Chapter 270: Beautiful

It had been a hell of a day.

Two beautiful, curvy milfs in the morning, their bodies soft and yielding under his hands, leaving him spent but craving more.

Then Ameth’s bra and panties, her cool indifference only making the illicit trophies hotter.

And now Eva—sweet, uptight Eva—unraveled into a trembling, moaning mess, her pussy gripping him like a vice, her cries still ringing in his ears.

He was a pervert, no question, and he reveled in it, his cock stirring faintly at the memories as he strode through the quiet streets.

.

When he reached his house, the warm glow of lanterns spilled from the windows, the smell of hearty stew wafting through the air.

He pushed open the door, barely stepping inside before a familiar hand grabbed his ear, twisting just enough to make him wince.

"Lor!" Mira, his mother, scolded, her voice sharp but laced with exasperated affection.

Her black hair was pulled back, her apron dusted with flour, her eyes narrowing as she tugged him toward the dining table.

"Do you know what time it is? I’ve been waiting, worrying you got lost in some forest or worse!"

"Ow—Mom, I’m fine!" Lor protested, rubbing his ear as she released him, his grin sheepish but unrepentant.

He dropped his bag by the door, the faint rustle of lingerie inside making his pulse quicken for a moment.

"Got caught up helping a friend, that’s all."

Mira huffed, crossing her arms, her curvy figure filling the doorway as she fixed him with a stern look.

"Helping a friend, my foot. Sit down, dinner’s getting cold." She gestured to the table, where his father already sat, a quiet man with a kind smile, spooning stew into bowls.

Lor slid into his seat, the warmth of the room wrapping around him, the clink of cutlery and the savory aroma of the meal grounding him after the day’s chaos.

The stew was rich, the bread crusty, and he ate with enthusiasm, the flavors bursting on his tongue.

"This is amazing, Mom," he said between bites, flashing her a charming grin. "Best cook in town."

Mira snorted, setting a basket of rolls on the table, her eyes softening despite herself.

"No need to butter me up, young man. You’re still in trouble for coming home late. Tomorrow, you’re washing the clothes—every last sock." She pointed a wooden spoon at him, her tone firm but fond.

Lor groaned dramatically, slumping in his chair, though his grin betrayed his amusement.

"Fine, fine, I’ll do it," he said, finishing his stew with a contented sigh. His father chuckled quietly, shaking his head but saying little, as was his way.

As they cleared the table, Mira watched her son, her sharp eyes catching the subtle glow in his demeanor—something brighter, more alive than usual.

He was practically radiating satisfaction, his movements loose and confident, a spark in his eyes which was missing that morning.

She didn’t ask, though.

A mother’s intuition told her things were going well for him, and that was enough to make her heart swell with quiet pride.

"Don’t forget the tournament tomorrow," she reminded him, wiping her hands on her apron. "You need to be sharp."

"I remember, Mom," Lor said, standing and stretching, his shirt pulling tight across his chest. "I’ll be ready."

"Good. And take a bath before bed," she called as he grabbed his bag and headed for his room. "You smell like you’ve been rolling in the forest!"

Lor laughed, waving a hand dismissively as he climbed the stairs, his bag slung over his shoulder.

In his room, he dropped it onto the bed, the faint rustle of Ameth’s bra and panties inside making his lips curl into a perverse grin.

He flopped onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the day’s conquests—milfs in the morning, Ameth’s cold surrender, Eva’s trembling moans.

Tomorrow was the tournament, but tonight, he was king of his own twisted world, and the thought made him chuckle softly as he drifted toward sleep.

.

.

Sleep should have been an easy reprieve after the day Lor had conquered, but simple nights were a luxury he seldom claimed.

He had just drifted into that hazy softness between wakefulness and dreams when something tugged—not the blunt grab of a hand, but a subtle pull, like a thought yanked by an invisible string.

