The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 595: The Secret Sneak-in (Extra)

The hidden chamber’s emerald light lingered, diffused now—soft as moss, gentle as dusk—casting every outline in shifting shades of green and gold. Silence held them, but it was a silence alive with pulse and promise: the breathless hush after thunder, when the world waits for new growth to rise from spent earth.

Mikhailis stood at the heart of it all—barefoot, tousled, breath still uneven. The mark of longing clung to his skin and his gaze: lips reddened, a flush at his neck, the faint shimmer of sweat at his temple. He was both exhausted and impossibly alive, held together by the invisible threads now running between himself and the three women who surrounded him, each one changed by what had passed.

Serelith sprawled on the bench, pink hair tangled, cheeks bright as peonies, her chest rising and falling in slow, shaky waves. Her corset hung askew, a careless grace, her violet eyes tracking Mikhailis with a lazy, lingering affection. Sated but not spent, her smile curved sly and proud—this was a woman who’d tasted magic and wanted more.

Cerys leaned against a support pillar, shoulders squared but chin tucked, the wolf not tamed but allowed to rest at last. The tension had drained from her muscles, leaving only a faint, victorious tremble in her hands. Her green eyes held the fierce, bewildered light of someone who has just crossed a border she once thought uncrossable. The edge of envy had softened into an ache of belonging.

Lira knelt at the foot of the bench, smoothing her uniform, but the pristine lines could not hide the wild flush in her cheeks or the glazed dazzle in her dark eyes. She pressed a hand to her chest as if to slow her heart, stealing glances between Mikhailis and the others, her mouth curving with secret laughter. Her hair spilled loose from its careful ponytail, the mask of the perfect maid dropped for a moment’s vulnerable wonder.

The three women shimmered like facets of a jewel, and Mikhailis—feeling the ache of his own satisfaction, the restless spark that still pulsed within him—swept them all with a gaze equal parts gratitude, awe, and irrepressible hunger.

He leaned his back to the worktable, letting his head fall for a beat. When he looked up, his smile was crooked, playful, but edged with sincerity that even laughter could not conceal.

He let the silence draw out, tasting it. Then, in a voice just rough enough to betray how much they’d taken from him—and how much he still had to give—he spoke:

"You know," he began, drawing each word out as if savoring their weight, "I think you three may have underestimated just how much trouble you’ve caused me."

He paused, and they watched him—the sorceress, the wolf, the maid—each in their own spellbound hush.

His eyes traveled first to Serelith. "You, with your magic and your laughter and your daring," he said, "always pushing past what I think I can handle. I never know if I’m walking into a storm or a sanctuary, but either way, I come out changed."

Serelith’s smile tilted higher, violet eyes glinting. "You wouldn’t want it any other way, my prince."

He didn’t argue. He turned to Cerys, his gaze softening with memory and respect. "And you—brave and stubborn, always standing guard, always holding yourself back. Tonight you let go. You let me in." His voice dropped, threaded with gratitude and heat. "That’s a gift I’ll never take lightly."

Cerys shifted, a slow flush rising on her cheeks, but she met his gaze without flinching. "I only did what felt right," she said, her voice low, "and I don’t regret it." Her hand flexed, the gesture almost unconsciously seeking him again.

And then to Lira: "You, Lira Valenwood. Always perfect, always in control—except tonight." He moved to her, crouched until they were level, and cupped her cheek with gentle fingers. "You remind me how fierce quiet longing can be. You remind me not to overlook what waits in silence."

Lira blushed fiercely, ducking her head—but she did not look away. "Someone had to keep you honest, your highness," she said, her voice teasing, "and make sure you knew what you had."

He brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, a featherlight caress. "I know. Believe me—I know."

He rose, stretching, and drew in a breath that steadied him, gathering the three threads—magic, loyalty, longing—into one.

"You pushed me," he said, more softly now, but with a promise at the heart of each word, "and you keep pushing me. Tonight, you’ve set a new standard. If you expect me to bear this much... pressure"—he gave a rueful, wicked smile—"I’ll need more than just your secrets. I’ll need your company, again and again."

He watched their reactions—a quickening in Serelith’s smile, a tilt of Cerys’s lips, the spark in Lira’s eyes.

Serelith was the first to break the quiet. "And if we expect you to keep up, you’ll need all our help." She laughed, breathy and satisfied, but beneath the mischief there was sincerity: the joy of finding herself, at last, not alone.

Cerys nodded, something wild but grateful in her posture. "Don’t think you’ll outrun us now, prince. Not after this."

