Chapter 187: The Unexpected Guest

He guided Morgana down, gentle but firm, to her knees before him.

“Please me, Aunt. Suck your nephew’s cock. Taste your grandmother on it.”

She hesitated, eyes flicking to Emmanuelle, who nodded, smirking. “Do it, girl. He’s our blood. Our lord.”

Morgana leaned in, lips parting. Her mouth was hot and tentative at first—tongue swirling the head, lapping Emmanuelle’s essence. Jaenor groaned, threading fingers into her auburn hair, guiding deeper. She took more, cheeks hollowing, that bushy mound grinding against her own heel as she knelt. He fucked her face slowly, then faster, her music gags, saliva dripping down her chin onto her breasts.

Emmanuelle joined, kneeling beside, tongue on his balls, sucking while Morgana bobbed.

“Good girls,” he grunted.

“My witches. My sluts.”

He came with a roar, flooding Morgana’s throat. She choked but swallowed, greedy now, shy shell cracking.

Not done.

He hauled Morgana up, lifting her effortlessly—legs wrapping his waist, that massive bush scratching his abs. He impaled her on his still-hard cock, her walls tighter, witch-magic fluttering inside like spells.

“Fuck, so deep,” she gasped, head thrown back.

He bounced her, slamming up, her pert breasts jiggling, bush mashing against him. Emmanuelle pressed behind, kissing his neck, fingers teasing his ass. They stumbled to the floor—thick rugs muffling their fall. Jaenor on his back, Morgana riding now, hips grinding wild, curls slick and fragrant.

Emmanuelle straddled his face, lowering her curvy bush onto his mouth. He devoured her—tongue plunging through the thicket, lapping folds, clit sucked hard. She ground down, smothering him in scent and taste, while Morgana bounced, their breasts brushing.

“Fuck us both!” Emmanuelle demanded.

He flipped them—first Morgana under him, pounding missionary, her legs over his shoulders, bush parted obscenely as he drilled. She came screaming, nails raking his back, magic sparking harmlessly around them.

Then Emmanuelle was on all fours again, ass high, him rutting doggy while Morgana lay beneath, licking where they joined—tongue on his shaft, her clit, and balls. The three tangled: Jaenor thrusting into Emmanuelle’s soaked cunt, Morgana’s face buried in the mess, fingers in Jaenor’s ass.

Positions blurred. Morgana on her side, Jaenor behind spooning deep, hand mauling her breasts while Emmanuelle scissored against Morgana’s front, bushes grinding together in wet friction. Cunts rubbing, clits kissing through curls, Jaenor’s cock switching holes—fucking Morgana, then Emmanuelle over her thigh.

He took Morgana’s ass next, her virgin ring yielding to spit and cream, tight as a vice amid her bush-framed pussy. She wailed pleasure-pain, Emmanuelle fingering her clit through the hair. Then Emmanuelle’s fuller ass, plush cheeks spreading, took him balls-deep while Morgana sat on her back, feeding her breasts to Jaenor’s mouth.

They fucked in a frenzy—sweat-slick, bodies heaving. Jaenor came again in Emmanuelle’s ass, pulling out to paint Morgana’s bush white, ropes thick in her curls. She scooped it and fed it to Emmanuelle, who sucked it clean.

But lust reigned. Morgana sixty-nined Emmanuelle, eating her creamy cunt while Jaenor fucked Morgana from behind, a chain of depravity. He orchestrated: Emmanuelle riding his cock reverse cowgirl, Morgana on his face facing her, and their bushes merging over him—tongues dueling, kissing around his probing tongue.

Hours melted.

Dawn’s first gray light crept in, but they rutted on.

Jaenor had them stacked—Emmanuelle on bottom, Morgana atop pussy-to-pussy, him alternating thrusts, feeling their bushes mingle slickly. Fingers everywhere: in asses, pinching nipples, rubbing clits buried in hair.

Morgana shed all shyness, witch-wild now.

“Fuck your aunt’s hairy cunt, Jaenor! Breed us!”

Emmanuelle echoed, “Fill your woman, my stallion!!”

He did—cumming in Morgana’s womb, then Emmanuelle’s, loads mixing, leaking into bushes. They licked clean, snowballing cum kisses.

Finally spent, they collapsed in a heap—Jaenor central, arms around curvy Emmanuelle and shy-no-more Morgana.

Bodies entwined, bushes pressed to his thighs, breaths syncing.

“What if,” Jaenor panted, grinning, “the blood always won? fucking their own. No wars, just this.”

Emmanuelle chuckled, nipping his ear.

“In this house, it does.”

Morgana nestled closer, hand stroking his softening cock.

