Chapter 388: Chapter 387- Mira’s Arrival

The World Tree door opened and Viktor stepped out into the afternoon.

He stretched.

Both arms overhead, fingers laced, the full extension of a spine that had been doing rather a lot of things in rather concentrated sequence since early morning. His joints popped in three places. He rolled his neck, felt the second set pop, and exhaled with the specific satisfaction of a body completing an inventory and finding everything accounted for.

The garden was quiet.

The afternoon light had moved west, long and amber now, casting the kind of shadows that meant the day was serious about ending. The flower beds along the wall were doing what they always did in the vitality field of the World Tree — growing with an enthusiasm that bordered on aggressive, the roses Helena had planted in spring already at second-bloom despite the season having no opinion on the matter.

Something bounced against his shin.

Viktor looked down.

Rusty.

The purple slime sat at his feet — melon-sized in his neutral form, the small brass goggles slightly fogged from what appeared to be proximity to the tree’s emanation, his gelatinous body pulsing in the irregular rhythm that meant he was in a good mood. He bounced again. Twice. Against Viktor’s shin, with the insistence of a creature that had found its person and wanted acknowledgment of this fact.

Viktor crouched.

He looked at the slime at eye level.

“Come on, boy,” he said. “I was going to eat.”

SHHP.

A strand of pink light — warm, faintly luminescent, with the specific character of the World Tree’s vitality emanation — drifted out through the gap in the tree’s door behind him and traveled, with the directness of something that had a destination, directly into Rusty’s translucent body.

The slime absorbed it.

Then bounced.

Emphatically.

Viktor stared at him.

The brass goggles reflected Viktor’s own face back at him: a man squatting in a garden looking at a purple gelatinous creature who had just eaten ambient sexual energy leaking from a tree that Viktor had used as a bedroom.

He stood.

He shook his head.

“What a perverted slime.”

“It goes on you, husband.”

Viktor stopped.

He turned.

Mira was coming down the garden path from the tower’s inner corridor, and the word coming was doing a lot of work in that sentence. Mira at her current stage of pregnancy moved the way a river moves — deliberately, continuously, the force of it not diminishing but simply accommodating the new geography. She was holding her belly from below with both hands, not because it needed holding exactly, but because carrying that weight without the assist of her own hands had stopped being comfortable at some point in the last two weeks.

She was enormous.

Viktor had seen her every day. He still, every single time she rounded a corner, had the same half-second recalibration. Her belly preceded her through doorways. The maternity dress Helena had sewn — three iterations now, each one larger than the last — strained at the front where the fabric had given up any pretense of lying flat and instead simply conformed to the dome of her, the fabric pulled into smooth horizontal tension across the most prominent point.

Above the belly.

Her breasts.

Mira’s breasts had always been C-cup — firm, full, the honest architecture of a woman built for physical work. They were not that anymore. Pregnancy had expanded them the way pregnancy expands things that were already significant: enthusiastically and without asking. They pressed forward under the dress with the specific weight that made the neckline gap slightly at the front with each slow step, the dark fabric struggling to contain something that had decided it was larger than the dress had budgeted for.

Her nipples were visible through it.

She didn’t appear to have noticed. Or she had noticed and had prioritized the belly-holding over the nipple situation.

Her green eyes found him. The crimson shift at their edges — the heart-shape that appeared when she was feeling something specific — was already present. She came down the path at her pace and stopped in front of him.

Viktor looked at her belly.

Then at her face.

“Your belly is too big,” he said.

Mira looked down at herself with the expression of someone presented with information they were already extensively aware of.

“They’re twins,” she said.

Viktor stared at her.

“Twins.”

“Yes.” Her eyes came up to his. “Twins. Two. A matched set. Both confirmed.” A pause. “Olivia checked.”

Something moved through Viktor’s expression that was not quite surprise — he had known, statistically, that the accelerated system pregnancy combined with the Breeding God ability’s enhanced conception rates made multiple pregnancies more probable — but was the specific quality of a man who knew something was possible and is still doing mild recalibration at its confirmation.

“That’s due to you,” he said.

“Me.”

“Your biology. You were always going to twin. I just—”

“You just,” Mira said, with the precision of a woman who had been thinking about the assignment of blame for this for several days, “fucked me until I had no say in the arithmetic.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Viktor crouched.

He put both hands on her belly.

He pressed his palms flat against the curve of it, feeling the warmth of her, the firm resilience of the skin underneath — stretched now, smooth — and the movement beneath it. Subtle. The specific against-the-wall sensation of two separate lives making separate decisions about which direction to face.

He was quiet for a moment.

Mira watched his face while he did it.

His expression had the quality it got in these moments — the one she’d caught him in before, that she didn’t tell anyone about, that sat underneath the perpetual dry commentary and the perpetual strategic assessment and the perpetual arrangement of everything. The one that was just — present. Feeling the thing he was feeling without filing it.

Then his hands slid.

From the belly — upward, along the curve of her stomach, past the stretched middle of the dress, to the full swell of her breasts from underneath.

He groped them.

Both hands. The weight of her breasts in his palms with the generous overflow that no single pair of hands could fully account for, the nipples pressing against his palm through the fabric, her milk warm through the cloth.

He made a sound in his throat.

“You fuck with me every time,” he said.

His thumbs moved. Found her nipples through the fabric. Pressed.

“Take more of my load inside you.”

Her breath caught.

Mira’s face did several things in rapid sequence. The flush came first — the specific flush that started at her cheekbones and moved down her throat, that she’d stopped being able to control sometime around month one. Then the expression that lived under the flush, the one that was always going to be there regardless of what strategic composure she deployed on top of it.

“Is it my fault?” she said. Her voice had dropped. The green of her eyes had shifted almost fully to crimson, the heart-shapes fully present, fully committed.

She leaned forward.

The belly pressed against him first — warm, round, inescapable — and she let it, let the weight of her pregnancy settle against his lower body as she came into him, and her hand moved down along the front of his trousers.

Found him.

Her fingers closed around the shape of him through the fabric and squeezed — not the exploratory touch of someone uncertain, but the proprietary grip of a woman who has handled something enough times to have opinions about its current state.

She squeezed again.

Then she massaged, slow, her thumb moving over the swell of his balls through the trousers with the specific attention of someone checking in on inventory.

Viktor held very still.

“Are these empty?” Mira said. Her voice had the academic quality she used when she was performing neutrality over something she found deeply satisfying. She pressed again. “They feel—”

“You can even guess that,” Viktor said.

She looked up at him. The heart-shapes in her eyes were full now — warm and soft, pulsing with the specific light they got when she was pleased with herself.

“You already fucked Bella,” she said.

It was not a question.

“She told you.”

“She was delighted to tell me.” Mira’s mouth curved. “She enjoyed it. Thoroughly. She left out certain details but filled in others with considerable enthusiasm.”

Viktor exhaled through his nose.

“She does that.”

“She does.” Mira’s fingers were still moving. Slow. Proprietary. “The details she filled in were—” She squeezed. “—informative.”

Viktor reached around her.

His hands found her hips from behind — the wide, generous hips that the pregnancy had expanded further, the soft flesh of them under his palms — and he guided her. Turned her. Brought her back against his front, her back to his chest, her pregnancy belly now projecting forward into the afternoon air.

He positioned himself.

His cock — still clothed, still pressed against the trousers she’d been massaging — settled into the valley of her ass from behind, the natural cradle of it, the warm weight of both her ass cheeks closing around him through the fabric like something closing a door.

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