Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion

Chapter 693: Chapter 693- Take me back your Virginity

She looked up. At the circle. At the light. At the symbols. The light was warm. It was on her face. It was on her body. It was on her leg— on the stump. The light concentrated there. On the scar. On the bandage. On the place where her leg ended and the air began.

She felt it.

The itch. The tingle. The sensation of something growing. Something that should not be growing. Something that had been gone for three years and that was now— the flesh was moving. The skin was stretching. The bone was extending. The muscle was forming. The tendon was attaching. The vein was connecting.

Her leg was growing back.

She felt the knee. The joint forming— the cartilage, the ligaments, the patella. She felt the calf— the muscle, the bone, the skin covering it. She felt the ankle— the joint, the tendons, the bones of the foot. She felt the toes— five of them, forming one by one, the nails growing, the pads forming.

She looked down.

Her leg was there.

Not a stump. Not a bandage. Not a scar. A leg. A full leg. A complete leg. From the hip to the thigh to the knee to the calf to the ankle to the foot to the toes. The skin was smooth. Brown. The same brown as her other leg. The muscle was firm. The skin was supple. The toes were slim. The nails were clean.

She touched it.

Her hand went to her thigh. She felt the flesh. The warm, living, real flesh. Not a scar. Not a prosthetic. Not a bandage. Flesh. Muscle. Bone. Skin. She moved her toes. They moved. All five. She moved her ankle. It moved. She bent her knee. It bent. She straightened the leg. It straightened.

She was shocked.

Her brown eyes were wide. Her mouth was open. Her face was blank— the blankness of a person whose mind has been overwhelmed by something that it cannot process. The shock was too deep for words. Too deep for screaming. Too deep for anything except the raw, primal, animal experience of touching a part of your body that has been gone for three years and finding it there.

Tears formed.

Not slowly. Not gently. They came like a flood. They welled in her eyes— filling, overflowing, running down her cheeks. They were not tears of sadness. Not tears of pain. They were tears of something that she had no name for. Joy was too small. Relief was too small. Gratitude was too small. This was something that encompassed all of those and went beyond them— the tears of a woman who has been told that she will never walk again and who is now moving her toes.

"How is my body healed?" she whispered. Her voice was shaking. Breaking. The voice of a woman who is afraid that this is a dream and that she will wake up and the leg will be gone again. "Even the Holy Church people told me it was impossible. They said— they said the nerve was destroyed. They said the bone was shattered. They said—"

She looked at her leg.

The long leg. The complete leg. The leg that had been gone and was now here. She felt her knee. The joint. The skin. The muscle. It was strange. The sensation of having something back that you had learned to live without. The weight of it. The warmth of it. The way it moved when she told it to move. The way the toes curled when she curled them. The way the ankle rotated when she rotated it.

She sat up.

She looked at Raven. At his face. At his black eyes. At the calm. At the magic circle that was fading— the blue light dimming, the symbols dissolving, the ring shrinking until it was gone.

She looked at her pussy.

The swollen, red, leaking pussy. The hair matted with blood and seed. The lips stretched. The clit engorged. But— she looked closer. The opening was closing. The swelling was fading. The blood was stopping. The flesh was healing. The hymen—

Her hymen was back.

A thin membrane. Pink. Intact. Closing the entrance to her vagina. The thing that he had torn. The thing that had bled. The thing that had been taken. It was back. As if it had never been broken. As if it had never been torn. As if the last hour had not happened.

His hand arrived.

Over her pussy. He placed his finger there. On the membrane. On the healed hymen. He pressed. Not hard. Testing. Assessing.

"A bit tight," he said. His finger found the hair. The dark, thick hair that covered her mound. He tugged. Gently. "And this hair. I had cleaned it before. It grew back."

Latina winced.

Her hips twitched. The sensation— his finger on her newly-healed pussy, on the hymen that should not be there, on the hair that should not have grown— was overwhelming. The nerve endings were new. Fresh. Sensitive. Every touch was amplified. Every pressure was magnified.

"I healed your virginity too," he said. His voice was quiet. The voice of a man stating a fact. "I want to take it back."

Latina looked at him.

Her brown eyes were wet. Her face was wet. Her tears were still falling— the tears of the healed leg, the tears of the healed body, the tears of the impossible thing that had just happened. She looked at him. At his black eyes. At the calm. At the smile— small, thin, warm.

She started to cry.

Not the crying of before. Not the screaming, the sobbing, the broken wailing of a woman being fucked against her will. This was different. This was the crying of a woman who has been given something that she thought was gone forever and who does not know how to process the gratitude. The crying of a woman whose body is whole for the first time in three years and who is looking at the man who made it whole and who is saying—

"You pervert," she sobbed. The words were broken. Wet. Spoken through tears. She reached for him. Her arms went around his neck. Her face pressed against his chest. Her body— whole, complete, both legs, both arms, every part of her— pressed against his. "You pervert. You— you healed me. You gave me back my leg. You— thank you. Thank you."

Her hands were on his back. Her fingers were digging into his muscle. Her tears were on his skin. Her body was shaking— not from cold, not from fear, from the overwhelming, all-consuming, impossible gratitude of a woman who has been made whole.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Raven chuckled.

His hand went to her shoulder. He patted. The way one pats a child who is crying. Gently. Firmly. The gesture of a man who is not uncomfortable with emotion but who does not take it too seriously.

"Do not have to be grateful," he said. His voice was warm. Amused. "I want that virginity back. Which I took."

She cried harder.

Her face was buried in his chest. Her tears were soaking his skin. Her body was pressed against his. Both legs. Both thighs. Both calves. Both feet. All of her. Against all of him.

She pulled back.