100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 738: Chapter 737 - Heading to the Capital City’s Mansion

Lucia’s crimson eyes narrowed. The demon girl, the captive, the woman whose body obeyed his commands, felt something she had not expected. Loss. The ’he-owns-me-and-he-is-leaving’ loss that was worse than captivity.

Myra’s violet eyes, the eyes of a priestess who had been defiled and remade, overflowed. The tears, falling from the corners, ran down her temples and into her hair. The ’he-is-my-god-and-he-is-abandoning-me’ despair.

He came.

The orgasm, the final one of the night-long marathon, was not triggered by the sucking or the licking. It was triggered by the sunrise. By the golden light on their faces. By the sight of five women, broken and devoted, looking up at him with eyes that held nothing but worship.

The cum, thick and white, shot from the head. The ropes, arcing downward, fell on the upturned faces. Veilera’s forehead. Berenga’s cheek. Evriana’s chin. Lucia’s grey lips. Myra’s tongue.

The women, receiving the seed, did not flinch. Did not close their eyes. They received. Accepted. The ’this-is-his-farewell-gift’ acceptance that was both blessing and curse.

The last rope, weak and thin, fell onto Myra’s tongue. She swallowed. The communion was complete.

Viktor looked down. At Evriana. The aunt. The woman who held the political power he needed.

"By the way," he said, his voice carrying the same casual tone, "I want you to send a request to the academy. For the admission proposal of me as one of the professors there. Not as a student."

Evriana’s tear-streaked face went blank. The ’did-he-just-say-professor’ confusion that cut through the grief.

"What?" she whispered. Her voice cracked. "You’re not of the age."

SMACK.

His cock, still wet, slapped her cheek. The sound, the wet flesh-on-flesh impact, was sharp. The sting, the ’do-not-question-me’ sting, made her flinch.

"Just tell the patriarch that I want it," he said. His voice was hard. Commanding. The ’this-is-not-a-request’ tone. "Make it done. Even if it means to spend a large amount of fortune. You see, I need to grow my power. And in the academy, I know some chicks that can provide that."

The word ’chicks’ was crude. Deliberately so. The ’I-am-going-to-fuck-women-at-the-academy’ declaration that was both statement and promise.

Evriana trembled. The ’he-is-leaving-and-he-is-already-planning-his-next-conquests’ realization that was somehow worse than his departure.

He slid his cock across her face. The shaft, wet with cum and saliva, left a trail on her cheek. The gesture was possessive. Final. The ’you-are-mine-and-you-will-do-what-I-say’ mark.

"I will do it," she whispered. The surrender was complete. Political. Personal. Sexual. All of it. The ’I-will-obey’ submission of a woman who had been claimed.

The market square was busy. Morning trade. Stalls. Hawkers. The smell of bread and fish and leather. The commoners, going about their lives, paid little attention to the carriages lined up near the Catorian mansion.

Five carriages. One for each woman. The horses, stamping and snorting in the morning chill. The drivers, waiting.

Viktor stood at the gate. Dressed. Clean. His black coat, buttoned. His hair, combed. His appearance, immaculate. The ’nothing-happened’ composure that was both armor and insult.

The five women stood before him. Each one, in her own way, showing the evidence of the night. Veilera, in a borrowed dress, walking carefully. Berenga, in her uniform, her posture stiff. Evriana, in her gown, her eyes still wet. Lucia, in her rags, her crimson eyes dull. Myra, in her black robe, her face pale.

They were leaving. Not with him. Away from him. The ’he-is-leaving-and-we-are-staying’ reality that each of them was processing in her own way.

Viktor opened his arms. The gesture was simple. Wide. The ’come-here’ invitation that was not a request.

They moved. All five. Toward him. The collision was soft. Five bodies, five sets of curves, five women pressing against him. His arms, wide enough, gathered them. His hands found hips. Shoulders. Hair. The embrace, the group embrace, was intimate.

He kissed Evriana’s neck. His lips found the spot below her ear. The one that made her knees buckle. He sucked. Left a mark. The ’this-is-mine’ brand that would be visible for days.

"I will come eventually," he murmured against her skin. "But you have to take care of things here. After that, all of you should come to Millbrook town."

The words, the ’come-to-me-later’ promise, made them tremble. The ’he-will-come-back’ hope that was also the ’he-expects-us-to-follow’ command.

They kissed his cheek. Each one. A line. A procession. Veilera’s lips, soft and trembling, on his left cheek. Berenga’s lips, firm and warm, on his right. Evriana’s lips, the aunt’s lips, lingering. Lucia’s lips, grey and scaled, brief. Myra’s lips, the priestess’s lips, last. The kiss, the final one, was the softest. The ’thank-you-for-destroying-me’ kiss that was not gratitude but surrender.

He waved. The gesture was casual. The ’see-you-later’ wave of a man who was not emotional about leaving five women he had fucked into submission.

He walked. To his carriage. The plain one. The one without insignia. The one that would not attract attention. He stepped inside. The door closed. The horses moved. The carriage rolled.

The five women stood at the gate. Watching. The carriage, shrinking down the road, disappeared around the corner. The sound of hooves, fading. The dust, settling.

They stood. Like women left by their men. The ’he-is-gone’ silence that was heavier than any words.

Berenga was the first to speak. The commander, the professional, the woman who processed loss through action.

"He did not even take any of us," she said. The words were quiet. The ’he-fucked-us-all-night-and-left-alone’ observation that was both fact and wound.

The others trembled. The ’we-are-not-worth-accompanying’ thought that none of them voiced but all of them felt. The ’we-are-his-but-he-does-not-need-us’ realization.

They turned. One by one. Back to the mansion. Back to the tasks. The political work. The trade routes. The academy request. The duties that he had assigned. The ’we-must-obey’ duty that was both obligation and devotion.

The gate closed behind them.

The carriage rolled for two days. Through farmland. Through forest. Through the gradual transition from rural quiet to urban noise. The capital city, the heart of the kingdom, grew on the horizon like a mountain of stone and iron.

Viktor, in the plain carriage, watched through the window. The landscape changed. The roads widened. The traffic increased. Carts, wagons, riders, pedestrians. The life of a major city, pulsing with commerce and politics and the endless machinery of empire.

The capital was not Millbrook. Not the small town with its single square and its church tent. This was the seat. The center. The place where counts and dukes and the royal family itself resided. The place where the academy, the most prestigious institution of learning and power in the kingdom, stood.

The carriage entered the city gates without incident. The plain exterior, the lack of insignia, the unremarkable appearance, drew no attention. Viktor, his face hidden by a hood, was just another traveler. Another nobody. Another face in the crowd.

The streets were wide. Paved. Clean. The buildings, three and four stories, were stone and timber. The shops, displaying goods from across the continent, were busy. The people, well-dressed and well-fed, moved with the confidence of capital residents. The ’we-are-the-center-of-the-world’ confidence that was both pride and blindness.

The buzzles. The noise. The hum of a living city. Viktor, watching through the window, absorbed it. The information. The layout. The flow. The patterns of traffic and trade and power that he would need to navigate.

The carriage turned. Down a side street. Past a row of townhouses. Past a small park. Past a fountain that was dry. The neighborhood, once affluent, had declined. The paint was peeling. The gardens were overgrown. The fountains were dry.