Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1858: Black Fang Goes All Out!

The price of victory - the pills - was real, but not one word had been spoken about what winning looked like, or losing, or who would judge it.

The first to orgasm? The first to be unable to continue? Something else?

Nothing was discussed.

Her eyes came back into focus one inch from his, and found him already watching her, warm and terrible.

"You knew," she said.

"Did I~?"

"You said nothing."

"You were the one who wanted to ’fight’ me so bad." A long, deep stroke rolled through her mid-glare. "I merely obliged. You can’t blame me."

The look she aimed at him would have opened throats in any other room. Delivered from the crest of his pace, naked, trembling, arms locked around his neck and voice in pieces, it lost a certain amount of edge in transit.

"You’re speaking as if the entire duel was an excuse from me."

"Well..." Quinlan’s grin arrived, and for the very first time, Black Fang’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. "It wasn’t me who demanded to have sex without conditions."

"Nothing changes," she managed through sheer grit. "The duel proceeds. I’ll have you admit defeat."

"Sure," he nodded at her, going back for a kiss.

"Wipe that..."

He hooked one arm under her and rose into her, unhurried and total, and the sentence lost all its staff.

And she was losing. She knew forty ways to kill the man inside her and not one way to slow him down.

Her body was being carried to a beat she had not set, toward an edge she had not chosen, and the last clock in the hall that still ran on her time was losing minutes with every single push of his manhood into her core.

Prey.

The word rose from some old, old place in her and detonated.

That was what she had become in these arms: consumed, cherished, carried.

A meal that moaned.

"I refuse this fate!"

Her pride arrived all at once, every year of it, and the woman who had never once been anyone’s anything decided, with her last unclaimed heartbeat, that she would rather die fighting than finish the night as his dinner.

Her palm hit his sternum with her full, unretouched strength, and the dawn dojo lost more heritage as Quinlan went flat, the boards under his back splitting in a spray of ancient lacquer.

*Krakk!*

The heat of the brazier leaned sideways.

It came off the coals and it did not rise; it bent toward the floor, toward her, and the shadows on the weapon racks stretched out after it.

Along her arms the serpent tattoos woke and began to move, coils winding down muscle gone taut, streaming toward her hands, and the violet of her eyes flooded outward from the pupils in rings until only slivers of white survived at the corners.

By the wall, the silk slid off one shoulder as the spectator sat up straight.

[Eternal Hunger] had come to the table.

She came down over him and pinned his wrists to the boards, exactly where the battle had started, and this time the hold was no doctrine. It was a kill-grip.

The spell poured everything it had into its keeper. Power crashed through the serpent coils into muscle and sinew, strength the cage had never released for anything less than war. She rode him at war pace, bare and blazing above him, her high ponytail snapping with the rhythm now instead of swaying, hellbent on pounding the primordial breeding machine beneath her into submission.

"Hah...! ...Nn...!" The war pace was hammering the sounds out of her now, and she disowned every single one mid-flight.

Quinlan did not counter it.

His hands turned over inside her grip, slow, unhurried, asking for nothing, and laced their fingers through hers.

Her pin became, without her permission, holding hands.

She bore down with killing weight. His thumbs brushed across her knuckles, twice, tenderly, as if she had reached for him first.

So she committed her reserves. She took his mouth.

Seal and siege, his own weapon returned to sender, the front no enemy had ever opened now flung wide from her side, and she kissed him as she had been kissed, every technique she owned now one kiss old.

The most feared woman on the continent was kissing him like a killing blow, and beneath her the man on the receiving end sighed into it, happy.

"...Perfection," he said into her mouth, with total sincerity.

Her rhythm stuttered. She resented it enormously, and attacked harder.

It made no difference.

Her assault broke over him at full power and moved him not at all. He did not strain against the pin, did not gather himself, did not so much as brace. And when she bore down to grind what was left of him into the boards, she made the same mistake twice in one night: she looked into his eyes.

They were far too honest.

"You are incredible," Quinlan said.

Her hips faltered.

"I look at you and I just can’t help but smile with pride." His voice came up at her from inside her own pin, low and warm and completely unarmored. "You hung in their chains. In agony, over a secret that kept us safe, and you gave them nothing. Not a name. Not a tear. You are far too tough."

"I told you many times...!" It came out with half its usual authority, and none by the end. "Be silent..."

"You came here to outduel a primordial in a type of combat you never experienced before. And you’re still trying to win right now. I adore that so much I can’t put it into words."

Her war pace was dying under her and she could not find the order that used to prevent such things.

On her arms the serpent coils were slowing, the violet ebbing back toward her pupils, and her grip on his pinned wrists had stopped being a pin at all and become something that held on.

"And the way you love." His eyes never left hers. "You think nobody sees it. You stood behind Ayame when it counted and hugged her in front of everyone. You pulled a child out of a slaughtered village and sharpened her into Vex the Hexblade, and she would die for you, and you would die for her, and you would sooner hang in those chains again than say one word of it aloud."

"Stop." It arrived as a pleading whimper.

"And you are so, so beautiful. I simply can’t get enough of merely looking at you. Truly. What a breathtaking sight you are, Black Fang."

Her mouth, the mouth that had held its line against torturers, began to turn downward at the corners, and she could not correct it.

Her heart was awake.

All of it, all at once, feeling more in one minute than she had allowed herself in centuries, with no training for any of it, and her hips had gone still without her noticing, and the hall was very quiet.

His hands slid free of her slackened grip, and she let them go.

They came up to her face and cupped it, both palms, thumbs resting on her cheekbones where they had rested on her knuckles, and Quinlan looked up at the woman above him with a fondness that had no bottom, and his voice dropped low and deep, for her and no one else.

"You’ve truly done your best all this time, haven’t you?"

She broke then and there.