Lira’s voice was soft but certain: "We’ll hold your secret, Mikhailis. All of them. But you’ll have to trust us to hold you, too."

The words hovered, weighty as a spell.

Mikhailis moved to the center of the room. He reached for Serelith first, drawing her upright from the bench, settling her gently by his side. Her hand slipped into his, fingers lacing with a practiced ease.

He took Cerys’s hand next, tugging her from the pillar, steadying her as she came to stand beside Serelith. Her grip was strong, steady, and her eyes—no longer cool but shining—met his with a new softness.

Lira was last. He extended a hand; she took it, rising gracefully, her steps slow but sure. When she reached him, he brushed a stray lock from her face, letting his hand linger at her nape, feeling her heartbeat beneath his palm.

They stood together, a rough circle, held by more than just hands—by the tangled, invisible ties that came from having been seen, wanted, chosen.

Mikhailis drew them all close, pressing a kiss first to Serelith’s temple, then to Cerys’s forehead, then to Lira’s cheek.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the hush fill him, the warmth and the ache and the strange, perfect rightness of it.

Then, with a crooked grin and a voice softer than any of them expected, he confessed, "I’ve never felt more alive. Or more terrified."

Serelith slipped her arms around his waist from behind, her hair trailing over his shoulder. "Don’t worry, my prince," she whispered, lips ghosting over his ear. "We’ll catch you if you fall."

Cerys moved in, her strong arms encircling both him and Serelith, her posture protective, loyal. "That’s a promise," she murmured. "For all of us."

Lira pressed close to his side, her fingers intertwining with his. "You’re not alone," she said, voice husky. "Not anymore."

A hush bloomed between them—a silence filled with the shimmer of breath and the throb of new possibility. In that charged quiet, Mikhailis looked from Lira to Cerys to Serelith, and he knew—by the spark in their eyes, the tremble in their lips, the lingering warmth in their bodies—that none of them wished to return to the distance that once kept them apart. The three women stood like the points of a compass, each a direction he had been drawn to, each now radiating their own pulse of longing and challenge.

He let out a slow, shaky breath, and in that breath was laughter and disbelief and an overwhelming gratitude for the strangeness of his fate.

"Well then," he murmured, voice still rough at the edges, "if I’m not alone, you all must be ready to face what you’ve unleashed."

His gaze swept over them—each one luminous, each one with a different hunger burning just beneath the skin. He felt the ache inside him still not quite soothed, the restless weight, the length of himself that had become the secret language between them: a promise, a dare, a poem written in shadows and breath.

He stepped first toward Serelith, her violet gaze quicksilver and knowing. She tilted her chin, a curl of pink hair spilling down her shoulder as she welcomed him with a smirk. "Back so soon, my prince?" she teased, but her voice trembled, her fingers already tugging him closer by the waistband.

He leaned down, kissed her slow, letting their mouths meet in a tide of heat and velvet. His tongue found hers, coaxed it into a slow, twisting rhythm, savoring the taste of wildflowers and storm. Serelith moaned into him, her hands slipping to the small of his back, drawing him nearer, deeper.

Their bodies pressed flush—his hips pinning her to the edge of the bench, her thighs parting to cradle him. He felt the forbidden warmth of her, the yielding space where her body awaited, a hunger that had not faded but flared anew at his touch. As he entered her, the heat and slickness, the impossibly snug embrace, made him shudder, and Serelith let out a gasp, sharp and sweet.

"Gods, Mikhailis—" Her voice splintered into laughter, then need. "You’re just as much trouble as ever—still too big—MMHH!"

He muffled her with another kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth as he rocked slowly into her, savoring the impossible fit, the feeling of being accepted and claimed. The rhythm built—gentle at first, then deeper, as Serelith arched into him, her moans threading the air with urgency and delight.

Lira and Cerys stood close, watching—no longer mere observers but conspirators, sisters in longing. Lira bit her lip, eyes shining, while Cerys’s hands flexed at her sides, her jaw tight with anticipation. The heat in the room thickened as Mikhailis drew out, letting Serelith fall back against the bench, her body limp, flushed with satisfaction.

He turned to Cerys next. Her eyes—green as rain-slick moss—locked on his, fierce but vulnerable. The wolf in her was not gone, only waiting for the right invitation. He held out a hand, and she took it, stepping forward into his arms.

Their kiss was different—hungry, insistent, the clash of two forces long held in check. Cerys’s lips parted with a low, trembling growl, and Mikhailis answered her with the steady, anchoring press of his mouth. Their tongues met—wet, strong, daring—and the world tilted.

