Chapter 223: Chapter 223- Viktor Trying to Impress his Wives?

Present.

The air in the dining room went still.

Gareth’s greasy face drained of all color. His eyes—beady, rat-like—locked onto Viktor standing there in his apron, spatula still in hand like some domestic husband.

It was the look in Viktor’s eyes.

“Y-Young Lord—” Gareth’s voice cracked.

He moved.

Fast.

Faster than a man his age and build should’ve been able to. His body dropped, knees hitting the wooden floor with a sickening ’thud’. His hands pressed flat, forehead slamming down so hard the impact echoed through the room.

’BANG!’

“Please! Please forgive this lowly servant!” Gareth’s voice pitched into a desperate wail. “I—I’ve come!”

Elara, still collapsed near the doorway, stared at the confusing display with her mouth hanging open. “What the—”

But no one was looking at Gareth.

Every eye in the room had shifted.

To Bella.

She sat frozen at the dining table, silver spoon halfway to her mouth. Her entire body had gone rigid the moment Gareth’s voice hit her ears.

Her yellow cat eyes were wide—too wide—pupils contracted to pinpricks.

Her ears lay flat against her head, twitching violently.

Her tail, which had been swishing lazily behind her chair, now wrapped around her own waist in a desperate self-hug.

Her lips moved. No sound came out. Just a broken whisper that might’ve been “no” or might’ve been nothing at all.

Viktor noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His bare feet made no sound as he crossed the dining room, moving while tracing soft shoulders in his path that made Mira’s breath catch and Helena’s hands tighten on her fork.

He stopped directly behind Bella’s chair.

She flinched. Hard. Her shoulders hunched up around her ears, body trembling so violently the chair creaked beneath her.

His hand—still warm from cooking—grasped another spoon from the table. He scooped up a portion of food.

Then he brought it around. Slowly. The spoon moved in front of Bella’s face, hovering just inches from her lips.

“Eat,” Viktor said quietly.

Bella’s head tilted up. Tears were already streaming down her cheeks—fat droplets that ran in twin rivers, dripping off her chin onto the white dress Mira had made for her.

The fabric darkened where the tears fell.

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I—” Her voice broke. “Young Lord, I—”

“Eat,” Viktor repeated.

The spoon pressed gently against her lower lip. The warmth of the food contrasted sharply with her cold, trembling mouth.

His free hand moved, fingers threading through her silver hair with surprising gentleness. He could feel her trembling through his touch—violent shudders that wracked her entire frame.

Bella’s lips parted slowly. The spoon slid into her mouth. She didn’t chew. Didn’t swallow. Just sat there with food on her tongue, tears flowing faster now.

“Swallow or I will stuff something else,” Viktor murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

“Hic…” She did. The motion of her throat was painful to watch—like swallowing broken glass.

Viktor chuckled.

His breath ghosted against her ear as he leaned down, lips nearly brushing the sensitive fur.

“Funny,” he said, voice dropping to an intimate whisper that made her shiver for entirely different reasons. “You stuffed my cock in your mouth all night without hesitation. Swallowed my balls empty. But now you’re scared of a little food?”

Bella’s face flushed crimson. Her hands flew up, clutching at her dress—fingers digging into the white fabric until her knuckles went white.

Around the table, reactions varied.

Elara—still on the floor near the entrance—looked between Viktor and Bella with growing horror from the realization that he seemed to have claimed that woman too, and confusion as to why she submitted like the other perverts. “What… what is happening here?”

Viktor straightened, pulling back from Bella. His hand left her hair, trailing down to rest briefly on her shoulder. She flinched again at the touch but didn’t pull away.

He looked at her properly now.

She’d changed.

The transformation from the broken, feral cat-girl who’d tried to run away just yesterday was stark. Her silver hair—once matted and dirty—now cascaded down her back in lustrous waves that caught the morning light. Her face had lost that pinched, half-starved look. The hollows under her cheekbones had filled out, her skin now smooth and glowing with health.

And her body…

The soft white robe she wore was loose, but it couldn’t hide the changes. Her breasts, though small compared to Helena’s massive udders, looked fuller. Perkier. Like they had been sucked and pulled so many times they were permanently swollen.

The fabric strained against two hard points—her nipples were tenting the silk, standing at attention as if waiting for his mouth to return.

Her cleavage was visible, a deep valley of pale, soft skin that was marred with a few fresh red marks—love bites he had left there hours ago.

She looked like a woman.

A woman who’d been thoroughly fucked and made one within a single night.

Viktor felt a familiar heat pooling in his gut. He wanted to bend her over right here, on the breakfast table, and eat her even though he’d feasted on her all night.

