Free Web NovelChapter 548: Chapter 548- Taking Favoyr of a Weak Lady?
He leaned closer.
His mouth found hers. She pressed her lips shut. She turned her head. He followed. He pressed harder. His tongue pushed against her closed lips. The saliva dripped. He grunted. He grabbed her tit with his free hand. He squeezed. The flesh spilled between his fingers.
"Open your mouth," he said. "I want you to show him very dirty."
His cock touched her thigh.
The hot, wet, blunt head pressed against the inner curve of her leg. It moved upward. Toward the white panties. Toward the cleft that was visible through the thin fabric. The men holding her ankles spread her wider. Her pussy was open beneath the cotton. The fat man positioned himself.
He was going to enter.
He was going to tear the panties. He was going to push into the crying woman while her son watched. He was going to—
The burst happened.
There was no light. There was no sound. There was simply a moment where the four men existed, and then a moment where they did not.
They became mist.
Blood mist. The red, wet, atomized spray of four bodies that had been compressed into a single point and then released. The mist filled the room. It coated the walls. It coated the ceiling. It hung in the air like a red cloud. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com
The child went limp.
The boy fell from the man’s arms. The man was gone. The boy hit the floor softly. He was unconscious. He did not see the mist. He did not see the blood.
The woman lay on the floor.
She was covered. The red mist settled on her face. Her hair. Her torn blouse. Her exposed tits. Her spread legs. Her white panties. The blood was warm. It was thick. It was everywhere.
She blinked.
She looked up. The room was empty of men. The blood was settling. Her son was asleep. The floor was red.
She screamed.
It was a small scream. A confused, terrified, broken sound. She looked at her hands. They were red. The blood dripped from her fingers. She was soaked. She was painted.
A voice came from behind her.
"Your child is asleep."
She froze.
She turned her head.
Raven sat in the chair.
He had not been there. He was there now. He held the child in his arms. The boy was curled against his chest, peaceful, unconscious. Raven’s clothes were pristine. No blood. No mist. He looked at her with eyes that were warm and dark and completely inhuman.
"Want to take a bath?" he asked.
The woman trembled.
She looked at him. She looked at the blood. She looked at her son. She looked at the man who had killed four men and was now sitting in her apartment holding her child like a father holding his infant.
She looked at his face.
He was handsome. More than handsome. The kind of beauty that stopped thought. The kind of face that made her heart hammer against her ribs. The blood on her cheeks was still warm. The terror in her spine was still sharp. But her heart thumped.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She stared at him.
Raven smiled.
He snapped his fingers.
The sound was small. It entered her ears. It traveled to her mind. It smoothed the panic. It dimmed the terror. It did not erase the blood. It simply made her calm enough to see him clearly. To see the way he looked at her. The way his eyes moved down her body. The way they lingered on the torn blouse. The exposed tits. The spread legs. The white panties.
He leaned forward.
"I said," he murmured, "I will pay you. You just have to give me a proper service while your child is asleep. Do you get it, Lady?"
"S-surbhi..."
The woman trembled as her mouth uttered her name.
She blinked. Her eyes were wet. The blood on her lashes was sticky. She did not understand what she was looking at. The chair was empty a moment ago. Now he sat there. Her son was in his arms. The boy was breathing softly, curled like a small animal against the demon’s chest.
"Surbhi," Raven said.
His voice was warm. He stood from the chair. He moved with the unhurried stride of a man who had all the time in the world. He walked toward the small bed in the corner. He placed the child down. He pulled the thin blanket up to the boy’s chin. He tucked it with a gentleness that made her heart stutter.
She stood there.
She did not move. Her torn blouse hung off her left shoulder. Her right tit was nearly visible through the rip. Her brown skirt was bunched around her waist. Her white panties were still exposed. Blood matted her hair. Blood painted her cheeks. She looked at him and forgot to cover herself.
He turned back. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓
He walked toward her. His eyes were dark. They moved down her body. They lingered on the torn fabric. On the heavy swell of her tits beneath the ruined blouse. On the thick curve of her hips where the skirt had failed. On the white cotton between her spread legs.
"Take a bath first," he said.
His hand reached her cheek. His thumb brushed the blood. It came away red. He held it up. He looked at it. Then he looked at her.
"W-what..." Her voice was a whisper. "What, sir?"
She flinched. She treated him like a nobleman. Like a lord. The word *sir* came out of her mouth with the trembling awe of a maiden who had never spoken to royalty. Her eyes were wide. Her lips were parted. Blood stained her lower lip.
"Your hand got dirty," he said.
His voice was soft. It was care. It was poison wrapped in silk. She looked at her own hands. They were shaking. Her fingers were curled. The blood was drying. She was overwhelmed. Terrified. She did not know what to do.
"Wait," she gasped. "I will clean it. I will—"
He pulled her.
His arm closed around her waist. He yanked her forward. Her body slammed against his chest. Her heavy tits mashed against the hard planes of his torso. The air left her lungs. She gasped. Her head tilted up. She looked into his eyes. They were inches apart. She could smell him. Clean. Not blood. Not sweat. Something dark and warm.
"Shut up," he said. "And listen to me."
His hand moved down her back. It settled on the thick curve of her ass. He gripped. He squeezed. The fat of her cheek spilled between his fingers. She whimpered.
"I said," he whispered against her ear. "I will pay you. Just offer me your services."
She blinked. Her mind was slow. The blood. The dead men. The child. His hand on her ass. Her pussy was still wet from fear. She could not process the words.
"What services?" she stammered. "I make flowers. I sell them. I don’t—"
He chuckled.
The sound vibrated through his chest into her tits. His hand slid lower. He grabbed the hem of her skirt. He pulled it up. His palm found the bare skin of her thigh.
Then her ass. Then the cotton of her panties. He gripped her ass cheek hard. He pulled. The flesh stretched. She cried out. She tipped forward onto her toes.
"Ah—!" she gasped. "What—?"
