Shayla moved behind her, hands on her waist, helping and encouraging. The two women moved in harmony, a performance born of blood, submission, and slow-burning desire. Julian’s breath deepened, his eyes darkening with hunger.
As Aryl’s gown slipped lower, Vigg sat frozen—his entire body locked in place.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Not from Aryl. Not from Shayla. And not from Julian, whose eyes burned with desire. The man sat on the throne like a god demanding offerings, watching his sister undress, watching his family submit.
Then Aryl turned—just slightly—and her gaze met his.
For a second, Vigg thought she might stop. That maybe she would come to her senses.
But instead, her lips parted… And she smiled.
Vigg’s heart slammed against his ribs. His hands clenched the sheets again, his knuckles white where they gripped the bed, jaw locked so tight it hurt. His breathing was shallow, ragged—as though each breath took effort to pull through the weight pressing down on his chest.
Aryl, half-nude now under the torchlight, stood barely a foot from him. The white gown had slipped from her shoulders, caught only at her elbows, revealing the delicate skin of her breasts and the graceful line of her collarbone.
But it was her eyes that wounded him.
It was not pleading, not ashamed, but… burning. Something new had formed behind her gaze. Something that scared him more than anything.
Acceptance.
She had accepted this. Wanted it.
Aryl, however, didn’t flinch. She didn’t cover herself. Her lips parted slightly, breath shaking, and in that moment, she saw him… truly saw him.
Saw the way his jaw tensed.
Saw how his hands dug into the silk sheets, how his anger mixed with his helplessness.
His eyes burned—not with anger, but pleading.
Aryl… Please… Don’t, it whispered.
Don’t let them do this to you.
Don’t let them take you from me.
Don’t become this.
She saw all of it. He knew she did.
But then…
Her fingers moved again—soft, slow, lifting the gown a little higher on her thigh as if in response to the pain in his eyes.
She turned her gaze away.
From him.
And faced Julian.
Vigg’s entire body weakened. His vision blurred for a moment, not from tears—but from disbelief.
How?
How could she look at him like that—know what he felt—and still go on?
The rejection wasn’t spoken, but it echoed louder than any scream. She had chosen not to stop.
The bed creaked softly as Aryl moved toward Shayla, presenting her body in offering.
Shayla’s hand caressed along her waist as she planted a soft kiss on her daughter’s bare shoulder, whispering something again.
And Vigg sat frozen.
His body was locked in place by shame and humiliation, the slow realization that he couldn’t stop any of it. That they wanted him to see.
In front, Julian leaned slightly to the side, his gaze flicking to shocked Vigg.
No words. Just a look.
Not mocking. Not cruel.
Worse.
Excited.
That faint smile that curved his lips said it all:
You’re still here.
You haven’t moved.
You’re going to watch her become mine.
Shayla’s fingers curled around the neckline of Aryl’s gown, and slowly, she pulled it down.
The soft fabric gave way without resistance, slipping from Aryl’s shoulders like falling petals—revealing the tender curve of her chest… And then her breasts.
They rose with each sharp breath, her nipples already erect from anticipation. Her eyes snapped closed, and when she opened them again, they were locked with Julian’s.
Julian’s cock twitched in his pants, the pressure growing unbearable. His fingers curled around the arms of the chair, drinking in the sight that was alluringly presented before him.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” The Marquis murmured, nudging Julian with a smirk.
Julian’s lips curved in a slow, wicked grin.
“They sure are,” he said, eyes still fixed on Aryl’s breasts.
Aryl flushed deeper, her gaze flickering—timid but still watching.
Then Julian shifted his gaze—from daughter to mother.
“But, Lady Shayla…” he purred, voice thick with desire, “I’m sure yours are equally pretty.”
The words landed like a challenge, slicing through the air.
Shayla didn’t blink. She met his eyes with calm, sultry confidence and let a faint smile curl her lips.
Her hand, still resting lightly at Aryl’s waist, moved up—not to her daughter this time, but to herself.
She cupped her own breast through the red lace, thumb circling slowly over her nipple as her eyes locked with Julian’s.
Her bra was already unhooked, and now, at last, Shayla gave herself permission to release the fragile lace that had held her captive.
Her massive breasts came into full view, and Julian’s eyes instantly locked onto them.
Beside her, Aryl rose as well, the thin fabric of her gown falling further. They stood side by side—mother and daughter, equal in beauty but different in fire.
Julian’s breath hitched as his eyes roamed over them, dark hunger flaring alive.
The marquis’s smile deepened, eyes gleaming with approval.
The night was far from over.
Shayla’s eyes locked onto Julian’s, a slow, mischievous smile curling her lips. She brought her hands up, cupping her breasts and giving them a firm squeeze.
“So, Your Grace,” she purred, her voice dripping with sweet honey, “you said you wanted someone like me earlier… Is this what you had in mind?”
Her gaze held his, daring him to answer—inviting him to step deeper into the game she was playing.
“I sure was, Lady Shayla,” Julian replied, his voice low and heavy. His eyes never left her hands, the way they played with her breasts, her nipples. “And well… it seems you’ve brought someone like that to me after all.”
His gaze drifted to Aryl, lingering on her bare chest, the way her breathing hitched under his hungry eyes.
Julian leaned back slightly in the chair, his cock straining his pants.
“You truly are a generous woman,” he murmured, “offering both the fruit… and the tree it grew from.”
Shayla chuckled softly, one hand slipping from her breast to rest gently on Aryl’s back.
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