Chapter 40 Verr #2
“You’re not trying to be him,” she says after a moment, her voice thoughtful rather than probing.
“No.”
“You’re not trying to prove anything either.”
“No.”
She studies me briefly, then nods once, the motion small but decisive.
“Good,” she says. “Because that would’ve been a problem.”
“I’m aware.”
We step out onto the balcony overlooking the lower terraces, the space opening outward again as the estate stretches below in layered structure, each section revealing the early stages of change that will take time to fully settle into place.
From this height, the adjustments are clearer—the redistribution of labor, the subtle shifts in flow and structure, the beginning of something that is not yet complete, but no longer uncertain.
Lyria rests her arms against the stone railing, her weight settling into it as she studies the expanse below.
“You’ve got a mess,” she says.
“Yes.”
“But it’s fixable.”
“Yes.”
She turns her head slightly, her gaze settling on me with quiet certainty.
“You’re going to need help.”
“I know.”
Her brow lifts faintly.
“Good answer.”
I step beside her, resting my hands against the railing, the cool stone grounding beneath my palms as I look out over what lies ahead, not as something inherited or imposed, but as something that will take shape through deliberate choice.
“You’ll be part of that,” I say.
She does not respond immediately, her expression shifting as she considers the weight of what I’ve said.
“Not as your shadow,” she says.
“No.”
“Not as a symbol.”
“No.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
“Then what?”
I meet her eyes.
“As my partner.”
The word settles fully, not light, not tentative, but grounded in something that does not require reinforcement.
She exhales slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing as the alignment settles into place.
“Alright,” she says.
The wind shifts slightly, carrying the scent of the gardens upward once more, and as I look out over the estate, the weight of what it is—and what it will become—no longer feels like something I was shaped into or forced to carry.
It feels like something I have chosen, something I will continue to shape with intention rather than reaction.
“I’m not him,” I say quietly.
Lyria huffs softly beside me, the sound carrying just enough edge to cut through anything heavier.
“No shit.”
A small breath leaves me, lighter than anything that came before it, and I allow it without resistance.
“And you’re not what he made you either,” she adds.
I nod once.
“No,” I say.
And this time, there is nothing in me that questions it.
Our eyes meet, and the conversation stills.
I tuck a curly strand of golden red behind her ear, baring her pale neck.
When I move in, she eagerly raises her lips to meet my own.
This kiss isn’t just about claiming her.
It means so much more. It’s an affirmation of a bond that transcends class, race, and time itself.
I slide my arms around her, left hand landing in the small of her back. My fingers brush the slope of her exquisitely shaped bottom. A surge of desire arcs through me, quickening my blood and whetting my appetite for more--much more.
When I press her to me tighter, she molds herself into me like she’s custom made to fit. I can smell her potent arousal, my nostrils flaring as I soak it in. The aerial tea is an impetus for me to kiss harder, longer. Deeper.
I pull away, but only so I can take her hand and lead her to my quarters. No one, servant or dark elf, dares to look twice at us. Good. Because I may not be like Maltos but that does not mean I will suffer their judgement.
Once inside my chambers, I lead her to the bed and hook my finger into the thin strap of her silken dress. Slowly, I peel away the fabric, baring her magnificent skin. My cock stiffens at the sight of her creamy, red-specked bosom, the pink nipples growing stiff themselves.
I pull her in and latch onto one with my mouth.
She gasps, holding my head to her chest, fingers running through my hair.
I test her reactions, suckling harder, then softer, using my tongue to manipulate her trapped, slick flesh.
The firmness hardens to a peak as my hands slide around to squeeze her bottom.
“That feels good,” she gasps between heavy pants. I can feel her heartbeat against my face as I envelope more of her breast into my mouth.
I splay her nether cheeks wide, sliding a finger through her warm and wonderful pussy from behind. It comes away wet, and my cock practically demands that I impale her.
But I do not. There are many ways to demonstrate self control. I will use my self control to make her feel like the most important woman in Protheka--because to me, she is.
