ebookslot Chapter 604 - 603- Evriana Ktorian
Chapter 604 - 603- Evriana Ktorian
The captain hadn’t left.She stood there, her amber eyes moving over Viktor with the slow, appreciative, entirely unsubtle hunger of a woman who had seen something she wanted and was not accustomed to wanting quietly.
"It’s nice to meet you," Viktor said.
His voice was calm, composed, the voice of a man who had stolen bloodlines and impregnated innkeepers and was now standing in cheap armor discussing pleasantries with a woman whose tits were trying to escape a strip of cloth.
The captain’s hand came up.
Her fingers found his biceps — squeezing the muscle through the armor, testing it, her thumb pressing into the gap between the plates to find the flesh beneath.
"You don’t look like you belong here," she said.
Her voice had changed. Lower. Warmer. The commanding tone of a moment ago had softened into something more personal, more intimate, the voice of a woman who was no longer assessing a soldier but evaluating a man.
"Are you really from a village?" she asked. "You look kind of..."
She didn’t finish the sentence.
She didn’t need to.
The word she was looking for was ’hot’, and the way her eyes traveled from his biceps to his jaw to the violet eyes that were currently watching her with the patient, detached amusement of a man who had been through this exact scenario more times than he could count said it clearly enough.
She pulled him.
One arm — the thick, powerful, bull-kin arm of a woman who could probably bench-press a horse — wrapped around his back and yanked him forward. His face was mashed against her chest, his helmet clanking against the armor plate on her shoulder, his nose buried in the overflowing cleavage that the strip of cloth was failing to contain.
The scent of her — oil, sweat, leather, and something deeper, muskier, the raw animal scent of a bull-kin woman in heat — filled his nostrils.
"No need to be formal," she said.
Her voice was a purr now, vibrating through her chest and into his face.
"Are you nervous, kido?"
Viktor’s mouth twitched.
Against her tits.
’What?’
"Kido?" he said, his voice muffled by flesh. "What?"
He was confused. The word sat oddly in his ears — the casual, teasing, slightly condescending diminutive that a woman uses when she has decided a man is cute and younger than her and is planning to take him somewhere private.
He could feel her nipples through the cloth.
They were stiff.
Large.
The dark, stiff peaks pressing against his cheeks through the thin fabric, the flesh around them warm and dense and soft in the way that only a bull-kin woman’s tits could be — heavy with muscle underneath, cushioned with the particular, rich fat that their bloodline produced.
’So she’s a bitch,’ he thought.
It did not take him long.
The signs were all there — the touching, the pulling, the mashing, the voice, the nipples. She was into men. Aggressively, directly, uncomplicatedly into men, the way bull-kin women tended to be — direct in their desires, physical in their approaches, and entirely uninterested in subtlety.
She leaned down.
Her lips found his ear.
Her breath was hot.
"I want you to fuck me," she whispered.
The words were delivered with the casual, blunt, entirely unembarrassed directness of a woman who treated sex the way she treated combat — as something to be initiated, pursued, and completed with efficiency.
Viktor’s mouth twitched.
He pulled back — his face emerging from her cleavage with the wet, reluctant separation of skin on skin, the cool air hitting his flushed cheeks.
"I am not into bitches," he said.
The words were flat, polite, the rejection of a man who had three women at home and a bull-kin aunt somewhere in the capital who would most likely kill him if she found out he was here.
The captain’s mouth twitched.
"Ah, damn it," she said.
The disappointment was genuine, visible, the particular frustration of a woman who did not get rejected often and was processing the experience with the grace of someone encountering a new emotion.
She released him.
Stepped back.
Her amber eyes narrowed, reassessing — the quick, military recalculation of a woman who had just been told no and was deciding whether to press the issue or file the information for later.
She filed it.
"Fall in, recruit," she said, her voice snapping back to command mode with the practiced ease of a woman who wore authority like armor. "We move when the princess gives the word."
She turned.
Her thick, bare ass swayed as she walked, the hanging cloth swinging between her thighs.
Viktor watched her go.
His cock stirred.
He closed his eyes.
’No,’ he thought. ’No more complications.’
His eyes opened.
And found a man.
Standing three rows back, his face a mask of rage — the particular, white-knuckled, jaw-clenched rage of a man who had just watched the woman he wanted press her tits into another man’s face and get rejected. His eyes were locked on Viktor with the hot, consuming hatred of someone who had found a target for everything wrong with his life.
Viktor looked at him.
The violet eyes met the furious ones.
The man looked away first.
The horn sounded.
Three horses appeared at the gate — the tall, armored warhorses of the Catorian family, their hooves striking the cobblestones with the rhythmic, martial precision of animals bred for ceremony. The riders were knights, their armor gleaming, their posture rigid.
"Salute the princess!" The shout went up from the formation, a hundred voices barking the words in rough, untrained unison.
Viktor looked at the lead horse.
At the woman seated upon it.
She was tall — even seated, the length of her legs was visible, the boots riding high on her thighs, the leather creaking. Her dress was heavy, formal, the crimson and gold of the Catorian family, the fabric draped over her body in layers that somehow managed to be both modest and revealing. The way the cloth fell, the way the wind pressed it against her, the particular, clinging fit of the fabric across her hips and between her legs — her panty line was visible. A thin, dark ridge beneath the cloth, the outline of fabric against flesh.
She was beautiful.
Strong-jawed. Dark-haired. The amber eyes of the bull-kin bloodline.
Viktor blinked.
"Aunt..." he whispered.
The word left his mouth before his brain finished processing.
’Celestia Catorian,’ he thought. ’The eldest daughter. The one who—’
He stopped.
He looked again.
At the face.
At the jaw, which was slightly narrower. At the eyes, which were a shade lighter. At the hair, which was cut shorter, curling at the ends rather than falling straight.
’Wait.’
He blinked again.
’It’s not her.’
The realization hit him with the particular, embarrassing relief of a man who had just mistaken one aunt for another. When he had fucked Celestia — in the cave, in his past life, in the violent, complicated encounter that had ended with her threatening to castrate him — she had looked different. Older. Harder. The face of a woman who had been forged in war.
This woman was younger. Softer. The face of someone who had grown up in her sister’s shadow.
"It’s not Celestia Catorian," he muttered. "It’s..."
The voice came from the horse.
"We, the empire of Eldoria!" The woman’s voice was strong, clear, projecting across the square with the trained, carrying authority of nobility. "I, as princess of the Catorian house, as the sword of this land, in place of my sister, have arrived here!"
Viktor exhaled.
’Evriana Ktorian.’