From Goblin Slave To Giga-Daddy: A Goblin's Guide to Getting a Harem-Chapter 45: Husband’s Wee Wee

It was raining like the sky had a grudge.

Rae bolted across the camp, little legs pumping, hands flailing above his head like a makeshift umbrella that did nothing.

To make matters worse, that idiot Alex had zipped the damn tent shut like it was Fort Knox.

Rae had to scratch, bang, and holler like a raccoon on crack just to get noticed.

Or maybe... maybe Alex heard everything and just let him stew in the downpour for a few extra seconds. You know—for science.

When Rae finally burst into the tent, soaked and muttering curses in four dialects, he flung off the extra weight of rain with dramatic towel pats that could’ve passed for exorcisms.

Meanwhile, Alex blinked from his bedroll, watching like he’d seen a ghost—or at least a gremlin who should be one by now.

Honestly, he hadn’t expected the little bastard to survive. Not after Lyra got her hands on him.

Alex tilted his head, eyebrows up.

No blood. No bruises. No coma-level twitching. Not even a suspicious limp. Rae was up, active, and angrily mumbling like someone who didn’t get enough sauce on his sandwich.

’Well... at least I don’t have to deal with Alice ranting now.’

Alex thought, scratching his neck.

’So maybe this is the best outcome... but how the hell is he not even fazed?’

He stared for another second, shrugged, and flopped back onto his bedroll.

It wasn’t his problem. Not today. Especially not with this gremlin.

At the same time, he shouldn’t have opened that flap.

Not after what the little gremlin did to Celeste—embarrassing him in front of her like some stage clown with a death wish.

Oh, Alex knew.

He’d seen the way that horse suddenly went feral when she was watching.

That wasn’t coincidence.

Rae had planned that.

Subtle sabotage.

A perfectly timed humiliation.

Alex didn’t forget that sort of thing.

No way.

He was just biding his time now, waiting for the right moment to flip the table on this smug little bastard.

With that thought simmering, he let out a slow breath and shut his eyes, scheming in silence.

Meanwhile, Rae was in his own little gremlin world.

Patting himself dry with the intensity of a man exfoliating his sins, hopping into something loose and comfy, and hanging his damp, innocent-looking white undies on a clip like a proud housewife.

Then, with a yawn and a smug little smirk tugging at his lips, he curled up in the corner like a satisfied cat.

’Tomorrow.’

He promised himself with a sleepy hum.

’She’s going to beg me.’

And with that wicked thought nestled under his pillow, Rae drifted off into dreams.

...

The morning sun barely kissed the dew off the grass when Lyra poked her head out of her tent, eyes scanning like a hawk hunting its first prey of the day.

Her voice rang out—sharp, direct—calling for Bryce.

The man, bleary-eyed and mid-yawn, blinked in confusion but didn’t question it. Orders were orders.

He stepped into the tent, letting the flap fall shut behind him, cutting the world off like the closing scene of a bad play.

"Alright... where is it?"

He spoke with the weariness of someone who’d buried more secrets than friends.

His eyes scanned the space like a detective entering a crime scene.

Lyra kneeled on the bed, raising an eyebrow.

"What?"

"The body. Where are we hiding it? I mean... I heard Alice’s pretty fond of that gremlin, so we gotta bury him deep. Like, middle-of-a-lava-cave deep. Maybe blame it on some dark-force ambush. Toss in a few scorch marks, a broken sword... I’m sure Alex’ll back us up."

He was dead serious.

After all, why else would Lyra summon him at dawn?

Morning cuddles?

Please.

This wasn’t a romance novel.

If Lyra had wanted warmth, she’d have rolled herself in a blanket burrito and ignored reality.

Bryce’s eyes drifted across the tent.

Evidence lay scattered like breadcrumbs of disaster:

Empty potion bottles tossed about like post-party relics, four full vials still untouched on a nearby tray. He let out a heavy breath, then closed his eyes in solemn reflection.

"Didn’t even finish the potions... poor little bastard... so young, so full of life."

He made a slow, exaggerated sign of the cross across his chest—dramatic as a priest at a funeral for a hamster.

Lyra’s eye twitched.

She wasn’t sure if it was the absurdity of the moment or the fact that Bryce had somehow managed to piss her off before breakfast.

Her glare could’ve melted steel.

"What do you think I am?"

Her voice came out sharp.

Bryce barely blinked.

The man stared at her with the blank, unimpressed face of someone who’s seen way too much weird in life to be fazed now. His shrug practically spoke in italics.

"A half-succubi, half-vampire life-sponge who can suck the soul outta someone just by brushing pinkies."

"..."

"..."

There was a long pause. Too long. Even the tent seemed to hold its breath.

"Well... er... true, but I—"

She fumbled, the words catching in her throat like a cat coughing up dignity.

"Ah, ah, ah."

Bryce lifted a finger like a teacher halting a particularly bad student presentation.

"Let me stop you right there, sugarplum. Just answer the real question—real simple, real quick. Is he breathing or not?"

He wasn’t in the mood for poetry. This was a man with murder-cover-up plans still fresh in his back pocket.

Lyra narrowed her eyes, cheeks flushing—maybe from embarrassment, maybe from sheer irritation—and whipped her head to the side with a dramatic huff.

"No! He’s alive, you idiot! Wh-what the hell, man?!"

Bryce let out a sigh of pure cinematic relief, dragging a hand across his forehead like he was wiping away an imaginary waterfall of tension.

"Whew~ Thank the gods. I was already drafting our confession script in my head. Alice would’ve chewed through my spine if anything happened to that gremlin."

His shoulders relaxed. His hands landed on his hips like a man ready to discuss something reasonable, like tent repairs or breakfast options.

And that’s exactly when Lyra, without so much as a warning breath or second thought, reached out and grabbed a fistful of his waistband.

"Hey! Whoa, whoa, whoa! Lady! What in the seven sweaty hells—?!"

He yelped, like a startled squirrel, and in a flash, whipped two thin gloves from his pocket—like a magician preparing for a questionable trick.

He slapped them onto his hands with dramatic flair, then jerked his pants away from her grabby fingers and hopped back like she’d tried to bite him.

"What in the holy, horny hells is the matter with you today?"

His pants were halfway up his thighs as he hissed the words, glaring at her like she’d committed some sacred betrayal.

Lyra just scowled, arms crossing with defiant sass.

"What?! Can’t a girl take a peek at her husband’s wee wee?"

Bryce nearly choked on his next breath.

"Shhh! Keep it down, you lunatic!"

He yanked the waistband up like it owed him money and furrowed his brows.

"And since when are you interested in my wee wee? You’ve ignored it like a cursed totem for years!"

Lyra averted her eyes, the fight melting from her posture as her cheeks turned a faint, traitorous pink.

"Well... because... uh... you know..."

Words stumbled out of her mouth like drunken tavern rats, aimless and apologetic.

For someone who could fry a man with a glare, she looked oddly like a bashful schoolgirl caught doodling hearts on a villain’s wanted poster.

Bryce stared at her, lips twitching as her blush deepened.

Then he snickered—low, smug, and dangerous.

"...Don’t tell me. You saw Rae’s wee wee yesterday, didn’t you?"