment. Angela’s help was perfect—viciously effective. She knew exactly how to twist the knife of doubt until Mira’s loyalty to Jack frayed completely.

Inside, the dark laughter uncoiled again, warmer now, almost affectionate.

Every word Angela fed her was another crack in the foundation. Every tear Mira shed pushed her closer to the edge. Soon she’d fall—right into my waiting arms.

And when she did, she’d be grateful. Needy. Mine.

The fire crackled on, oblivious, as the night deepened around us.