Chapter 642: The Lactating Queen

"Sister..." she whispered, her voice cracking. "His name is Jack. He’s my boyfriend."

I could feel the weight of her desperation pressing into me, her body coiled like a spring ready to snap. Then, without warning, she lunged at Freya, her arms wrapping around her sister’s waist with a ferocity that bordered on violence. The fabric of Freya’s dress—some slippery, dark satin—ripped slightly under Emily’s grip, the sound like a whispered secret.

"Jack," Emily gasped, her cheek still pressed against Freya’s shoulder, "Meet Freya. My elder sister."

Freya didn’t move at first. She just stood there, her body a statue of controlled elegance, her hands resting lightly on Emily’s back. Then, slowly, she turned her head—just enough for her gaze to slide over me like a blade. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes, the kind that promised secrets and sins in equal measure. Her lips, painted a deep, bruised red, parted just slightly as she exhaled.

"So this is the man who’s been keeping my little sister out of trouble?" Her voice was smoke and honey, low and amused. "Or in it?"

I stepped forward, my pulse thrumming in my throat. "Hello, Sister Freya."

The words felt inadequate. Stupid. Because Freya wasn’t just looking at me—she was dissecting me. Her gaze dragged down my body, slow and deliberate, before flicking back up to meet my eyes. A challenge. A test.

"Hello, Jack," she purred. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached out and tucked a loose strand of Emily’s hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing the shell of Emily’s ear in a gesture that was somehow both tender and possessive. "He’s..." she paused, her lips curling, "quite handsome, isn’t he?"

Emily’s face burned. "Sister—"

"I need your help," she blurted out, her voice raw. "This time, it’s serious."

Freya’s eyebrows arched, her expression shifting from amusement to something sharper. "Oh, Emily." She sighed, stepping back and gesturing toward the open door. "What now?" Her eyes flicked to me again, lingering.

Emily’s grip on my hand tightened, her nails digging into my skin. "Inside. Please."

The villa was a study in contrasts—dark wood and plush velvet, the scent of sandalwood and something richer, something female. A half-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table, the deep red liquid catching the light like blood. Freya moved through the space like she owned it—because she did.

Every step was deliberate, her hips swaying just enough to make the satin of her dress cling to the curves of her ass, the fabric stretching taut over the heavy swell of her belly.

Emily perched on the edge of the couch, her knees pressed together, her hands twisting in her lap. She started talking before Freya even sat down, the words spilling out of her in a rushed, desperate torrent. "I met Victor years ago. He seemed perfect at first—charming, attentive. So I married him."

"But then he started... controlling things. My phone. My money. Where I went. Who do I see?" Her voice cracked. "He’s not just possessive, Freya. He’s dangerous."

Freya listened, her fingers tracing idle circles over the armrest of her chair. "And?"

"And Jack helped me escape." Emily’s hand found mine again, her grip bordering on painful. "We’re leaving the country. Russia. We have fake passports, enough cash to disappear—"

"You always did have a flair for the dramatic," Freya murmured. Then, abruptly, she leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her cleavage spilling forward.

The neckline of her dress had slipped, the fabric barely containing the heavy weight of her breasts. Her nipples—dark, thick, erect—pressed against the satin, the material so thin I could see the faint outline of her areolas. "And what do you get out of this, Jack?" she asked, her gaze locking onto mine. "A damsel in distress to rescue? Or is it the thrill of running?"

I swallowed. "I care about Emily."

Freya’s laugh was a low, throaty sound. "How noble." She sat back, her fingers drifting down to rest on her belly, rubbing slow, possessive circles over the taut skin. "You can stay. Both of you. As long as you need."

Emily exhaled, her shoulders sagging. "Thank you, sister. Thank you—"

Then her eyes dropped.

To Freya’s stomach.

The way the dress clung to the roundness of her belly, the fabric stretched so thin it was nearly translucent. The way Freya’s hands moved over herself—possessive, hungry.

"You’re—" Emily’s voice was a whisper. "You’re pregnant."

Freya didn’t look up. She just kept rubbing her belly, her touch slow, almost lewd. "Mmm."

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Emily’s voice rose, sharp with betrayal. "And—who’s the father?"

Freya’s smile was a slow, dangerous thing. "I am."

Silence.

Emily blinked. "What?"

Freya finally looked up, her eyes dark with amusement. "You heard me, little sister." She shifted, the movement making her dress ride up slightly, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs. "I got tired of waiting for a man who was worthy of me. So I took matters into my own hands."

Emily’s face paled. "You—you what?"

Freya’s fingers trailed lower, her touch feather-light over the curve of her belly. "There’s a company. Discreet. Expensive. They implant the embryo—you choose the gender, the genetics, the traits." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "No man needed. No mess."

Emily’s mouth opened. Closed. "That’s—that’s not possible."

"Eight months," Freya murmured, her hand sliding up to cup the underside of her breast, her thumb brushing over her nipple through the fabric. The movement was absentminded, obscene. "One more, and you’ll be an aunt."

I couldn’t look away.

Not from the way her fingers teased herself. Not from the way her dress clung to her body, the satin so thin I could see the shadow of her areola, the dark peak of her nipple—thick, swollen, almost painful—hard beneath the fabric, the wetness of her touch darkening the material where she’d rolled it between her fingers.

Freya noticed.

Of course, she noticed.

Her lips curled, her dark eyes gleaming with something feral, her fingers still resting on the swollen mound of her belly, her other hand idly tracing the inner curve of her thigh—just inches from where the dress clung to her soaked lips.

And then—

"Sister, that’s great." Emily’s voice was too bright, too sharp, cutting through the haze of my lust like a blade.

She stood up—abruptly, her sofa scraping against the floor—stepping between me and Freya, blocking my view. Her body was tensed, her shoulders rigid, but I didn’t miss the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers twitched at her sides.

"I’m going to be an aunt soon," she said, her voice straining to sound normal, but there was a tremor in it, a fragile edge that betrayed her.