Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 1719: True Gentleman

"What does it mean... that I’m your Beloved?"

Black Fang’s fingers pressed harder against her belly, where the warmth was spreading.

"Explain yourself."

Quinlan’s eyebrow rose.

He looked at the woman standing with her back to him, purple light still bleeding from the cracks in the stone around her, and the question sat between them with a weight that deserved a proper answer.

But first things first.

As a proper gentleman, Quinlan had things to do.

He turned to Myrasyn.

"Thank you for taking good care of me, Elf Queen."

Black Fang’s eyes narrowed dangerously. The purple spirals slowed.

Was he ignoring her predicament that clearly came to be as a result of his unique existence?

Myrasyn was still on her knees.

She hadn’t moved since he’d pulled free. Her lips were slightly parted and her tongue was making slow, absent circles against the inside of her cheek, her brow furrowed in deep concentration as she catalogued all the flavors the forbidden chronicles had failed to describe properly.

’Thick,’ she noted internally, the long points drifting at half-mast. ’Warm. Faintly sweet? No, that’s not right. More like... concentrated... Lots of mana and... Potency...’

Her tongue pressed against her palate one more time, savoring. ’I can’t help but wonder how he didn’t accidentally sire a dozen kids with such a strong-’

"Elf Queen? Is everything okay down there?"

Myrasyn’s ears snapped upright so fast they nearly jumped off her skull, and the four-thousand-year-old queen looked up at the man towering above her with the wide, frozen eyes of a child caught with her hand in a cookie jar.

She was on her knees. Between his legs. With her lips still wet. And he was smiling down at her.

"Thank you for taking good care of me," he repeated with a gentlemanly tone.

The full weight of everything that had occurred in this cell crashed into her at once, and the blush that hit her face was so violent her ears turned pink to the tips.

Then her eyes swiveled toward the corner of the cell, where the three dwarven smiths stood huddled against the wall with their faces pressed into the stone and their shoulders hunched so tightly they looked like they were trying to merge with the masonry.

They had been here the entire time.

And beyond them, near the doorway, Aelindra stood like a ghost watching the ruin of everything she’d ever known.

Her jawless face was angled toward Myrasyn, and the eyes above the mangled remnants of her lower face held the hollow stare of a woman watching her queen, her sister, kneel between the legs of the man who had just butchered her body and dreams.

Whatever was left of Aelindra’s willpower was having a very difficult time.

The sound that left the queen was not a word in any language spoken on the continent.

Her hands flew to her cheeks and her ears clamped flat so hard they disappeared into her hair, and her whole body locked up as the full scope of her audience registered.

Then she looked up at Quinlan, and her voice came out very small.

"They won’t be able to speak about this... correct?"

Although she asked a question, it sounded more like desperate pleading.

Quinlan smiled down at her. A four-thousand-year-old virgin queen who had just given you her first blowjob in a dungeon cell with an audience of three dwarven smiths was not a woman you teased, no matter how funny the situation was, and he turned his gaze on the dwarves.

The smile disappeared as if it was nothing but a cruel illusion, replaced by a glare of death that made their souls nearly leave their bodies on the spot.

"If you are ever about to utter a single word of what happened in this cell, you will conduct an unsanitized castration on yourselves with the rustiest knife you can find."

It was not just a threat.

Threats relied on the listener’s imagination to fill the gap between warning and consequence, and what Myrasyn felt rolling off Quinlan’s voice left no gap at all.

The [Subjugation] bond carried the command into their chests like a nail driven flush, and the authority behind it was so absolute that the queen’s own tips flicked from the residual pressure despite being aimed at someone else entirely.

The dwarves nodded so fast their beards blurred.

"As for your sister," Quinlan added, "I’ll leave it in your hands."

He turned toward the woman in question and ordered, "From here on out, you will obey Myrasyn’s words."

The elf queen exhaled through her nose, and a soft smile settled across her face as the last of the panic drained out of her.

"Thank you, Quinlan..."

She reached down, took hold of his pants with both hands, and pulled them back up with a care that bordered on ceremonial.

"I did what I had to." She smoothed the waistband with her palms and lifted her chin, the flush still burning but her voice steady now, composed, almost regal. "My friend was in grave danger. It is simply what good people do."

"Mhm. A most noble sacrifice, Your Majesty," Sera nodded along without looking up from her work, her expression perfectly flat.

She did not believe a single word of it.

Quinlan, however, was a gentleman.

He offered Myrasyn his hand, and the queen took it. His fingers closed around hers and he pulled her to her feet in a single smooth motion, and the small sound that caught in her throat when his grip tightened was one she would deny making for the rest of her life.

Then he reached down.

Myrasyn froze, staring down at the man squatting in front of her, her freshly freed hands hovering at her sides as Quinlan brushed the grime and dried blood from her knees with his palm, cleaning them the way he’d cleaned her skin with water earlier.

Her ears rose slowly, one after the other, and the look on her face shifted from shock into pure helplessness.

’Oh no,’ she realized distantly, watching his hand move across her knee with a gentleness that made her chest beat far faster than it had any right to. ’Myrasyn. You’re in so much trouble.’

Quinlan straightened and finally turned toward Black Fang.

She was facing him now, arms resting at her sides, the purple light in the cell dimming to a low pulse that matched her breathing.

Her expression had shifted into territory he’d rarely seen, something that didn’t belong to the woman who was either perfectly serene, almost non-present, or painting walls with blood and nothing in between.

Annoyance.

Not cold fury. Not the flat killing calm.

Just... annoyance, the kind any woman might wear after being ignored for long seconds by the man she’d just asked a serious question, and the sheer normalcy of it on the most feared woman on the continent made Quinlan grin shamelessly.

"While you were here," he began, leaning against the cell wall with his arms crossed, "I visited the Untouched Tomb in the elven heartlands. Inside, I met an ancient vampire lord named Vasilen Sangomar, who gave me a ring capable of carrying blood."

Myrasyn’s ears shot bolt upright. "The Untouched Tomb?! You entered the-"

She caught herself mid-sentence, her mouth still open, and glanced at Black Fang.

The woman’s eyes were locked on Quinlan with an intensity that made it very clear this was not the time.

Myrasyn pressed her lips together, filing away approximately four thousand questions for later.

Black Fang’s gaze sharpened. An analytical edge settled over the annoyance as he continued.

"The ring let me fulfill the class requirement for Blood Mage, but it evolved on the spot and became the class ’Bloodfather’. It lets me create unique bonds with my most trusted allies, granting them access to my power through a mark."

Her eyes moved across his face with immense patience. "Like you did with me?"

"No, not quite. It’s meant to be a proper magical ritual. The bonded takes my blood and endures a painful integration process. Then she receives a mark and various augmentations. What happened here seems to have triggered the ritual on its own. My blood in your body, alongside my sper-"

The look Black Fang gave him could have stopped a charging wyvern.

He closed his mouth.

"I felt no pain," she said.

"Yeah..." Quinlan’s grin faded. His gaze dropped an inch, and the easy confidence that he wore like a second skin dimmed.

"Even Iris felt significant agony during her bonding. Lucille theorized that women who’d been through childbirth handled the process more easily, but your case..." His voice quieted. "I think you’ve been through so much pain in your life that it was a near instantaneous process. You overcame the pain before it even had a chance."

He said it like it was a tragedy, because to him, it was.