Chapter 672 - 671 - Exhausted Beyond Anything

Chapter 672: Chapter 671 - Exhausted Beyond Anything

Clara’s breath caught. She nodded back. Tiny. Almost invisible. Her hands — trembling — reached for the drawer. She pulled out a towel. Clean. White. For the lord. For after.

But also — the nod. The acknowledgment. The ’yes-I-will-follow’ response that sealed something between them.

Mira saw.

Her green eyes — holding her newborn child, the baby cradled against her chest — tracked Clara’s movement. The towel. The nod. The way the young maid’s thighs pressed together. The wetness. The arousal.

Mira’s eyes narrowed.

The perverted MILF inside her surged. The possessiveness — the ’my-husband-mine-mine-MINE’ fire that had made her yell at the maids during Helena’s fucking — flared. Her grip on the baby tightened. Her jaw clenched.

But she didn’t act.

Because these maids were here to serve their masters. That was the understanding. The arrangement. The unspoken contract that governed the manor. The maids served. The lords took. If Viktor decided that a maid — any maid — would join the household in a more intimate capacity, that was his right. And Mira’s role was not to prevent, but to manage.

She looked down at the baby in her arms. Her baby. Her son. The child born from Viktor’s seed, grown inside her womb, birthed through a cervix he had broken.

Her smile — the first genuine, non-perverted, non-strategic smile she had worn all day — appeared.

"My baby," she whispered.

The child was small. Pink. Wrinkled. The face scrunched, the eyes closed, the tiny fists balled. The umbilical stump — still damp, freshly cut — was a small, dark mark on the round belly.

Mira held the child against her chest. Against her bare breast. The instinct — ancient, biological, deeper than any magic — guided her. The child’s mouth found her nipple. Latched. Sucked.

The milk flowed.

Warm. Sweet. Thin. The let-down reflex triggered by the infant’s suction. The child drank. Small, rhythmic pulls. The sound of swallowing — tiny, soft, almost inaudible.

Mira looked down. At the child. At the proof.

The inferiority complex surfaced.

It always did. In the quiet moments. In the moments between the power and the perverted displays and the authority and the destruction. When she was alone with herself, with her thoughts, with the memory of who she had been before Viktor.

She was not a virgin.

Unlike the others — unlike Helena, who had been untouched, a nanny whose hymen had been intact until Viktor took it; unlike Kaida, whose purity had been there too; unlike Olivia, whose saintess vows had included celibacy; unlike Bella, whose beast-kin instincts had made her choose her mate carefully — Mira had been fucked before.

She had been married. A loveless marriage. A political arrangement. A man who had used her body — her young, fertile, eager body — and left her with a son. A son who was now ten years old. A son from another man’s seed.

She had always thought — ’maybe he would not like me.’ Maybe Viktor, with his harem of beautiful women, of virgins and saintesses and demon-kin and purebloods, would look at her — the used MILF, the secondhand woman, the mother of another man’s child — and find her wanting.

But here.

In her arms.

The proof.

The child born from ’his’ seed. Inside ’her’ pussy. Grown in ’her’ womb. The baby that had been conceived when Viktor had fucked her — fucked her hard, fucked her rough, fucked her through her cervix and into her womb and planted his seed directly inside — and the seed had taken root.

’This is his,’ she thought. The child sucked. The milk flowed. ’This is mine. This is ours.’

’He wanted me. He chose me. He put this child in me.’

’Not the saintess. Not the elf. Not the demon. Me.’

’The used woman. The perverted one. The one with the tax documents and the hairy pussy and the son from another man.’

’He chose me.’

The tears came. Silent. Warm. Running down her cheeks, over the laugh lines, falling onto the baby’s head. The child didn’t notice. It drank. The milk continued to flow.

Mira looked up. At Helena. At the first wife. At the nanny who had become a lover who had become a wife who was now lying on a bed, fucked stupid, pregnant with another child of the same man.

"I will leave husband for you," Mira said. Her voice was quiet. The Voice of Dominion was absent — this was just Mira. No power. No authority. Just a woman, talking to another woman. "Make sure he gets a good night."

Helena nodded. Her brown eyes — exhausted, rolled, but present — met Mira’s green ones. The acknowledgment between wives. The ’I-will-take-care-of-him’ promise that had been made a hundred times and would be made a hundred more.

Mira walked. Through the chamber. Past the door. Into the hallway. The maids followed behind her — Petra and Sera, their faces carefully neutral, carrying clothes for their mistress. Because Mira was not an exhibitionist — not in front of a little baby. Not in the halls where anyone could see. The nakedness was for Viktor. For the battlefield. For the moments when power was the point.

Not for this. Not for the quiet. Not for the feeding.

In the hallway, the others were arriving.

Bella came first. The beast-kin — her puffed tail wagging, her flat ears twitching, her pregnant belly leading the way — burst through the corridor door. Her nose worked. She smelled the baby. Her eyes went wide.

"Oh!" she said. Her voice was bright. Excited. The beast-kin excitement — the pack instinct, the ’new-pup-in-the-pack’ response. "I become an aunt! Really?"

Kaida followed. The woman — her crimson hair braided, her pregnant belly prominent, her hand resting on the small of her back — walked with the measured, warrior’s pace of a woman who carried a child but refused to let it slow her.

"Let me see," Kaida said. Her voice was warm. The warmth — the family warmth, the ’this-is-my-child’ warmth that came from a bloodline that valued family above everything.

Olivia was behind her. The saintess — her golden hair glowing faintly, her pregnant belly round, her hands clasped in front of her — approached with the reverent, ’this-is-a-miracle’ expression of a woman whose divine authority recognized new life as sacred.

The women gathered. Around Mira. Around the baby. They looked at the small, pink, wrinkled face. At the tiny fists. At the closed eyes.

The baby chuckled.

Not cried. Chuckled.

A small, bubbling, ’I-am-happy-and-I-don’t-know-why’ sound that came from the infant’s mouth. The sound was so unexpected — so ’wrong’ for a newborn — that all five women stopped. Stared.

"Did it just..." Bella started.

"Laugh?" Kaida finished.

They looked at each other. Confused. Shocked. The baby chuckled again. The sound was warm. Happy. The sound of a child who had inherited something more than human — something that recognized, on some deep, instinctual level, that it was surrounded by women who loved it.

The maids brought clothes. Mira dressed — a loose gown, comfortable, the fabric soft against her skin. The baby was wrapped. Clean. Warm. Fed.

The women dispersed. Slowly. Reluctantly. Each one touching the baby — a finger on the cheek, a kiss on the forehead, a stroke of the tiny hand — before leaving.

Mira walked to her chambers. The baby in her arms. The maids behind her. The glow of the lamps lighting her way through the manor she had helped build.

In the lord’s chambers, Helena lay on the bed. Alone. The soaked sheets beneath her. The ruined pillows around her. Her body — the thick, pregnant, fucked-out body — was limp. Her eyes were closed.

She was exhausted. The anal destruction — the hour-long, panty-protected, cervix-battering assault — had drained her. Her ass ached. Her cunt was sore.