CHAPTER 140: ANOTHER SUITER

"You hate the guys who betrayed him don’t you," Isolde stated. "You want them dead for what they did to him. So, do I. Even though it was because of them that I got to meet Oliver, but it’s still unpleasant to know that the guys who made him suffer are having fun. I want to punish them. So, what do you say."

Amy’s expression hardened. The jealousy was momentarily replaced by the cold rage she felt earlier. "Yes. I want them to pay."

"Though I agreed to team up with you, don’t think I’m giving up," she declared, her face flushing pink but her eyes determined. "Just because she’s... fast... doesn’t mean I’ve lost. I will take him from you. Remember that."

Isolde laughed—a rich, throaty sound that vibrated in the cool night air. "Oh, I like her. She has spirit. Seraphine was right, Master. You really do collect them."

Oliver groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Can we please focus on the dungeon and not my love life?"

"No," both women said in unison.

Oliver sighed, defeated.

"Go back to your room, Amy," Oliver said wearily. "Before Daniel notices you’re gone. We leave for the labyrinth at dawn."

Amy nodded. She stood on her tiptoes and, before Oliver could react, planted a quick, soft kiss on his cheek—right near the edge of his mask.

"Goodnight, Oliver," she whispered.

She shot a defiant glare at Isolde, turned, and ran back down the garden stairs, disappearing into the shadows of the guest palace wing.

Isolde watched her go, swirling the last dregs of her wine.

"She’s bold," Isolde mused. "For a Saintess."

She turned to Oliver, her eyes darkening. She grabbed his collar and pulled him down, her lips brushing his ear.

"But don’t get any ideas, Master," she whispered, her voice dropping to a husky growl. "You still have a debt to pay for lying about me. ’Adventurers who saved you’? Really?"

She bit his earlobe gently, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Come inside. You have a lot of explaining to do. And the night is still young."

Oliver swallowed hard.

"Yes, ma’am."

****

Inside the master suite, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of lavender and Isolde’s perfume.

Seraphine was standing by the window, but the moment the balcony doors clicked shut, her eyes flashed once.

"Privacy Mode: Initiated. Sensory input deactivated. Entering Standby."

She marched to the corner, sat in a chair, and slumped forward, powering down instantly.

Oliver didn’t even have time to be grateful for the robot’s tact before he was shoved backward. He stumbled, the back of his knees hitting the edge of the massive mattress, and he fell onto the soft bedding.

Before he could sit up, Isolde was there.

She crawled over him, the silk robe slipping down her shoulders, revealing the pale, perfect curve of her skin in the dim lamplight. Her crimson eyes glowed with a predatory hunger as she straddled his waist, pinning him down with surprising strength.

"So," she purred, her hands sliding up his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles through his shirt. "You tried to paint me as some random adventurer you picked up? A side character in your little story?"

Oliver’s breath hitched. The weight of her body on his was intoxicating. "I... I had to protect your identity, Isolde. You know that."

"Excuses," she murmured, leaning down until her face was inches from his. Her silver hair cascaded around them like a curtain, shutting out the rest of the world. "You just didn’t want your little childhood friend to know who really owns you."

She leaned back, her fingers deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt. One by one, they popped open, exposing his scarred chest to the cool air and her hot gaze.

"But she knows now," Isolde whispered, dragging her nails lightly down his sternum, making his abdominal muscles twitch. "She knows you belong to the Ancient Princess. To the monster you woke up in the dark."

She shrugged the robe off completely, letting it pool around her waist.

"I saved you, Oliver," she said, her voice fierce and possessive. ". I carved runes into your skin. Do you know what it means, don’t you. I marked you mine."

She leaned down and kissed him—hard. It wasn’t a soft, tentative kiss like Amy’s. It was demanding, fiery, and deep, claiming his mouth with an intensity that left him dizzy.

When she pulled back, breathless, her lips were swollen and red.

"Show me," she commanded, her hand moving lower. "Show me that you remember who saved you."

Oliver reached up, tangling his hands in her silver hair, pulling her down to meet him.

"I remember," he groaned. "I always remember."

