QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 86: Boneless

Chapter 86 – Evelyne POV

Daphne suddenly rises.

And for a heartbeat—I hate how it happens—a pang of disappointment blooms sharp and heavy in my chest. Like I was expecting something more. Like I wanted something more.

She notices, of course.

She always does.

Amusement curls at the edge of her mouth as her gaze lingers on me—far too knowing, far too steady. Then I hear it. The dull thud of her boot hitting the floor, and then the second one. The soft shuffle of fabric and leather.

I swallow.

My heart skips.

The room feels hotter than it should.

And before I can piece a coherent thought together, her hand wraps around my ankle.

"D-Daphne—?" My voice cracks.

She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t need to.

With a smirk tugging at her lips, she drags me toward her with practiced ease, the silken bed sheets rustling beneath me.

I slide down with a startled gasp, my body following the momentum, until I’m lying flat on the plush bedding, my hair fanning out behind me like spilled ink.

She leans in.

Her arms cage me in, one on each side, palms sinking into the mattress, elbows locked. She’s above me now, in full command of every inch of space between us.

"Don’t be too disappointed," she murmurs, her voice velvet-wrapped steel.

She lifts her hand, slow and deliberate, brushing a knuckle over my cheek, tracing the edge of my jaw. I’m certain she can hear my breathing—shallow, erratic, trembling.

Then she trails her fingers down, down... until her palm settles gently on the side of my neck.

My breath catches.

Her thumb strokes the pulse point there, and I know she can feel it hammering wildly.

"You’re so beautiful," she whispers.

I’ve heard that phrase my whole life.

But never like this.

Never when I was looking up into a face that made my skin feel too tight. Never when the words weren’t just flattery but worship—an aching confession etched into every syllable.

There’s a reverence in her voice, in the way her eyes linger on me like I’m art. Like I’m a secret she wants to memorize with her hands.

That’s when she leans in, and finally, finally kisses me.

My breath catches at the contact. I gasp—just slightly—and she seizes that moment, deepening the kiss in a way that sends my head spinning.

Her mouth moves against mine like she’s claiming me, like she’s waited lifetimes to do this. I can’t think—I don’t want to.

The last time we kissed was that day in the stream, under the hush of setting sun and water. I’ve replayed it so many times since, wondering if my mind exaggerated it.

If it was just the heat and the desperation that made it feel like magic.

But no.

That wasn’t the best moment of my life.

This is.

I reach for her, wanting to feel her closer, to anchor myself somehow—but she catches my wrists and pins them above my head with startling strength. My fingers twitch uselessly in her grasp, the silk sheets rustling beneath me as she leans in, eyes dark and burning.

Of course she’s strong. I’ve heard —about the way she dominates the pit fights, about how men twice her size are flattened in the mud. I never doubted them.

But to feel it—to be on the receiving end of that strength, that control—it does something to me I don’t dare name.

Her free hand glides down, from my waist to the soft curve of my hip, tracing a path that has me arching without meaning to. My breath stutters.

I’ve never been touched like this.

Never.

Not even once.

My wedding night years ago was a duty. A blur of pain and awkward fumbling under candlelight. There was no desire. No warmth. No tenderness.

But this?

This is unbearable tenderness and searing hunger wrapped into one.

And then she bites my lip—just enough to sting—and I open my eyes, startled.

She’s looking down at me like I’m the center of the world.

"You don’t get to be distracted right now," she says, her voice a low, amused warning.

And then her lips are on my neck, soft at first, then pressing firmer. She kisses just below my ear and I tremble, utterly undone.

Her hand moves again—slow, confident—up the length of my thigh, dragging my nightgown with it, exposing more of me than anyone ever has. The air feels too cool on my skin and her palm far too warm.

My thighs shift in reflex, but she slips her knee between them, parting them without resistance.

I don’t know where to look. Her eyes? The ceiling? Her mouth?

"You’re thinking too much," she murmurs against my skin.

She’s right.

Because I am thinking.

About the others.

About whether she’s done this before. Whether I’m just another soft body in her arms. Whether it’s me she wants—or the face I share with someone else.

But then her teeth graze the delicate skin of my throat, and I cry out—soft, involuntary.

"Am I not interesting enough, Duchess?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous.

"That you keep getting distracted?" freeωebnovēl.c૦m

She presses her lips to mine again, swallowing my answer before I can give it.

And by the time she pulls back, I’m gone.

Thoughtless.

Boneless.

Ruined.

Her hand is still trailing along my thigh, fingers grazing the curve of my leg, and every point of contact feels like fire beneath my skin.

My nightgown has bunched around my hips now, forgotten. My breath hitches as she leans in, her lips brushing the shell of my ear.

"This is the part where you push me away and tell me to stop," she murmurs, voice thick with restraint, like she’s holding herself at the edge of a cliff, waiting for my word to either step back—or leap.

I shake my head, once, sharp and certain.

Stop?

Even if the whole castle were burning down around us, I would beg her to continue. Even if this ends in ruin, in heartbreak, in scandal and flames—I would still say yes.

But she waits.

Her mouth ghosts along the curve of my jaw, not kissing, just hovering, burning her presence into my skin.

"Words, Duchess," she says, and I feel her hand still, pressing into my hip with purpose. "I need to hear them."

My throat is dry, my voice barely a whisper.

"Don’t... don’t stop."