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

Chapter 698: Chapter 698- The Guests of Another Kingdom

She was standing. Beside the bed. Her hair was down— the dark waves falling past her waist. She wore a nightgown. White. Cotton. Simple. The fabric was thin— the candlelight showed the outline of her body beneath it. The swell of her breasts. The narrowing of her waist. The curve of her hips. The darkness of her nipples through the cloth.

She looked at the king. At the two men behind him. Her brown eyes went wide.

"Your Majesty," she said. Her voice was soft. Gentle. The voice she always used. But there was a tremor in it. A vibration. The sound of a string pulled taut. "Who... who are these...?"

The king walked to her.

He stood before her. He looked down at her. He was a foot taller. His shadow fell over her. His hand went to her chin. He tilted her face. He looked at her the way a man looks at a thing he owns.

"They are here to praise your beauty," the king said.

His voice was casual. Conversational. The voice of a man who is showing off a possession. A painting. A horse. A woman.

Viviana trembled.

"Thank... thank you," she whispered. Her voice was barely audible. The words came from her throat like birds from a cage— hesitant, frightened, uncertain of the air outside.

The king looked at the broader of the two black men.

"She is the one I told you about," the king said. He gestured at Viviana. The way one gestures at a statue in a gallery. "The queen of my harem. The most beautiful woman in my kingdom."

The black man walked forward.

He was tall. Taller than the king. His shoulders were broad. His chest was bare beneath the animal-skin cloak. The muscles were visible— thick, corded, the skin dark and smooth. His face was hard. His eyes were dark. His teeth were white when he smiled.

His hand went to Viviana’s face.

His large, dark hand. On her pale, delicate cheek. The contrast was stark— dark on light, rough on smooth, large on small. He held her face. He turned it. Left. Right. He examined her the way a merchant examines a horse.

"She is beautiful indeed," he said. His voice was deep. Accented. The words were shaped differently— the vowels rounder, the consonants harder. The voice of a man who spoke a different language and who had learned this one as a tool. "Very beautiful."

Viviana was confused.

She covered her face. Her hands went up— instinctively, the gesture of a woman who is being looked at by a stranger and who does not understand why. Her palms pressed against her cheeks. Her fingers hid her blush.

The king’s face changed.

"What are you doing?" he said. His voice was sharp. The warmth was gone. The casualness was gone. What remained was the voice of a man who has been embarrassed in front of guests.

Viviana trembled.

"Forgive me," she whispered. Her hands dropped. Her face was exposed again— the blush, the fear, the confusion. "It is... strange. I... I do not understand..."

She looked at the black man. At his dark face. At his white smile. At his hard eyes. He chuckled. The sound was low. Deep. The chuckle of a man who is amused by a woman’s discomfort.

"I am from the nation of the Tribal Barbarians," he said. His hand was still on her face. His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I am King M’baku. And you— you are the most beautiful woman I have seen in this kingdom."

His hand went down.

From her face to her neck. His fingers traced the slim column. He felt her pulse. The rapid, panicked pulse of a woman who is afraid. His hand continued. Down. To her collarbone. To the hollow of her throat. To the neckline of her nightgown.

His fingers found the fabric.

He pulled.

The cotton stretched. The neckline gaped. Her cleavage was exposed— the pale skin between her breasts, the swell of the mounds, the inner curve. The nightgown held— barely. The fabric was at the limit. The breasts were almost free.

Viviana covered herself.

Her hands went to her chest. She grabbed the fabric. She pulled it closed. Her eyes went to the king. Wide. Wet. Frightened.

"My king!" she said. Her voice was higher now. The softness was cracking. The tremor was growing. "What is the meaning of this?!"

The king slapped her.

PAH—

The sound was sharp. Loud. The crack of flesh on flesh. Her head snapped. Her cheek went red. Her lip split. Blood— copper, bright— welled on her lower lip.

"Shut the hell up," the king said. His voice was ice. Not loud. Not shouted. Ice. The kind of voice that freezes the air. "How dare you yell at me in front of my delegates?"

Viviana trembled.

Her hands went to her cheek. Her eyes filled. The tears came— not slowly, not gently, but immediately, the tears of a woman who has been struck and who does not understand why. They ran down her cheeks. They ran over the red handprint. They dripped from her chin.

The girl in the closet covered her mouth.

Her small hand pressed against her lips. Her green eyes were wide. So wide. She was trembling. She did not understand. She did not understand why her father had hit her mother. She did not understand who the men were. She did not understand what was happening.

She watched.

The broader black man— King M’baku— laughed. The sound was deep. Rich. The laugh of a man who finds the situation entertaining.

"Come now, king," he said. He looked at the king. "You are simply slapping the woman? In front of us? She is delicate. She is frightened. Be gentle."

He smiled. The white teeth gleamed.

"Dummies can slap their asses, right?" he said.

The third man moved.

He was the other black man. Slimmer than M’baku. Taller. His face was angular. His eyes were sharp. He had not spoken yet. He moved behind Viviana. His hand went to her ass. Through the nightgown. He grabbed. His large hand covered the cheek. He squeezed. His fingers sank into the flesh.

PAH—

He slapped.

The sound was different from the king’s. Not sharp. Full. The sound of a hand on soft flesh through thin fabric. Viviana’s body jerked. Her ass rippled beneath the cotton. The cheek bounced. The flesh was full— round, soft, the fabric stretching and releasing.

She cried out.

"Please—!" she gasped. Her hands went to her ass. She turned. She backed away. She hit the bed. The edge of the mattress hit the back of her knees. She stumbled. She caught herself. "My king, please— what is the meaning of—"

"Serve us," M’baku said.

He walked to the table. He sat on the bed. The other black man sat beside him. They looked at the wine. At the glasses. At the woman.

"Pour," M’baku said.

Viviana moved.

Her hands were shaking. She took the decanter. She poured. The wine was red. Dark. It filled the glass. Her hand trembled. The wine sloshed. A drop hit the table. She flinched. She looked at the king. He was standing by the wall. His arms were crossed. His face was blank. He watched.

She served the wine.

She handed the first glass to M’baku. Their fingers touched. His dark hand against her pale fingers. He held. He did not let go. He looked at her hand. At her wrist. At the slimness of it. At the delicate bones beneath the skin.

"Very delicate," he said. His voice was low. Appreciative. The voice of a man examining a fine piece of craftsmanship. "Like a bird’s bones. You could break her with one hand."