Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1849: Sisterly Intuition

The veranda answered Ayame with nothing at all.

Snow kept falling past the open doors of the dawn dojo, the brazier kept burning, and the stretch of night she had aimed her invitation at kept on being, to every mortal sense, an empty railing above an empty garden.

”Big siiis~” Ayame purred from the floor, sweeter this time, still pinned flat under the naked bulk of her lover. ”I know you’re there. Come ouuut~”

The garden declined to exist any harder.

Quinlan, for his part, waited with the patience of a mountain range. A very invested mountain range.

’Black Fang... She was watching?’ It was news to him.

Every hard inch of him lay pressed against the mark on her belly with clear opinions about the agenda, and the man attached to it all watched the veranda without the slightest hurry.

”She might-”

”No, she’s there.” Ayame said it with total certainty, wrists still lax above her head. ”Is she sulking because she got caught? How adorable.”

The garden’s silence went offended.

”Fine, have it your way~” Ayame filled her lungs. ”I suppose I’ll have to tell Vex about-”

”How did you know?”

Black Fang was standing beside the brazier. No door had opened and no board had creaked, but there she stood, arms loose, expression offering all the warmth of a sheathed knife.

”I didn’t,” Ayame grinned, delighted beyond measure. ”I deduced.”

Black Fang’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but the woman did not speak, listening attentively.

From where Ayame’s hands lay lax above her head, one finger unfolded.

”One. My overly protective sister, who was ready to sacrifice herself for us, would never leave us alone overnight in a precarious situation while in the middle of Fujimori land, surrounded by people you deeply distrust.”

Black Fang’s hands twitched.

A second finger.

”Two. You wanted to witness my sacred duel with your own eyes. I just know you did.”

”A baseless assumption,” said Black Fang, to the brazier.

”Mm-hm. And three.” The last finger rose with ceremony, and Ayame let the pause ripen, her eyes wandering down her own pinned body to where her lover’s cock throbbed, heavy and patient, against the outside of a belly it had every intention of being inside of. She wet her lips, taking her time about it. ”I knew you would have a great many professional opinions about how the duel...”

Her hips shifted a lazy centimeter under his weight.

”...ended~”

Black Fang did not respond to any of it. She was already moving.

She crossed the floor to them, unhurried, a vial drawn from her dark layers and unstoppered by the time she arrived, and she crouched at Quinlan’s side and set it against his lips.

”Drink.”

He drank. No glance at the vial, no sniff, not one heartbeat of caution for an unmarked brew tipped into him by the Venomborne Terror herself. He held her gaze and swallowed what she gave him to the last drop, and warmth chased the ache out of his ribs, the welts and drying blood Ayame’s ironwood had written across him closing up, split skin sealing along its lines.

Black Fang drew the empty vial away with the efficiency of field maintenance, seemingly entirely unaware she had just hand-fed a mounted man his medicine.

Beneath said man, Ayame lay very still, and the delight spreading over her face had nothing innocent left in it.

”Sis. You just... Like newlyweds...”

”Silence.”

Ayame’s mouth closed. The delight it closed around kept growing anyway, and she lay there in exemplary obedience while her sister stoppered the empty vial and made it vanish to wherever her tools lived, radiating enough suppressed commentary to heat the hall.

Sweetly, the moment the vial disappeared:

”Did you enjoy the show?”

”No.” Black Fang rose from her crouch. ”It was disappointing. You lacked conviction.”

”Hoh...”

”Your tempo broke every time he praised you.”

The brazier crackled through a short, loaded silence.

”...Hear that, Quin~?” Ayame sang from two meters of primordial. ”Compliments are banned weapons on a Fujimori floor, you monster. And you.” The grin swung back up to her sister, incandescent. ”You watched closely enough to chart my tempo. My stealthy, privacy-ignoring, secretly sentimental sister. Admit it, you were on the edge of your seat-”

Quinlan shoved in deep.

