10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 209- Ytrisia and Lira

The gold of her irises went to sharp, narrow slits—the look of a woman staring at a locked door she knows has something infuriating on the other side, deciding whether to pick the lock or kick it down.

Neither, apparently.

"...Fine." A beat, and then her chin lifted. Clean pivot. "Then what about Ytrisia?"

He blinked.

"Why did you bring her here?"

No edge in the question. Just crisp, clean curiosity—the surgical kind, the kind Lira used when she actually wanted information and wasn’t going to be distracted from getting it. Her hands had settled on his chest, casual as anything, fingers resting over the slow drum of his heartbeat.

He exhaled. Long. Steady.

"Because we’re ’different’." He said it plainly—no defense in it, no apology, just the same tone he used to describe weather or combat logistics. "In some way I’m still working out." His eyes tracked briefly to the steamed glass wall, something briefly distant passing through them—an honest second, which was rare enough that she noticed it. "I’m uninterested in taking you in a ’hurry.’"

She stared at him.

"And she already consumed a considerable amount of me." His gaze came back to hers. "As you presumably noticed. At length."

Lira held that for a moment.

Her mouth curved. Small, lopsided, the kind of smirk that meant she had just been handed information she was already cataloguing for future use. A soft scoff escaped her nose—the sound of a woman who had just confirmed something she’d suspected and found it both validating and, privately, a little satisfying.

"So I’m the important one and she’s just—"

A sound.

Faint. From the direction of the bathroom door.

Not loud enough to be intentional. The specific quality of a hinge that didn’t quite catch. A small shift in the steam current as cool air breathed in from the corridor beyond.

His peripheral awareness registered it before his brain did. The hesitation in the silence that didn’t belong to either of them.

He turned.

His eyes widened.

Ytrisia stood in the doorway.

One hand braced against the frame. The other clutched a large white towel pressed hard against her chest—functional coverage from collarbone to upper thigh, but not ’convincing’ coverage, given the generous reality it was attempting to contain. Her dark hair clung damp to her neck and shoulders. Her violet eyes were open very wide, unblinking, fixed on the absolute clarity of the scene in front of her—his hands on Lira’s bare ass, Lira’s bare chest against his, the warm intimacy of their positioning, the obvious continuity of what had been happening before she walked in.

She blinked once.

Twice.

The controlled stillness of a woman processing something she had somehow not entirely prepared for despite having every reasonable reason to expect it.

Her jaw set.

She began to turn. The towel shifted as her grip adjusted. One bare shoulder already angling back toward the corridor.

"So you cheated." Her voice came out flat and low and very contained—the tone of a woman who had decided to experience this particular emotion while walking very quickly in a different direction. "Again."

She was already moving. One step. Two.

’Dimensional Morph.’

It was silent. No shimmer, no warning. Just—space ’folded.’

A green seam tore through the threshold a fraction of a second before she crossed it. She stepped forward expecting corridor floor and found instead cool stone, open air, the carved lip of the internal atrium pit dropping away into ten meters of architectural void below the building’s center.

Her foot found nothing.

Her body pitched forward.

Her gasp cracked through the steam—sharp, raw, the involuntary sound of a trained heroine’s body encountering something her instincts hadn’t cleared.

His hand caught her wrist.

Steel grip. Her entire falling momentum jerked to a halt with a violence that would have dislocated a less durable shoulder—but Ytrisia was not built from ordinary material, and she snapped rigid instead, suspended over open air for a single, heart-lurching second.

He yanked.

Hard.

She came flying back—entirely off-balance, weight swinging in a wide, heavy arc, and the towel simply lost the argument with physics. The white fabric was ripped free by the velocity, snatched sideways by the pull of the air, and gone.

’PAH!’

Bare skin hit bare skin. Her full weight—the dense, trained muscle and generous curve of her, the heavy jiggle of freed breasts smacking hard into the solid plane of his chest—crashed into him with enough force to push even his frame back a half-step. The impact sent both full mounds bouncing violently outward from the collision, swaying wide with their own momentum before swinging back.

"’HIEK—?!’"

The sound came out completely involuntary—high, startled, absolutely nothing like any sound a composed S-rank heroine would ever produce willingly—cracking through the air before she could catch it.

His arm swept around her back by reflex.

The same motion brought his other arm back for Lira—hooking her in by the hip, pulling her flush to his left side as Ytrisia’s still-vibrating frame occupied his right.

’PAH.’

Lira’s soft chest pressed hard against his ribs—the firm, familiar weight of her small breasts mashing warm into his side, her sharp breath against his collarbone.

He stood in the center of both of them.

Both women. Both entirely bare. Both pressed against his chest on either side, the warmth of their skin sinking into his in stereo. His hands settled—one broad palm resting on each of their asses with the particular certainty of a man who had done the math and arrived at ’this’ as the only logical conclusion.

His fingers curled.

His wrists caught their arms.

He held them there.

A long, very slow exhale left his lungs. The exhale of a man accepting the logical endpoint of a stupid sequence of events with the serenity of someone who has already lost the argument with the universe and is choosing to be architecturally at peace with it.

"Fuck being gentle with you."

His eyes found Lira.

She was staring straight ahead. Jaw deliberately neutral. The picture of a woman who had absolutely nothing to do with any of this.

"’You’ messed this up," he said. Quiet. Conversational. Almost pleasant. "You set the stage. You said the line while she was already in earshot." His hand on her ass pressed down—not cruel, just present. Completely immovable. "Don’t look at the ceiling, Lira."

A beat.

Against his right side, Ytrisia had gone very still. The flushed trembling from the near-fall was settling into something rigid and tight—the controlled posture of a woman deciding, very carefully, whether to be ’furious’ or ’mortified’ first, and landing in an uncomfortable third option that was both simultaneously.

She wasn’t pulling away.

That was the part none of them acknowledged out loud.

Lira finally looked at him.

She took in the picture—his hand on her ass, his arm across her back, Ytrisia pressed warm and silent and unmoving against his other side, the soft double-weight of them both against his chest, the shower still running somewhere behind them, the steam still thick and unhurried in the air.

Her mouth curved.

Just barely. Just the architecture of it, not the full thing yet.

"...Umm." She tilted her head. Sweet. Deliberate. Eyes half-lidded and absolutely unrepentant. "Can I simply start hating you again?"

His eye twitched.

"Damn you, Lira..."