I guide her until she sits on the down-stuffed mattress. She looks at me, eyes glassy with desire, chest heaving with pants as she sits upon the silk. I slide out of my own garments efficiently, but not harried or hastily.
“What are you doing?” she whispers as I kneel on the floor before her and put my hands on her thighs.
“I told you, one day I would spend an entire evening exploring every inch of you, body and soul,” I reply, desire rasping my voice. “That night--”
I suddenly push her thighs widely apart, and she lets out a desperate gasp.
“Is tonight!”
I bend my head until my lips brush the skin on her inner thigh. She shivers, fingers tenderly stroking my hair. I leave a trail of fiery kisses on her ready flesh, moving inexorably closer to her pussy. She whimpers in anticipation…
But I divert to her other thigh instead. She gasps, and tries to push m y head back toward where she wants it. But I am in control here.
“Verr, hurry, I’m on fire!”
“Then burn, my little delicacy,” I murmur into her pliant skin. “I won’t let the flames consume you so quickly.”
I bite her, just hard enough for her to feel it. She cries out, and her clitoris swells even more. I slowly work my way up, teasing her all the way, until my mouth hovers over her wide open, dripping wet cunny.
“I must taste you,” I growl, before burying my face in her pussy. She groans, falling onto her back on the bed, becoming my willing instrument.
I suck one of her nether lips into my mouth, savoring the sweet juices, exulting in the way her body rears and squirms. I give equal attention to the other side, my fingers prying her wide open. She has no secrets from me, just as I have none from her.
I worm my fingers inside of her pussy as my tongue strokes her swollen clit.
Her hands tighten in my hair, her cries grow more guttural.
When I envelop the entirety of her clitoris in my mouth and suckle, she drags in a ragged breath that comes out a split second later as the most puissant scream.
A scream born not of pain or fear, but sheer, utter pleasure.
Her pussy releases a deluge in my face, but I do not stop. I only grow more eager in my ministrations. She thrashes about like a landed fish, losing all control as I push her over the threshold of climax.
I rise to my feet as she stares up at me with half-lidded eyes.
“I love you, Lyria.” My voice carries the gravity of absolute truth.
“I love you, Verr,” she says between pants.
I sink atop her, molding my body over her own, pinning her with my weight.
Her legs wrap around my body, pulling me in closer as I glide my throbbing cock inside.
We both cry out as I enter fully, her nails raking down my back as my eyes squeeze shut.
I could blow at any moment, but I won’t.
I am Verginyon, Patron of house Dzaltos, and I am in control.
I thrust into her, pumping my hips with long, slow deliberation. Her body grows taut as a bowstring beneath me. She clings harder, her mouth pressed against my skin. I can feel the passionate exhalations of her breath, the thudding of her pulse. Her pussy tightens around me like a vice.
We move together, naturally matching rhythm to maximize the pleasure. I’ve never felt so alive, yet so close to heaven at the same time. Our sweat mingles, our mutual cries of passion co-mingle and echo off the stark stone walls of my chambers.
“Verr!” she cries, her eyes tightly shut, her nails digging into my flesh and leaving streaks of crimson. “Verr!”
“You…are mine!” I cry as I release.
“Yes! Yes, I'm yours--”
Her voice is cut off by a scream of sheer orgasmic bliss. I groan, light headed with ecstasy as I fill her with my seed. Perhaps she will bear me a fine son--or daughter.
No, one of each. Or more. If we cannot drive the sickness out of dark elf culture, we will breed it out. Every dark elf on protheka may one day have my lineage, and if that’s what it takes, so be it.
Plus, there will be good sport in their making.
I collapse atop her, grandiose dreams fading somewhat as I return to my senses. We cling to each other, as if we never wish to let go.
“I love you, Lyria Dzaltos,” I gasp.
“You mean, Cutter,” she pants. “My surname is Cutter.”
I rise up enough to look her in the eyes.
“Is it?”
I silence any forthcoming answer with a kiss on Lyria’s mouth. My Lyria, my love.
Forever.