Chapter 12
At those words, the mouth that had been tending to the old man’s length disappeared—and Duke Brandt, who had been squirming in reluctant pleasure, lifted his head in shock. His son met his wide-eyed stare with an easy smile.
“Ah. I should mention now, Father—it was I who took my stepmother’s virginity.”
“…!”
“She must have hated the thought of giving her first time to an old groom. She spread her legs for me right away, without even knowing who I was.”
Duke Brandt’s jaw clenched at his son’s mocking tone, the very way he spoke had changed. Franz turned from his father, who thrashed in even greater fury than before, and addressed the retainer standing rigidly by the bed.
“Give him the medicine.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And see him off on his final journey.”
The retainer followed his master’s orders. They forced Duke Brandt’s mouth open, made him swallow the clear liquid, pinned his struggling body down, and stripped him of his robe in one swift motion.
The lamplight flickered over his lean, tanned body.
“I would have liked to let him spend his last moments in my stepmother’s hole, but if something went wrong, that would be rather inconvenient.”
“Ugh! Khah!”
“Heen is well versed in the arts of the bedchamber. He should meet a satisfying end.”
The woman—smooth-shaven and hairless—lowered herself gently onto Duke Brandt’s length. As the duke thrashed and screamed muffled protests, she pressed down on his chest and began to move.
Franz watched with satisfaction, then turned to Brunhilde.
“Well then, shall we resume our own coupling, Princess?”
“You—from the very beginning…”
“Not ‘you.’ You should call me ‘stepson,’ shouldn’t you, Stepmother?”
Smiling, the man lifted the princess onto the bed. He laid her head sideways, positioning her so she could see straight ahead—to where his subordinate was raping his father—and whispered.
“Lying beneath your husband’s bastard son, moaning, while watching your new husband take another woman—this situation suits a lewd princess rather well, don’t you think?”
“How could you do something so perverse…!”
“A foolish question. Did the princess take me for a softheaded fool who would hand the family over to a suckling half-brother?”
The man who had been savoring his father’s groans pulled her close and spread her open. The golden orb lying by the pillow rolled slightly toward them and stopped. He fitted his tip against her entrance and pushed deep into her slick, seed-filled passage.
Savoring the way her flesh clung and fluttered around him, he pressed kisses to her lean spine.
“You spread your legs for me because you didn’t want the old groom, didn’t you?”
“Hngh—ngh…!”
“Isn’t it better for you, Princess, to side with a young man who’ll pleasure your holes every night, rather than an old man who lusts after a bride young enough to be his daughter?”
He covered her b****t and began to thrust. Brunhilde felt herself clenching involuntarily, her eyes crumpling as if she might weep. Just four feet away, on the other bed, she could clearly see the young woman riding her old husband.
The duke’s gasps grew more ragged beneath. She watched her husband writhe in ecstasy—even as she herself writhed beneath her new stepson, rocking her hips.
So this is where fate has placed her.
If she had not dared to twist destiny, would things have turned out differently?
Even as her powerless grief crumbled like sand, her body drowned in pleasure. Her inner walls, on the verge of climax, clenched as if screaming. Her depths felt molten. Unable to withstand the stimulation scraping against her walls, pressing into that deep spot, she finally opened the tight seal she had been holding.
Water gushed. A hazy warmth spread through her passage—pleasure that reached even her curling toes. Mocking herself for submitting to pleasure, she clutched the sheets.
Duke Brandt’s body twitching beneath the strange woman’s hips—unable to resist the mix of ecstasy and torment—was slowly growing still. The eyes that had been fixed on her like a demon’s gradually lost their fire. Thick saliva dribbled from his slack mouth.
The woman, who had been rapidly draining the old stallion’s strength, began to slow. And at the same time, the c**k filling Brunhilde’s depths released for the second time.
Once again, he drew her lower abdomen in and lifted her hips higher. After steadying his breath, he asked,
“My father?”
“He’s dead.”
“A fitting end, I suppose, for a man famed for conquering countless women.”
Their conversation felt distant, as though echoing through a dream.
Pinned in a degrading position, Brunhilde lifted her gaze to the face of the man who had been her husband—whom she had spoken to for the first time only today.
Eyes that no longer blinked. Lips parted and still. A chest that no longer rose or fell.
Suddenly, she was reminded of her mother’s corpse—those cold lips, those lifeless fingertips.
An indescribable sorrow surged over her like a wave.
Just then, the new son wrapped an arm around her midsection. Pressing his lips close to her neatly shaped ear, he whispered with feigned tenderness,
“How does it feel, watching the death of a husband you never even shared a bed with… stepmother?”
“Why… why did you go about this in such a way?”
She tried to sound calm, but the end of her voice trembled faintly.
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