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

Chapter 696: Chapter 696 - A Political Royal Family’s Reality

The voice came from beside them.

Small. Quiet. Timid. The voice of a girl who has just woken up and who is looking at a naked woman on top of a naked man and who does not know where to look.

Latina’s face flushed.

Instantly. Completely. The brown skin went dark— the blush visible despite the pigment. She bounced. Off Raven. Off his cock. The shaft emerged— wet, bloody, seed-slick. She rolled. Behind him. She hid. Behind his back. Her hands went to her body— covering her breasts, covering her pussy, covering everything.

"You should have told me if someone was looking!" she hissed. Her voice was high. Embarrassed. The voice of a woman who has just been caught fucking and who is mortified.

Raven chuckled.

The sound was warm. Deep. The laugh of a man who finds everything amusing. He looked at the princess. At her green eyes— wide, wet, confused. At her emerald hair— tangled, dirty. At her face— pale, thin, hungry. At her torn dress. At her bare foot.

The princess was trembling.

She had been watching. She had woken up. She had seen Latina— the woman who had been groaning and grabbing her legs and fucking Raven and calling him "thank you" and "I love you" and who had been using her feet on his body and his cock and who had been bouncing and laughing and moaning. She had seen all of it. And she did not know what to do with the information.

Her belly growled.

Again. Loud. The sound of a stomach that has had one piece of chicken and one bowl of soup and that is not satisfied. The sound of a body that is still hungry. That is always hungry. That will be hungry until it is fed.

Raven looked at her belly.

He looked at her face. He smiled.

He offered food.

More chicken. More bread. He held it out. The golden skin glistened. The steam rose. The scent crossed the clearing. The princess’s mouth watered. Her eyes went to the food. Her hands twitched.

She ate.

She took the chicken. She bit. She chewed. She swallowed. The warmth spread. The hunger eased. She ate the bread. She drank the soup. She ate everything he gave her.

Raven chuckled.

"You know, right?" he said. His voice was low. Warm. The voice of a man who is about to say something that the listener does not want to hear. "In exchange for food, what I take."

The princess stopped.

The chicken was in her mouth. The bread was in her hand. The soup was in her stomach. She looked at him. At his face. At his black eyes. At the calm. At the smile. At the naked body. At the cock— still hard, still wet, still twelve inches. At Latina— hiding behind him, her face flushed, her body covered in bite marks and seed and juice.

She threw the food.

The chicken hit the grass. The bread bounced. Her hands went to her body— covering her chest, covering her stomach, covering her legs. Her eyes went wide. Her face went white.

"What?" she gasped. The word was a choke. A cough. The word of a girl who has just understood the transaction and who is horrified. "What?"

She was trembling.

Her body was shaking. Her emerald hair was swinging. Her green eyes were filling— not with hunger. With tears. The tears of a girl who is anout to turn eighteen, who is a princess, who has been chased by demons and attacked by bears and who is now sitting in the mud being told that the food she just ate has a price and the price is her body.

She looked at Latina.

At the woman. At the naked woman. At the body— the bite marks, the seed, the blood, the swollen pussy, the flushed face. At the woman who had paid the price. Who had given her body for the food. Who had fucked the man and eaten the chicken and who had said "thank you" and "I love you" and who had meant it.

Latina looked at the princess.

Her brown eyes were soft. Warm. The eyes of a woman who has been where the princess is now and who knows exactly what she is feeling. She did not cover herself. She did not hide. She looked at the princess with the calm, steady gaze of a woman who has accepted the transaction.

"You have to pay, princess," Latina said. Her voice was gentle. Quiet. Not cruel. Not mocking. The voice of a woman stating a fact. A truth. The way one says "the sun rises in the east." "You have to pay."

’Huh?’

Suddenly her mind went into a sudden trance; a flashback memory resurfaced as if something that happened a few seconds ago in the most vivid possibility she ever saw.

The memory came.

She was small.

Six years old. Her hair was emerald even then— the deep, rich green that caught every light, that made nurses stop and stare, that made her mother smile and touch it and say "you have my hair, little one." Her eyes were green. Her skin was pale. Her face was round. Soft. The face of a child who has never known hunger, or cold, or fear.

Her mother was beautiful.

Not the beauty of queens. Not the sharp, polished, regal beauty of women born to thrones. Her mother’s beauty was different. Softer. Warmer. The beauty of a woman who had been born in a small house to a small family with no name and no title and no gold. The beauty of a commoner who had caught a king’s eye and who had been lifted— gently, suddenly, irrevocably— from the dirt to the silk.

Her name was Viviana.

She was tall. Slim. Her hair was dark— not the emerald of her daughter, but a deep, rich brown that fell past her waist in waves. Her skin was fair. Milk-white. The skin of a woman who burns in summer and glows in winter. Her face was heart-shaped. Her eyes were brown— warm, soft, the eyes of a woman who has never learned to be cruel. Her lips were full. Pink. Her chin was small. Her neck was slim.

Her body was delicate.

Not thin— delicate. The difference was everything. Thin implied lack. Delicate implied intention. Her body was built for gentleness. Her shoulders were narrow. Her collarbones were visible— the ridges sharp beneath pale skin. Her breasts were full— not large, not small, the perfect middle, the mounds firm, the nipples small, pink, stiff in the cold. Her waist was narrow. Her hips were wide— wider than expected for such a slim frame, the curve pronounced, the flesh full. Her ass was round. Her thighs were slim. Her legs were long.

She was a favorite of the king.

Not the queen— the king had a queen. A real queen. Born of noble blood, married for alliance, seated on a throne in a palace on the hill. Viviana was not the queen. She was a concubine. A favorite. A woman who had been noticed and chosen and installed in a wing of the palace and who had been given gifts— silk, jewelry, servants, a household— and who had been grateful for all of it.

She was happy.

She thought they were a happy family.

The king visited. Not every night. Not even every week. But he visited. He came to the wing. He sat on the chair. He drank the wine. He touched Viviana’s hair. He looked at the little girl— the princess, his daughter, the product of his eye and her beauty— and he smiled.

"You have grown wise, my daughter," the king said.