Chapter 470: The Cuckoldery - r18

"She has only just begun," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "Let’s see how far she’ll go to honor her house."

Aryl sat frozen beside Shayla, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and reluctant fascination as her mother’s bold display unfolded. The way her hands glided over her body, the way she leaned forward with a seductive smile, teasing the man seated just a few feet away like she belonged to him.

It was surreal.

Her blush deepened, spreading down her neck while her hands gripped her dress tightly. She glanced at Vigg, but his silence offered no comfort.

Vigg’s jaw clenched tighter, his hands gripping the bed’s edge as he watched his mother kneel and tease herself before Julian—the very man who had mocked him in the great hall, who had flirted so openly with her, and now watched her like a beast circling its prey.

His possessive instincts roared. He wanted to scream. To rise. To drag Shayla away from the bed and shield Aryl with his arms.

But he didn’t move.

The Marquis was watching. Always watching.

And Vigg knew—any display of weakness now would seal his fate. Any flicker of rebellion would dishonor the family name and, perhaps worse... Shame Shayla, who moved as if she welcomed this—

wanted

this.

So he gritted his teeth harder. Swallowed the fire. Let his nails dig into the mattress while Julian sat back, relaxed and smug, devouring his family with his gaze alone.

Aryl, sensing the tightness in Vigg’s shoulders and the silent scream in his eyes, shifted toward him. Her hands, soft and trembling, settled gently on top of his clenched fists.

Vigg looked at her, and in that split second, something unspoken passed between them.

She understood.

Not the full weight, not the fury or shame—but the helplessness. The storm he was barely holding in.

And for a heartbeat, Vigg felt still. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t alone.

But peace couldn’t last for long.

Because the very next moment, the Marquis’s voice cut through the room—smooth, commanding, and impossible to disobey.

"Aryl... Go on. Join your mother."

Silence followed.

Aryl froze. Her eyes widened, lips parting, but no sound came out. Her fingers instinctively tightened around Vigg’s hands.

Vigg’s heart slammed against his ribs. He turned slowly to face the Marquis, hoping—

praying

—that the man was joking, testing her resolve.

But the look on the Marquis’s face was one of expectation. His dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as if this had all been part of some elaborate performance—and now the next act was ready.

Shayla turned slightly on the bed, her eyes softening as they met Aryl’s.

"Aryl," she said gently, her voice more mother than mistress now. "It’s all right."

But it wasn’t.

Vigg could feel every nerve in his body scream. His hand softened beneath hers, but he didn’t stop her. He couldn’t.

Aryl looked at him, then slowly turned toward Shayla. She rose to her knees—hesitant, uncertain—and inched closer to her mother.

Shayla reached out, her fingers brushing softly down her daughter’s arm, guiding her gently closer. Then she leaned in, her lips brushing Aryl’s ear as she whispered something too soft for Julian or the Marquis to catch on to.

Their hair mingled—Shayla’s wavy brown hair and Aryl’s darker strands blending as mother and daughter pressed close.

Aryl’s blush deepened, her body tensing, but she didn’t pull away. Her lips parted slightly, and when her eyes flicked to Julian’s, there was something new in them—

not just fear... but anticipation

.

Julian tilted his head, intrigued. He couldn’t hear what had been said, but the shift in Aryl’s posture was clear. She was... opening.

He raised a brow, his interest sharpening.

Beside him, the Marquis swirled his wine slowly in the glass, the torchlight catching the red liquid like blood. He took a long sip, satisfied.

"Beautiful," he murmured again, like a man savoring a masterpiece mid-creation.

Julian’s voice came next, low and teasing. "Are you coaching her, Lady Ravenswood?" he asked. "Or simply sharing your own secrets?"

Shayla turned her head slowly, looking over her shoulder at him with a calm, sensual smile.

"Both," she answered.

Shayla’s hand slipped from Aryl’s arm to her waist, drawing her daughter gently into her side. The closeness was electric—bodies barely touching, yet the air between them felt charged with something unspoken and deeply provocative.

She whispered again—this time directly against Aryl’s ear, lips brushing her skin with every syllable. Whatever she said made Aryl’s breath hitch, her cheeks flooding even deeper with color.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Shayla turned her head and pressed a soft kiss just beneath Aryl’s jaw.

Julian’s lips parted slightly, his breath caught in his throat.

Aryl didn’t recoil.

Instead, guided by Shayla’s hand and gaze, she turned her body to face the throne—to face him. Her white gown shifted with the movement, slipping off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin and the soft slope of her collarbone.

Shayla’s fingers danced up Aryl’s side, skimming the fabric of her gown as if testing how easily it might come undone. Then she glanced at Julian again, her voice low and silken.

"She’s shy," Shayla said, "but eager to learn."

Aryl’s eyes flicked up, meeting Julian’s with nervous intensity. Then—almost like she didn’t recognize herself—she mirrored her mother’s earlier movements. Her hand lifted slowly, running down her own thigh, fingertips curling against the hem of her gown, lifting it ever so slightly.

Julian leaned forward, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

Shayla leaned into Aryl once more, kissing her cheek gently before letting her lips trail near her mouth—hovering, but not quite touching. Their faces lingered there, breath mingling.

Julian’s voice broke the silence—low and commanding.

"Don’t be shy now... Show me."

Shayla turned to Aryl, eyes warm but insistent. "Let him see what we’ve kept hidden."

Aryl, trembling slightly, let the gown slip lower—first revealing a bare shoulder, then more. Shayla moved behind her, hands on her waist, helping and encouraging. The two women moved in harmony, a performance born of blood, submission, and slow-burning desire.

Julian’s breath deepened, his eyes darkening with hunger.