Chapter 823 - 822- A Nightmare of Pain

Chapter 823: Chapter 822- A Nightmare of Pain

The butler stood in the hallway. Stanley. Old. Gray-haired. The man who had served the family for fifteen years. The man who had poured Johana’s tea and tucked her into bed and told her stories when her mother was away.

His face, in the candlelight, was wrong. The usual warmth was gone. The smile, the grandfatherly smile that had always been there, was absent. His eyes, hard and flat, looked at Mireille the way a butcher looked at livestock.

"You are wounded, my lady," he said. His voice was flat. The warmth, the servility, the deference. All gone. Replaced by something cold. Final.

"Stanley." Mireille’s voice was tight. The healing potion had closed the wound, but the poison’s effects lingered. Her hand, still at her side, trembled. "The mission. The information I collected. The Latvia files. They were..."

"Compromised," Stanley said. "I know. I told them."

The word. ’Them.’ The word that changed everything. The word that transformed the butler from servant to traitor.

Mireille’s eyes widened. The realization, sudden and devastating, hit her like a blade. Her hand went to her belt. To the knife she always carried. The sheath was empty. The knife, lost in the mission. She was unarmed. Wounded. Poisoned, despite the healing potion. Betrayed.

"You," she whispered. The word carried the weight of fifteen years of trust, shattered.

Stanley raised his hand. Slapped her.

The sound cracked through the entrance hall. Sharp. Loud. Louder than the thunder. Mireille’s head snapped to the side. Her body, weakened, staggered. Her cheek, where the hand had landed, reddened. Her eyes, watering from the impact, went wide.

Behind the balustrade, Johana watched. Her small hands, gripping the stone, were white. Her mouth, covered by both palms, was sealed. The scream that wanted to come out was trapped behind her teeth. Her body, small and trembling, was frozen.

’Mother. Mother. What is happening. What is happening. What is happening.’

The butler stepped aside.

Three men entered. Through the open door, through the rain. They wore masks. Simple, white, featureless. The kind worn at executions. Their clothes were dark. Their boots, heavy, splashed through the puddles on the marble floor.

The first man, tall and broad, looked at Mireille. His eyes, behind the mask, swept over her body. Over the torn latex. Over the exposed skin. Over the wound, freshly healed but still raw. Over her breasts, visible through the shredded suit. Over her hips, the curve of her ass, the line of her thighs.

"Well, well," he said. His voice was deep. Rough. The voice of a man who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. "The great Mireille. The famous information collector. The woman who knows everything."

He walked toward her. Slowly. The pace of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to go.

"It is a conspiracy," Mireille said. Her voice was steady. Despite the betrayal, despite the wound, despite the three masked men approaching her, her voice was the voice of a professional. "The nearby noble house. The Latvia information. You are working for them."

"Smart," the tall man said. "But not smart enough. You should not have flown too high, Mireille. You should not have gone deeper into the royal family’s affairs."

He reached her. His hand, large and calloused, grabbed her chin. Tilted her face. Examined her the way a man examined a horse he was considering purchasing.

"She is pretty," the second man said. His voice was younger. Lighter. The voice of a man who found violence entertaining. "For an old woman."

"Old?" The tall man laughed. "She is in her prime. Look at this body. The latex. The muscles. She is a fine piece."

He released her chin. His hand went to her latex suit. Grabbed the torn edge. Pulled. The suit, already damaged, gave way. The tear extended. From her hip to her ribs, the latex split. More skin was exposed. The curve of her waist. The softness of her belly. The edge of her panties, black lace, visible beneath the suit.

Mireille grabbed his wrist. Her hand, strong despite the weakness, squeezed. The bones in his wrist ground together.

He punched her.

The blow hit her stomach. Her body doubled over. The air left her lungs. Her grip on his wrist released. She fell to her knees. The marble, cold and wet, pressed against her skin.

"Should not have fought," the tall man said. He grabbed her hair. Pulled her head back. Her neck, long and muscled, was exposed. Her face, tilted upward, showed the first signs of fear. "You should not have gone deeper into the royal family. Now we are going to go deeper inside of you."

The implication, crude and direct, hung in the air. Mireille’s eyes, pink and gray, went wide. The fear, genuine and raw, flickered behind the professional mask.

"You cannot," she said. Her voice, despite the fear, was firm. "I am under the protection of..."

"Nobody." The tall man laughed. "Your butler sold you out. Your intelligence network is compromised. Your contacts are dead or scattered. You have nobody."

He released her hair. His hands went to her suit. Both hands. Grabbed the latex. Pulled. The suit, torn and weakened, ripped. The sound was loud. Wet. The material splitting, the pieces falling away. Her body, exposed, was revealed.

Her breasts, heavy and firm, fell free. The nipples, dark pink in the cold air, stiffened. Her belly, soft despite her athletic build, was crossed by thin scars. Her panties, black lace, were visible. Her bra, matching, was visible through the remaining shreds of latex.

The third man, silent until now, stepped forward. His hand went to her bra. Grabbed the center clasp. Pulled. The fabric snapped. Her breasts, freed, swung. Heavy. Full. The flesh, pale and marked with faint combat scars, was on display.

"Lovely," the third man said. His voice was quiet. Appreciative. "The elasticity of her body. Even after all these years. Even after the wounds and the fighting. She is still..."

"A bitch," the tall man finished. "A bitch who flew too high."

He grabbed her panties. Pulled them down. The lace, sliding over her hips, past her thighs, caught at her knees. Her pussy, hairy and trimmed, was exposed. The lips, full and pink, were visible. Her ass, round and muscular, was bare.

He slapped her ass.

The sound cracked through the hall. Her cheek, round and firm, ripened. Red. The handprint, visible and sharp, darkened.

She fell. Forward. On her hands and knees. The position, bent and exposed, presented her ass and pussy to the three men. Her breasts, hanging, swung beneath her.

The tall man undressed. His coat, his shirt, his trousers. Removed with the casual efficiency of a man who had done this before. His body, scarred and muscular, was revealed. His cock, half-hard, hung between his legs. Thick. Veined. The head, dark and swollen, emerged from the foreskin.

He grabbed her hips. Positioned himself behind her. His cock, hardening, pressed against her pussy.

"Let us see how deep we can go," he said.

He thrust.

Mireille screamed. The sound, raw and primal, echoed through the entrance hall. It bounced off the marble, off the stone, off the high ceiling. Her body, impaled, jerked forward. Her breasts swung. Her hands, on the marble, scraped. Her nails, short and practical, left white marks on the dark stone.

Pah! Pah! Pah!