Isolde’s mouth crashed against his, hungry and demanding, her tongue invading without preamble. Oliver met her fire with his own, hands fisting in her silver hair, yanking just hard enough to make her gasp into the kiss. She ground down on his lap, feeling his cock already hardening through his trousers, a thick bulge pressing against her bare pussy.

"You taste like lies," she murmured against his lips, biting his bottom one sharply. "Sweet, filthy lies."

Oliver groaned, his hands sliding down to grip her ass—firm, round cheeks filling his palms perfectly. He squeezed hard, pulling her tighter against his growing erection. "Then punish me for it."

Her laugh was low and wicked. She pushed him flat on his back, shirt splayed open, and straddled his chest, her dripping cunt hovering inches from his face. The scent of her arousal—musky, wet, intoxicating—hit him like a drug.

"Gladly," she purred.

She lowered herself slowly, teasing, until her slick folds brushed his lips. Oliver didn’t wait—he grabbed her thighs, yanked her down, and buried his tongue inside her. Isolde moaned sharply, hips bucking as he licked deep, tasting her sweetness, his nose grinding against her clit.

"Fuck—yes," she hissed, riding his face without mercy. Her juices smeared across his chin, her walls clenching around his probing tongue. She reached back, fingers fumbling with his belt, yanking it open with one hand.

His cock sprang free—thick, veined, already leaking pre-cum from the tip. Isolde wrapped her hand around it, stroking roughly from base to head, thumb circling the slit to spread the slickness.

"You’ve been holding out on me," she growled, pumping him faster. "Weeks without this. I’m going to make you beg."

Oliver thrust his tongue harder, adding two fingers to stretch her open, curling them against that spot that made her thighs tremble. "Try me," he mumbled into her pussy.

She came first—hard and fast—walls spasming around his fingers, flooding his mouth with her release. Isolde cried out, grinding down until he could barely breathe, her ass clenching in his hands.

Panting, she slid down his body, shoving his trousers off completely. Her hand never left his cock—stroking, squeezing, keeping him on the edge.

"My turn," she said, voice husky.

She took him in her mouth in one deep swallow—throat relaxing to take every inch, lips sealing tight around the base. Oliver bucked up with a curse, hands fisting the sheets. She bobbed sloppy and fast, tongue swirling the underside, hand pumping what her mouth couldn’t reach. Saliva dripped down his balls, her free hand rolling them gently, teasing his taint.

"Fuuuck—Isolde—"

She popped off with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting her swollen lips to his glistening shaft. "Not yet. I want you inside me first."

She straddled him reverse, guiding his cock to her entrance—still dripping from her orgasm. She sank down slow, inch by burning inch, her tight pussy stretching obscene around his girth.

"Shiiit—so fucking tight," Oliver growled, hands slapping her ass hard—leaving red handprints on the pale skin.

Isolde moaned, starting to ride him—ass bouncing hypnotic as she slammed down, walls gripping like a vice. "Harder—fuck me like you mean it!"

He thrust up savage, meeting her every drop, balls slapping her clit. She leaned forward, bracing on his thighs, tits bouncing free as she pinched her own nipples.

"Switch—now," she demanded breathlessly.

Oliver flipped her mid-motion—strength surging—pinning her on her back. He hooked her legs over his shoulders and drove in missionary, pounding deep and relentless.

"Yes—breed me—fill this pussy!" Isolde screamed, nails raking his back bloody.

He railed her senseless, the bed creaking in protest, her juices squirting with every brutal thrust. She came again—walls milking him rhythmic, flooding the sheets.

Oliver lost it—pulling out at the last second, hot ropes erupting across her tits and stomach, painting her in thick white streaks.

They collapsed, wrecked and sated, bodies tangled in the ruined sheets.

Isolde traced lazy circles on his chest, smirking up at him.

"Debt paid?" he panted.

She laughed softly. "For tonight."

She rolled on top of him again, straddling his hips, his spent cock already twitching back to life against her thigh.

"But the night’s young," she whispered, leaning down to nip his collarbone. "And I have weeks to make up for."

Her hand slid between them, fingers wrapping around him, stroking slow and firm. Oliver groaned, hips bucking involuntarily.

"Round two?" she asked, voice dripping honey and sin.

He flipped her beneath him in answer, claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss.

The palace walls were thick.

No one heard the cries that followed.