He lifted her easily, her legs winding around his waist, the muscle of her body a living challenge against the gentleness of his touch. He felt her shudder as he pressed against her, and when he entered, the sensation drew a cry from her that was equal parts awe and disbelief.

"MMHH—GODS—IT’S SO MUCH—TOO MUCH—HOW ARE YOU—" Her head fell back, hair tumbling over his arm as he rocked into her, slow and deliberate, the length of him stretching her, filling her, claiming her in a way that was both battle and surrender.

Each thrust sent a wave through her, pleasure and pressure mingling in a perfect, poetic ache. Her moans turned to sharp, broken syllables, half swallowed by kisses, half loosed into the dark:

"MMHH!! SLRP! STILL TOO BIG—DON’T STOP—NOT YET—"

He muffled her again, his tongue sliding into her mouth, exploring, tangling, drinking in every sound she gave him. The slap of their bodies, the slick, wet music of their joining, the deep tremble in her thighs—every sense was tuned to the dance of edge and abandon.

When at last Cerys’s arms slackened, her breath coming in heavy, grateful waves, he let her slide down into the curve of Serelith’s lap, the two women clinging together, their cheeks flushed, their hearts thudding in shared awe.

Only Lira remained. She waited, not with impatience but with a calm, yearning certainty, as if she had always known her turn would come.

Mikhailis came to her, cupped her cheek, kissed her soft and searching. Her lips parted, welcoming him, her tongue moving shyly at first—then, as he deepened the kiss, with a boldness that left him aching. They melted into each other, the world shrinking to the wet, velvet union of mouth and tongue, the sighs and gasps winding between them.

He gathered her into his arms, lifting her gently, letting her legs lock around his hips. As their bodies joined, Lira let out a shivering gasp, her hands fisting in his hair. The forbidden warmth of her, the clutch and glide, drew him in—every inch a poem, every pulse a plea.

"MMHH—MMHHHH!! SLRP!" The sounds slipped between their lips, muffled by kisses, by the greedy, tender movement of their mouths and hips.

He moved in her with slow, savoring strokes, the slrp of their kisses mingling with the soft, rhythmic slap of skin against skin. The air was thick with sound—moans, whispers, the primal poetry of longing at last answered.

Lira’s voice trembled, words barely shaping themselves as she clung to him:

"You... you fill me so much—Mikhailis—please—don’t ever—don’t ever let me go—"

He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath a hot wind in her ear. "Never," he vowed, his voice rough with awe. "You’re mine—all of you are."

The heat built, slow and inexorable, each thrust a line in a poem only their bodies could write. As the wave crested, Lira’s cries rose, high and ragged, joy and need blurring together:

"MMHHH! YES—YES—STILL SO BIG—MMHHH!! SLRP—"

She broke around him, the rush of heat filling her, satisfaction blooming so deep it left her shaking, undone. He kissed her through it, swallowing her shudders, holding her as if she were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

When at last he eased her down, Mikhailis stepped back, breathing hard, his chest aching with wonder and exhaustion.

He looked at the three women before him—Serelith with her sly, dazed smile; Cerys’s fierce, grateful flush; Lira’s soft, trembling glow—and he knew that the ache of longing had finally found its answer in this secret, impossible harmony.

He moved to each in turn, kissing lips and brows and fingertips, letting the salt of their sweat and the velvet of their mouths imprint themselves on his memory.

The chamber was full of the perfume of magic, the sweet tang of skin, the hush that follows a storm.

Serelith drew him into her lap, laughing quietly. "So, my prince... will you survive us?"

Cerys curled beside him, her head on his shoulder. "I think he likes the challenge," she teased, voice still husky.

Lira tucked herself at his other side, her hand finding his, their fingers intertwining with a gentleness that belied the strength of what they’d shared.

Mikhailis let himself be held, let their warmth sink into his bones. "You three have ruined me for anything less," he admitted, a smile stealing across his lips. "But I wouldn’t have it any other way."

Serelith smirked, tracing a slow line down his chest. "You’d better not," she murmured, her tone a promise and a dare.

The four of them lingered in the hush, the emerald light painting their skin, their laughter, their soft kisses, their promises of always.

The length of him had become their private legend, a symbol not only of pleasure but of belonging, a bond that would not break. Each of them bore the mark—jealousy transformed into unity, longing transfigured into joy.

For as long as the chamber stood, for as long as their hearts beat, they would return to this place: the place where longing had been answered, where three women and one prince had learned the shape of love, and the language of together.

And in the warmth of their joined bodies, in the pulse of the emerald leaf, a new future shimmered—one shaped not by loneliness, but by the wild, unending poetry of desire shared and fulfilled.

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