Ayame’s tease died mid-word, folding into a long, wavering ”...hhnnAAHN!?” that climbed two octaves and rang off the racks her ironwood had missed. Her back arched off the floorboards, and the sentence she had been savoring left this world without a will.

”Stop messing with your sister, you damned brat,” the Primordial Villain demanded.

Black Fang immediately turned to leave.

”W... wait.” Ayame’s hand shot up from the floor, fingers spread. ”Stay. Please.”

”I refuse.”

”Sister.” And then it arrived, the weapon Ayame had been saving all night, pulled hoarse and breathless out of some shameless arsenal no samurai manual had ever sanctioned. A pleading voice. ”This is the second part of my sacred duel... The dream I held since I was a teenager... The forfeit is part of the rite... Won’t my cherished elder sister... see it through to the end...?”

Black Fang stood very still, halfway between the brazier and the dark.

She looked at the door. She looked at her little sister, skewered, flushed, and deploying the word sacred with a perfectly straight face.

She knew exactly what this was. Emotional extortion, shameless and purpose-built, a pleading voice for the blade and sisterhood for the venom on it. She was being played, openly and to her face, by her naked little sister, and both of them knew it.

The Venomborne Terror crossed the hall to the window anyway.

She settled onto the sill, one knee up, and the pale moonlight coming off the snow garden claimed the whole dark shape of her.

All her life she had sat in windows the same way, face to the night, back to the room, watching the dark for whatever it intended to send her.

Tonight she sat reversed, her back to the moon, and her eyes on Ayame.

”So be it,” she said, and the words carried a weight she reserved for oaths. ”I will be your witness.”

”Thank you!” Ayame beamed at the rafters.

Then her lover began to move, and the beaming stopped being voluntary.

He set the same pace he had used to walk through her ironwood, unhurried and total. One arm hooked under the small of her back and simply relocated her, hips angled up to meet him like she weighed nothing, and the first full stroke at that angle punched a sound out of her that no dueling floor had ever hosted.

”AHN~! W... wait, that angle right away is... HYAH~!”

He didn’t wait. The man who had eaten her masterpiece strikes all night to get here intended to collect the forfeit in full, down to the last coin. His hands closed around her waist, nearly circling it, and he lifted her into each thrust, meeting himself halfway, handling her like the prize she had spent a year promising him.

*Slam. Slam. Slam.*

”You’re already... how is there MORE of... AaAHN~!”

Each plunge ended somewhere new. He was too big for mercy at this pace and neither of them wanted any, and the stretch of him burned along the exact line where punishment turned into privilege. Her heels drummed against his back, and her painted mouth hung open around sounds that had given up on vocabulary.

The parade-even second-in-command came apart in sections, exactly the way she loved to.

The composure went first, then the grammar, and what remained was a small, glowing, thoroughly manhandled woman being folded into whatever shape her lover preferred next, her painted mouth open, her eyes bright, and not one gram of her wanting rescue.

From her windowsill, Black Fang watched with the poker face of a border guard.

Being watched was doing things to Ayame that privacy never could. Every time that moonlit gaze tracked a thrust, her whole body clamped down around him like a fist, and her lover felt the pattern from the inside, followed her glassy eyes to the window, and did the math.

The next repositioning turned her to face her audience.

”Are you... Watching?” Ayame found her voice around the fourth repositioning, and put it to work between strokes, breathless commentary in flawless duel vocabulary. ”His guard is... open... constantly... ahn... a hundred openings... and it doesn’t... matter... his tempo eats... everything... nnh~! Textbook... attrition...”

”Focus on your battle,” Black Fang said.

”I am! But I’m also coaching a hopeless girl about the pleasures of being born a woman...”

”...” A certain moonlit elder sister was beginning to look far too dangerous.

”I told you already...” Quinlan hooked her knees over his arms and leaned, folding her neatly in half. Veins began bulging all over his unfathomably muscular body, charging up.

”Stop teasing your sister, damned brat!”

*SLAM!*

”HNNGHH!! Sorryyyyyyyyyyyy❤️❤️❤️”