Chapter 387: Chapter 386- Bella’s Anger at Gwen

He turned.

He walked two steps.

He stopped.

Bella’s tail had lifted. She’d made a small sound behind him, the specific sound of someone hoping that the stopping means a reversal of the preceding directive.

Viktor looked at himself.

At the cock that was still — ’still,’ after everything, after Vivian and Elara and this — standing in the way of something that had decided it was not finished. Wet with Bella. Flushed at the tip. Entirely uninterested in putting itself away.

He looked at the unconscious Gwen.

At the silver-blonde hair spread across the floor. At the thick-bodied elven archer who had aimed an arrow at him today with more genuine intent than anyone had aimed anything at him in months.

He looked at his cock.

He walked back.

Bella watched him.

Her eyes tracked from his face to his hand to the motion of the hand and arrived at what was happening approximately one second before it began happening.

He stood over Gwen.

His hand moved. Slow. Deliberate. The specific quality of a man who was doing something as a statement rather than an urgency, who had already finished today and was doing this as an addendum, an annotation in the margin of the ongoing document.

Bella stood with her hands pressing the hem of her skirt down and watched.

He stroked himself looking at the unconscious woman the way you look at something that has not yet become what it’s going to become.

His jaw tightened.

The release came in thick heavy pulses — one, the first line of it landing across Gwen’s dress, white against the green fabric — two, three, his hand guiding the direction with the specific attention of someone laying down territory — four, five, the last of it, the complete unburdening of what had been building since Bella came through the door in a fury and caught an arrow.

He looked at what he’d done.

Gwen, unconscious, drenched in evidence of this afternoon’s events, arranged across the tree room floor in a position she had not chosen.

Viktor straightened.

He looked at Bella.

She was looking at Gwen with an expression that had stopped being angry somewhere in the last thirty seconds and had become something more complicated. Her tail swished once. Her eyes were still wet.

“Clean it too,” he said.

Bella looked at him.

At his cock.

She moved.

She crossed to him in three steps and went to her knees in the specific fluid motion of a catgirl for whom this position had become part of the vocabulary of her body, and she ’opened her mouth’ and pressed her lips to the head of him and licked.

One long drag.

Like a cat with something it had decided to consume at its own pace — unhurried, thorough, the flat of her tongue pressing from base to tip in a slow continuous stripe that cleaned every trace of him, of Bella herself, of the afternoon.

She did it again.

Her eyes came up. The golden cat-eyes, still damp at the lashes, watched his face over the length of him while her tongue worked.

“Mngh~.”

The sound she made was not performance. It was just the sound of her mouth, doing what it was doing, tasting what it was tasting, and finding the experience something her throat felt the need to note.

Viktor’s cock — which had just finished, which was supposed to be done, which was by any reasonable measure complete — began to re-harden under her tongue with the absolute predictability of something that had never respected reasonable measures.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

He pulled back.

The head of him left her mouth with the specific wet sound of something departing reluctantly, and Bella’s lips chased it by one inch before she stopped herself.

“Don’t,” Viktor said, “arouse me again.”

He was already half-hard.

He did not look at her as he found his trousers.

He dressed with efficiency and the focused energy of a man determined not to look at his catgirl wife on her knees looking up at him with her mouth still wet, and he moved to the door, and he opened it.

Bella watched him go.

The garden door closed.

The tree room held the quiet of aftermath — the amber light unchanged, the grain of the wood warm, the moss bed in the corner still holding the impression of Vivian from hours ago, now irrelevant.

Bella sat back on her heels.

She looked at Gwen.

At everything that had happened to Gwen, who was currently unconscious and blissfully unaware of the total state of herself.

The thick elf woman’s dress. Her hair. The complete accounting of this afternoon distributed across her, without her knowledge, without her consent, without her doing anything except being in the wrong room at the wrong time.

Bella’s tail swished slowly.

She looked at her own hands. Reached for the cloth Viktor had indicated from the wooden shelf — the tree had grown it for exactly this kind of practical purpose, the way it grew everything he needed.

She looked at Gwen again.

Her eyes were not angry anymore, exactly.

They were the eyes of someone who has decided something with the patient, total conviction of a person who plans to carry the decision for a long time.

She reached toward Gwen’s dress.

Began to clean.

Her hands moved with the efficient care of someone who was doing their work correctly because they were told to, and watching Gwen’s face the entire time, and thinking something she didn’t say out loud until she was done — until her work was complete, the floor clean, her hands still, the task finished.

Then she sat back.

She looked at Gwen’s unconscious face.

At the silver-blonde hair. The thick lashes. The hard-set jaw even in sleep, the jaw of someone who woke up every morning already ready to fight.

“This is all due to you,” Bella said.

Her voice was quiet. Not angry. The kind of quiet that lives on the other side of angry, that has already done the accounting.

“I will definitely kill you.”

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