Chapter 461: Fifty Women in Black Gear

Nicole’s eyes were enormous—pupils blown so wide they looked black.

"So... you can go back?" she asked, voice small and fragile, clinging to the one thread of hope she could find. "To our time? To before everything fell apart? Before the storms... before the hunger...?"

Angela’s smile softened—just a fraction—something almost maternal flickering behind the cruelty.

"Well... the technology still isn’t mature," she admitted, voice gentling. "The first jumps were one-way. We’re still working on stable return gates. It

might

be possible someday—maybe years, maybe decades. But honestly..."

She tightened her arms around me, pressing her cheek to mine.

"I don’t care anymore," she whispered. "Anywhere Dexter is... that’s my world. I’d rather be here—with him, with all of you—than go back to a dying planet just to watch it end again."

Lisa—standing near the entrance—didn’t offer her opinion. She simply tapped her earpiece again and spoke quietly, professionally.

"Boss... they’re all here."

We walked out of the cave together.

The night air hit us—cool, salty, carrying the distant crash of waves and the faint, acrid smell of gunpowder and blood from earlier.

And then we saw them.

Not one chopper.

Three.

Silent, matte-black, future-tech stealth helicopters—2050s design, rotors so quiet they barely stirred the leaves even as they hovered overhead. Thick ropes dropped from each belly—dozens of figures sliding down in perfect tactical formation.

All female soldiers. All in black tactical gear—plate carriers loaded with mags, helmets with night-vision mounts flipped up, suppressed rifles slung across their chests, sidearms holstered low on their thighs.

They hit the ground running—spreading out silently, creating a perfect, invisible perimeter around the cave mouth in under ten seconds.

One by one, they turned toward me—rifles lowered, helmets tilting in crisp, synchronized salute.

"Waiting for your command, Sir," their leader said—voice calm, clipped, female, carrying the faint electronic edge of a comms filter.

Fifty of them.

All women.

All mine.

I opened the world map function—holographic overlay blooming in my vision only. Drake, Jack, Bill, and their ragtag group of maybe twelve men were still coming—moving through the dense forest, unaware of the silent death waiting for them.

I looked at the soldiers.

"Cover this area from all directions," I ordered. "Some people are coming to attack me. Once they get here... capture them all. Alive. Restrained. No kills unless they force your hand."

The leader nodded once.

"Yes, Sir."

They melted into the trees—ghosts in black gear—creating an invisible net around the cave.

The helicopters lifted off again—silent as shadows—disappearing into the night sky.

I turned back to Nicole—catching her wide-eyed stare.

"What?" I asked with a low chuckle. "Don’t tell me you’re impressed."

Nicole swallowed hard—voice small, trembling.

"You... you have an army..." she whispered. "Real soldiers... helicopters... from the future..."

I shrugged—almost modest.

"Perks of being the devil," I said lightly.

Nicole’s eyes flicked to me—then away—cheeks flushing pink.

Mira watched me—quiet, thoughtful, still processing.

Camilla—still kneeling topless, massive tits streaked with dried blood—looked like she might faint from the overload.

Nicole’s voice trembled so hard it barely carried over the low hum of the cave lamp and the distant crash of waves outside.

"Can you... not hurt Dad and my brother?" she asked again—eyes huge, glassy, cheeks burning scarlet. "Please... let them go..."

She was shaking—small fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white. The words sounded like they physically hurt coming out.

I tilted my head, studying her for a long moment—then asked quietly, almost gently:

"Why?"

Nicole swallowed—blush deepening until her whole face looked fever-hot. She glanced sideways at Camilla—still kneeling topless in the drying pool of Drake’s blood, massive tits streaked red, fat Mexican ass marked and quivering—then forced her eyes back to mine.

"I... I’m willing to be your slave," she whispered—voice cracking on every syllable, tears welling again. "Like Camilla. I’ll... I’ll listen to you... do whatever you want... please just let them go..."

The cave went deathly still.

Mira’s breath caught audibly—sharp, almost pained. Her arms tightened around Nicole’s shoulders like she wanted to pull her daughter behind her and shield her from the words she’d just spoken. But she didn’t.

She just stared—at Nicole, then at me—eyes wide with shock, guilt, and something softer, more conflicted. Her cheeks flushed deep crimson, throat working as she swallowed hard. Seeing her own daughter beg like that—in front of her, in front of everyone—hit her like a physical blow.

Camilla’s head snapped up—eyes red-rimmed, fresh tears spilling onto her bare breasts. She looked at Nicole—then at me—something like horrified understanding dawning.

Nicole kept her gaze locked on me—small, trembling, but stubborn.

"Please..." she whispered again. "They’re my family... I don’t want them to die... I’ll... I’ll be good... I promise..."

Mira’s hands shook. She looked at me—really looked—eyes pleading, wet, desperate. No words. Just that raw, maternal begging stare:

Please don’t make her do this. Please don’t take my baby too.

I exhaled slowly—then shook my head.

"Okay... okay," I said quietly, voice softening. "You don’t need to do this."

Nicole blinked—tears spilling faster.

I stepped closer—gentle now—reaching out to brush a tear from her cheek with my thumb.

"I promise not to hurt your dad or your brother," I told her. "I’ll spare their lives. Anyway... you’re my girlfriend’s daughter." I glanced at Mira—a small, reassuring smile. "So you can have this privilege. No harm comes to them. Not from me."

Nicole’s shoulders sagged—relief crashing over her so hard she almost collapsed. A fresh sob escaped her—half gratitude, half leftover terror.

Mira moved before anyone could speak.

She stepped forward—fast, trembling—rose on her toes, cupped my face with both hands, and kissed me.

Right there.

In front of her daughter.

In front of Camilla.

In front of Angela and Lisa, watching from the shadows.

Soft at first—lips trembling against mine—then deeper, hungrier, tongue brushing mine in quiet, desperate surrender. Her body pressed close—breasts soft against my chest, hips brushing mine—pouring every ounce of gratitude, relief, guilt, and lingering shame into the kiss.

When she finally pulled back—cheeks flushed crimson, eyes shining with tears—she whispered against my lips:

"Thank you..."

I smiled—small, almost tender—thumb brushing her lower lip.

"It’s nothing," I murmured.

Nicole stared—mouth open, cheeks scarlet—too shocked to speak.

Camilla watched—silent, tears still falling onto her bare tits—something like awe and fear mixing in her expression.