But the trembling… the genuine fear in her eyes when she looked at Gareth… it killed the mood slightly.

“Gareth.”

The kowtowing man froze, forehead still pressed to the floor.

“Give me the contract.”

Silence.

Every head swiveled toward Gareth. Even Toby stopped eating, sensing something important was happening.

Gareth’s bloodshot eyes lifted slowly. “M-My Lord?”

“The contract,” Viktor repeated, his voice carrying that dangerous edge that made smart people obey without question. “Bella’s slave contract. You have it, don’t you?”

The color drained from Gareth’s face again—an impressive feat considering how pale he already was.

“I—Young Lord, yes.”

Gareth scrambled. His hands dove into his coat with desperate speed, fingers fumbling through inner pockets. Papers scattered—some kind of travel documents, a few copper coins—before his shaking hands finally produced a rolled parchment tied with black string.

He held it up like an offering to an angry god.

Confusion rippled through the room.

Helena’s brow furrowed. “Young Master, what—”

Mira leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the parchment. “Is that—”

Elara, still on the floor, craned her neck to see. “A contract? Whose—” Then her amber eyes widened as realization hit. “Wait. Is that a ’slave’ contract?”

’Wait. That Bella is his sex slave?!’

But the loudest reaction came from Bella.

A broken sound—half sob, half gasp—tore from her throat. Her hands released her dress, flying up to cover her mouth. Her entire body shook, tears flowing faster now.

She recognized it.

Of course she recognized it.

That parchment had defined her entire existence for years. The black string that bound it.

Her slave contract.

The document that said she wasn’t a person. Wasn’t free. Belonged to whoever held that piece of parchment.

“No,” she whispered through her fingers. “No, please, not—”

Viktor moved back to stand behind her chair. He held the contract up, letting everyone see it clearly in the morning light streaming through the windows.

The parchment was old, yellowed at the edges. But the writing was still crisp. Clear. Legal and binding by every law in the kingdom.

’Bella—last name unknown. Species: Beast-kin (Feline). Age: Approximately 20-21 years. Purchased by Elena…’

Helena’s eyes went wide as she read the visible text. “Oh. Oh, Young Master—”

Mira’s hand flew to her mouth. “That bastard,” she hissed, glaring at the still-kowtowing Gareth.

Kaida’s expression hardened into something murderous. Her fingers curled into fists. “So that’s why she—”

Viktor then noticed his wives looking at him to tear that paper now.

They were looking at him like he’d done something ’different’. Something unexpected.

Like he was being heroic instead of perverted for once.

Viktor almost laughed. Almost.

Instead, he looked down at Bella. At her trembling shoulders. At the tears dripping off her chin. At the way her hands clutched at nothing, fingers curling and uncurling in desperate, helpless motions.

’His wife should only be crying when he was hurting them, not the other way around.’

“Bella,” he said quietly.

She flinched but didn’t look up.

“Look at me.”

Slowly—so slowly—her head tilted back. Those yellow eyes, swimming with tears and terror and something that might’ve been hope, met his dark gaze.

Viktor smiled.

Then he gripped the contract with both hands.

And tore it in half.

’RRRIIIPPP!’

The sound echoed through the dining room like thunder.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The two halves of parchment hung in Viktor’s hands, the black string dangling uselessly.

Then—

’CRACK!’

Light exploded from Bella’s body.

Not metaphorical. Not subtle. Actual, brilliant white light that blazed from her chest like a miniature sun. The glow intensified, spreading outward in waves that made everyone shield their eyes.

“What the—” Kaida stumbled back from the table.

Helena gasped, “Young Master!”

The light coalesced into a visible shape—a translucent chain that wrapped around Bella’s neck, wrists, and ankles. Shackles made of pure magic, each link glowing with runic script too fast to read.

And then they shattered.

Like glass.

’CRASH!’

The chains exploded into thousands of glittering fragments that hung in the air for one impossible moment before dissolving into motes of light. The fragments scattered outward, floating like snow, before fading into nothing.

The brilliance faded.

Bella sat there, gasping. Her hands flew to her neck, fingers touching bare skin where the invisible collar had been for years. Her wrists. Her ankles. All free.

“I—” Her voice broke. “I can—it’s—”

Viktor let the torn parchment pieces fall to the floor. They fluttered down like dead leaves, landing at Bella’s feet.

He leaned down, his mouth close to her cat ear again. His voice carried through the quiet room—not loud, but absolutely clear.

“From now on, you can bounce as much as you want on your…”

He paused, letting the words hang.

“Hic… sniff…” Bella’s breath hitched. Her face flushed from neck to hairline.

“…favourite plaything, my kitten.”

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