Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Even as Feng’s distant, furious cursing echoed across the soulscape like a string of firecrackers in a thunderstorm, Quinlan’s attention was completely… elsewhere.

Serika hadn’t moved from his arms. If anything, she’d drawn closer.

Her breath was hot on his lips. Her body, tight and battle-warmed, pressed against his own with full, unconcealed hunger.

Their mouths met again.

Not softly. Not cautiously. But in starving hunger.

There was nothing restrained about it now. This kiss was raw, deep, and heady like a little flicker of flame finally given permission to burn, becoming an all-consuming inferno. Her fingers clawed into his hair, nails grazing his scalp. His hands gripped her waist, then slid boldly back down to her buttcheeks, his fingers kneading, massaging.

She let him without mounting a single ounce of resistance.

More than that, she welcomed it on instinct, even if her mind didn’t really understand what she was doing.

Her body ground forward on instinct, her heavenly feminine curves pressing into him in ways that made her half-ruined armor feel like a forgotten afterthought. She kissed him with full abandon, tongue dancing with his in a duel of desire, her breath hitching in little, primal gasps.

A soft, wet pop echoed between them as she finally pulled back, their lips parting with a loud, needy sound that betrayed just how deeply they’d fallen into the moment.

Her eyes, half-lidded and shimmering bright emerald green, locked with his.

She was breathing hard. Her spine slowly straightened.

Her fingers, those sexy, delicate, warrior-calloused, yet oh-so-tender fingers, rose to cup his face. She traced the line of his cheek with the gentlest touch, as if trying to memorize his features anew.

“This is the second time we do this…” she murmured with disbelief, voice low and still husky from the kiss.

He said nothing.

Just held her gaze.

Slowly, the haze in her eyes began to fade. Her senses returned. A flicker of confusion passed over her expression.

She blinked once, then glanced around.

“…Where’s Feng?” she asked, frowning slightly.

Quinlan’s voice was calm, dry, amused even.

“She’s grounded for misbehaving.”

Serika’s brow twitched, but before she could inquire further, her body jolted upright with a sudden intake of sharp breath.

Her head snapped to the far-off edge of the battlefield, toward where two broken figures could be seen in the distance.

Her father.

Still limbless.

Still slumped over the blood-soaked body of her sister.

A choked sound escaped Serika’s throat.

“No… no, no, no…”

Her expression contorted into one of extreme disgust and self loathing and as she turned away from Quinlan, one hand rose to her face at breakneck speed.

*Slap!*

She struck herself hard across the cheek, leaving a deep red imprint.

Then again.

Her arm rose a third, trembling.

This time around, Quinlan caught it mid-swing.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low.

Her lip quivered.

“I’m over here kissing you like some carefree woman on her honeymoon…” she whispered hoarsely, “while my sister’s body is lying just a few hundred steps away.”

Her eyes filled with tears, disbelief etched across every line of her face.

“And my father… he’s-he’s over there silently grieving-“

She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

She started trembling from head to toe, frozen between heartbreak and crippling self-loathing.

Quinlan didn’t speak.

Not yet.

The firestorm between man and woman had passed.

Now came the storm of grief.

Quinlan reached for her. Not with the swagger of a confident man, not with teasing lips or lustfully wandering hands over her body, but with purpose. With the sole desire to support this precious woman in her hour of emotional need.

His hands caught both of Serika’s wrists, fingers wrapping around her trembling arms with a grip that was firm, grounding, undeniably real.

She resisted for a moment, trying to beat herself up more so that she could be punished properly for her horrendously disrespectful acts toward her family, her arms trying to rise again, but he held her fast.

“Stop it already,” he said with a voice that was full of compassion for her horrible situation, yet of a scolding nature regarding her actions all at once.

She looked at him then.

And what she saw—what truly stole her breath away—was the utter absence of smugness, arrogance, or the fire of passion she’d come to know this man for. Gone was the cocky grin. Gone was the mischief.

In its place… was him.

The man beneath it all.

The one who had looked death in the eye and still chosen to come back to them.

His gaze was calm, steady, achingly loving as if he saw straight through her, into the maelstrom of guilt and grief she was trying to carry alone.

“You can’t blame yourself for this, Serika.”

His voice didn’t rise.

It didn’t waver.

It didn’t even echo.

It simply was, the only voice in the world, as though the elements themselves had gone still to listen.

She tried to speak, her lips parting wide open, but no words came.

No matter how hard she tried to oppose his sentiment, to voice the raw self-hatred swelling inside her, her throat refused to obey. It seized up, a knot of grief tightening until even breath became a labor.

Her chest heaved, her throat trembled.

Her wrists jerked once more in his grip, desperate, ashamed. She fought against him, not because she truly wanted to break free, but because the guilt demanded that she do. Because somewhere in her, a voice screamed that she deserved punishment, that pain would somehow atone for her moment of selfish joy.

Quinlan’s grip didn’t falter.

She twisted again. Once. Twice.

Her entire body shook with the effort, not from strength, but from the emotional storm raging beneath her skin. Her legs nearly buckled. Her vision blurred with tears.

But still… he held on.

And then he spoke again, voice low and unwavering, grounding her in the present like a solid pillar amidst a hurricane.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, eyes locking onto hers with an intensity so deep, so piercing, it stripped away her ability to hide behind shame. “That if you’d stayed focused… if you hadn’t kissed me… if you’d rushed over instead… maybe things would’ve been different.”

Her head jerked, and a strangled gasp tore from her throat because that was exactly what she’d been thinking.

Tears sprang to her eyes in full, the dam breaking.

“But you didn’t kill her. That bastard god did.” His voice remained steady, neither soft nor harsh, simply true. “She was mortally wounded on impact. You know that. I know that. Even if our first kiss hadn’t happened, she would’ve departed all the same. There was no miracle cure that could’ve healed her, especially not in our possession.”

Her knees shook again. A sob hitched in her throat.

“And if our second kiss hadn’t happened… all you could’ve done in those few short seconds,” he went on, voice a quiet anchor against the rising tide within her, “was pat your non-responsive father’s shoulder a few times.”

Her eyes squeezed shut. A tear slid down, warm and bitter, trailing onto Quinlan’s hand where he still held her wrists.

He felt it.

He let her cry, but he didn’t let her pull away.