“No regrets.”

The manor held their secret, wards humming approval.

Princesses and sins could wait. This alliance was sealed in flesh.

***

The morning sun was warm on Jaenor’s face as he stood on the balcony overlooking the estate grounds. Three days had passed since the Beaumonts’ visit, and life had settled into something approaching routine: meetings with the vassal houses, reviewing defensive preparations, and drafting responses to Princess Baelyna’s letter.

Below, Ba’narussa rested in the training field; it had only one head, and the other head disappeared when he summoned the beast. Guards had grown accustomed to her presence, though they still gave her a wide berth.

The divine beast was a constant reminder of power that transcended normal military force.

He wanted people to know that House Arkwright will regain its former glory, and the beast will be the proof of that.

Jaenor was reviewing reports when he heard footsteps approaching, quick and urgent. He turned to see Gareth, the captain of the guard, moving toward him with an expression that mixed concern and confusion.

“My lord,” Gareth said, slightly out of breath.

“We have… visitors. They arrived at the main gate moments ago. Three figures, hooded and cloaked, refusing to identify themselves but insisting they must speak with you immediately.”

“Did they give any indication of their purpose?” Jaenor asked.

“Only that it concerns matters of realm security. And that time is critical.”

Gareth hesitated.

“They’re clearly powerful, my lord. Origin energy users, by the feel of them. My men are nervous.”

Jaenor’s enhanced senses reached out, extending beyond the balcony toward the main gate. He could feel them now—three distinct presences radiating controlled power.

Witches, almost certainly.

And one of them felt familiar in a way that made his heart rate increase.

“Where are they now?”

“At the gate. I ordered them held there until you gave permission to enter. If they’re hostile—”

“Let them in,” Jaenor interrupted.

“Escort them to the main hall. And Gareth, have your men stay alert, but don’t be aggressive. If they wanted to attack, they wouldn’t have announced themselves at the front gate.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Gareth departed quickly to carry out the orders.

Jaenor remained on the balcony for several moments, steadying himself. That familiar presence at the gate could only be one person, and her arrival here meant only one thing, but he was uncertain.

He found Morgana in the library, reviewing old texts about divine beasts. She looked up as he entered, immediately reading the tension in his posture.

“What’s wrong?”

“We have visitors. Three witches at the main gate, requesting immediate audience.”

He paused.

“I think one of them is the Mother Supreme.”

Morgana’s book fell from suddenly nerveless fingers.

“Wendelina? Here? That’s…”

She stood quickly, her mind racing through implications.

“That’s either a very good sign or a catastrophically bad one.”

“I’m leaning toward the former,” Jaenor said.

“If she wanted me dead, she’d attack rather than request meetings. But we should still be prepared.”

They gathered the others quickly: Rena, Taeryn, Darian, Baren, and Raelana. Even Emmanuelle and the old man joined them, recognizing the significance of what was happening. They assembled in the main hall, a large room designed for formal audiences with high ceilings and space for dozens of people.

Jaenor positioned himself near the center, his companions arranged around him, not threatening, but clearly present and ready. Ba’narussa, sensing tension through their bond, raised her head outside, her attention focused on the house.

The doors opened, and Gareth entered, followed by three hooded figures.

They moved with the controlled grace of origin energy masters, their cloaks concealing their features but not their power. The central figure was slightly taller than her companions, and her presence was overwhelming, centuries of accumulated power and authority radiating from her like heat from a forge.

She stopped perhaps twenty feet from Jaenor.

For a moment, no one moved, the tension thick enough to cut.

Then she reached up and pushed back her hood.

Mother Supreme Wendelina’s face was exactly as Jaenor remembered, centuries old but still beautiful, marked by power and responsibility, with eyes that held depths no mortal could match. But there was something different now. Her expression wasn’t the cold ruthlessness he’d seen at Ki’thara.

It was tired.

Almost pleading.

Behind him, Jaenor heard multiple sharp intakes of breath.

Morgana’s hand moved unconsciously toward her focus crystal. Rena shifted into a defensive stance. Even Darian, who’d faced demons without flinching, looked genuinely alarmed.

Jaenor himself felt his merged power respond instinctively, energy gathering beneath his skin, ready to manifest at a moment’s notice. His body remembered the battle at Ki’thara, the overwhelming force this woman commanded, and how close he’d come to death.

But he forced himself to stillness. Forced his power to subside. If Wendelina had wanted to kill him, she could have tried already. The fact that she stood here, revealing herself, meant something else was happening.

And it wasn’t like he was afraid of her, not anymore. He had grown far stronger than he was at Ki’thara village.

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