The sensation was intimate, insidious: an ebb deep in his core, a hollowing that drained his limbs of tension and fogged his mind with unwelcome lethargy.

He sat up abruptly, the mattress creaking under his weight like a sigh of protest.

The room was still, the household hushed in the deep hours of night.

Kiara.

It wasn’t a visible mark he could trace or a sigil burned into his flesh from their tangled history.

Lor pressed his palms to his temples, frustration bitter on his tongue.

They had broken up; a bit bitter words had been hurled, lines drawn in the sand of their fractured relationship.

Yet the bond clung like a shadow.

He didn’t want to go and ask Kiara to severe this bond.

There was another path.

One name surfaced in his thoughts, laced with annoyance and reluctant necessity.

Silvia.

Lor swung his legs over the bed’s edge, the cool floorboards grounding him in the dim moonlight filtering through his window.

He murmured a quick cleansing charm—a subtle weave of mana whisked away the day’s grime: sweat evaporated from his skin, his scent neutralized to something innocuous.

He pushed open the window with a small creak and he dropped into the narrow alley below, landing lightly on the packed earth.

The night air carried woodsmoke and lingering traces of evening meals—earthy, comforting scents from a town that prized practicality over grandeur.

Streets lay empty under lantern glows, windows shuttered against the chill.

Lor paused outside the small townhouse, the single light in its window spilling a warm, amber glow over the uneven cobblestones like a hesitant invitation.

It was late—close to midnight, the street had emptied out, the distant taverns reduced to muffled laughter and the occasional clink of glasses fading into the night air.

A cool breeze rustled the leaves of a nearby ivy vine climbing the wall, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked earth from earlier in the evening.

Through the thin, fogged glass panes, he caught glimpses of movement: a silhouette pacing back and forth, the graceful curve of a woman’s shadow stretching and shrinking across the threadbare curtains, as if she were wrestling with her own thoughts.

His heart thudded a little harder than he’d admit, a mix of exhaustion and that nagging pull from Kiara’s bond still lingering like a stubborn itch.

Lor took a deep breath, the chill air biting at his lungs, steeling himself against the vulnerability of showing up unannounced.

He raised his fist and knocked—three sharp raps that echoed too loudly in the silence.

Footfalls approached, irregular and quick.

The door swung open, spilling warm lamplight onto the threshold.

Silvia stood there, unprepared for company.

Her auburn hair, normally pinned up in that severe knot that screamed academy discipline, hung loose in soft waves around her shoulders, a few strands clinging to her neck where a light sheen of perspiration—or maybe just the humidity—glistened.

She wore a thin house robe of faded blue silk, draped loosely over a pale chemise that hugged her curves in a way that made Lor’s gaze flicker involuntarily before he caught himself.

The fabric was sheer enough in the light to hint at the soft swell of her breasts beneath, rising and falling with her quickened breath, and the faint outline of her nipples pressing against the material in the room’s warmth.

A subtle aroma of red wine wafted out, mingling with the herbal tang of whatever tincture she’d been brewing, and her cheeks held a faint flush that could have been from the fire or the wine... or both.

Her eyes widened in surprise, then softened with a flicker of something deeper, concern laced with a guilt that made her bite her lower lip for a split second.

"Lor? What in the gods’ names are you doing here so late?" Her voice was low.

"I didn’t have a choice," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, his tone rough with the day’s fatigue weighing on his broad shoulders.

The bond’s residual hum buzzed faintly in his veins, making his skin prickle.

"Kiara’s bond. I need it severed. Now."

She stared at him for a beat, her full lips parting to say something, but then her expression crumpled into quiet guilt, her lashes lowering to hide the regret swimming in her eyes.

She stepped aside with a graceful sway, the robe shifting against her hips. "Come in, before anyone sees you here."

He slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the space feel even smaller, more intimate.

The room enveloped him in warmth from the crackling hearth, where a small fire danced lazily, casting flickering shadows on the walls.