Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 122- Veronica’s Order

A sound.

From the house.

Not from the garden entrance. From the upper terrace — the one with the French doors that opened above the pool area. The doors swung open with a casual disregard for how doors usually work.

And then there was a man.

He walked out from the terrace doors and onto the balcony rail — and didn’t stop. Just stepped off it. Twelve feet of drop. He landed on the poolside marble without bending his knees in any of the ways a human body would need to, his bare feet touching the tile with a sound like nothing at all, and straightened.

Barefoot. Wearing nothing but low-slung trousers that he appeared to have located with minimal effort. Dark hair. The kind of face that landed wrong in the world — too sharp, too deliberate, the features of something that had been assembled with intent rather than born.

And his cock.

Even through the fabric, the outline was ’wrong’ by normal standards. The kind of presence that read immediately, that Marga’s eyes went to before she could stop them and stayed on longer than she intended.

He stepped forward.

Directly onto Alexander’s hand.

Not looking down. The foot descended with casual, absolute indifference, the ball of his heel pressing onto Alexander’s already-burnt knuckles with the simple weight of a man who has not noticed what he is standing on.

"’AAAAAAHHHH—’"

"’Oh my god.’"

Raven looked down.

His expression was politely surprised. The expression of a man who has turned a corner and walked into someone unexpectedly in a corridor.

"’I’m sorry, man,’" he said. Genuinely casual. "’Didn’t see you.’"

Alexander was on his side now. His hand beneath that foot. His face wet, pressed against the marble, his whole body vibrating.

"’WHO ARE YOU—’" The words came out through agony. "’WHO ARE YOU, YOU BASTARD—GET OFF—’"

Raven stepped back.

He turned.

Behind him, Veronica stood — and his hands found her before anything else. Both hands. One sliding around her waist, the other finding the curve of her ass and gripping with the easy, total possessiveness of someone returning to something that belongs to them. His fingers spread across the thick flesh of her ass, pressing her against him, and he dipped his head to her neck.

His lips found the skin below her ear.

Veronica’s breath released.

Her hips moved into his grip. Slightly. Involuntarily. The sound that came from her was small and private.

"’Of course,’" Raven said, against her neck, his purple eyes open and watching Alexander on the ground. "’The one who is going to fuck your woman before killing you.’"

Alexander’s head came up.

Through the tears and the agony and the specific humiliation of being on the ground in his own property, Alexander Dalton looked at his wife — at the way her body curved into this stranger’s hands, at the way his mouth moved on her neck, at the expression on her face that he had never in twelve years seen — and found a resource he hadn’t expected to have.

He got up.

It took time. His burnt hand couldn’t grip. He used the edge of a lounger, clumsy, his knees shaking, his vision blurred. But he made it to vertical. He crossed to the outdoor table where a decorative object — a heavy glass paperweight, but also a security measure, a habit, there were real things underneath ornamental things in Alexander’s world — and beneath the poolside cabinet, the locked drawer his personal security had installed without comment.

The gun was there.

He grabbed it. Turned. His hand was shaking.

Raven still had Veronica’s ass in his hand. He was looking at Alexander. Had been looking at Alexander the entire time, in the way of something that tracks prey not because it’s worried but because it finds the tracking interesting.

Alexander fired.

The sound was enormous in the open air. The recoil knocked his burnt hand back and he cried out. The bullet traveled eleven feet toward Raven’s chest and then—

Ceased.

Not deflected. Not dodged. It turned to ash.

A small puff of grey and nothing, dissipating in the afternoon air like a thought you forget mid-sentence. There was no impact. No sound of metal on anything. Just — ash, and then the faint smell of something that had been warm briefly.

Silence.

"’What the—’"

"’Ah, what the hell?’"

Veronica’s voice came out with the specific annoyance of someone who has been interrupted during something good. She was looking at Alexander with the expression she used for subordinates who wasted her time.

"’Did you just try to hit my darling?’"

The word ’darling’ landed in Alexander’s chest like the bullet hadn’t.

"’You bastard,’" she said.

She snapped her fingers.

His right arm was gone from the elbow down.

Not bleeding. Not amputated in any surgical sense. Just — gone, burning away from the outside in, the flame precise and total, ash falling from where his forearm had been, the bone visible for one second and then that too gone, and Alexander screamed in the key of something that has gone past agony into the register where the body simply doesn’t have more language.

He collapsed.

The gun had gone with the arm. The marble around him was clean — no blood, the fire had cauterized as it removed, which was somehow worse than blood would have been.

He lay on his side. His chest heaved. His eyes were open but their focus was wrong, pointing somewhere that wasn’t this poolside, wasn’t this afternoon, wasn’t this beautiful expensive trap he’d built and sat in for twelve years thinking he was the one who owned it.

"’Veronica—’" The name came out broken. "’Ronica—please—why—I was going to—I would have—’"

She wasn’t looking at him.

She was looking at Raven. Who had taken his hand from her ass in order to slide it up the inside of her thigh. His fingers pressed against her from below. She made a small sound, her head falling back slightly against his shoulder.

"’I want to fuck that woman’s anal,’" Raven said.

He was looking at Marga.

Who was still against the railing.

Who had been watching all of this with the expression of a woman whose brain was running several emergency processes simultaneously and wasn’t sure which one to prioritize.

Raven’s hand moved against Veronica. His fingers worked.

She bit her lower lip, her hips rocking into his hand, the motion small and immediate.

She tilted her head toward Marga.

Marga’s eyes were stuck on the outline of his cock through the trousers. She caught herself. Pulled her eyes up. Met Veronica’s gaze, which was calm and knowing and not unsympathetic.

"L-Lady Veronica, You remember you were the one who hired me,’" Marga said as if suddenly realizing that she might have, in her play, forgotten the real power was held by that woman, who currently seems to have chosen a different side.

"’I did.’"

"’To stay close to him.’"

"’Yes.’"

Marga looked at Alexander. At the ruin on the marble.

At the thing that had for two years been her vehicle for advancement, her means to an end, her calculated investment.

The man who had put his hand on her ass in front of clients like demonstrating a possession.

She looked at Raven.

His trousers had been pushed down slightly — Veronica’s hand, which was behind her, working them — and the cock that emerged into the afternoon light was—

Marga made a sound that wasn’t a word.

Veronica’s fingers wrapped around it from behind her. She stroked once. Twice. Her eyes were still on Marga, patient, watching.

"’Spread your ass,’" Veronica said. "’Don’t you hear? My darling wants to fuck you.’"