100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 841: Chapter 840 - The Fear of Her Own Reputation

”Please,” she said. Her voice, cracked and breathless, was the voice of a woman begging. ”Please do not do that, professor. I am begging you. I will do anything. Please.”

I looked at her. At the face, white and wet. At the eyes, blue and desperate. At the hand, gripping my arm, that was shaking.

”What will you do in exchange for it?” I said.

She trembled. The question, the implication, the open-ended nature of the demand, was a trap. She knew it. I knew she knew it. The knowledge passed between us in the space of a heartbeat.

”What...” she started. The word, incomplete, was the word of a woman who was afraid to finish the question.

I walked. She stumbled after me. Her hand, still on my arm, was dragged along. Her feet, in their polished shoes, scrambled to keep up.

”I do not know,” she said. ”Tell me what you want. I will do it. Anything. Just do not send the letter.”

I stopped. She nearly collided with me. Her body, off-balance, pressed against my back for a moment before she caught herself. The contact, brief and accidental, was noted.

”There was a girl,” I said. My voice was quiet. The tone, conversational, was the tone of a man discussing history. ”In your section. Two years ago. A commoner. She had no family name. No connections. She was assigned to your care during the dimensional rift exercise.”

Seraphina’s face changed. The desperation, the fear, the panic. All of it was replaced by something else. Something darker. Something that lived behind her eyes and had been hiding there for two years.

”Stop,” she said. Her voice, barely audible, was the voice of a woman who knew where this conversation was going.

”Her name was Mira,” I continued. ”She was fourteen. She had potential. She had mana. She had dreams. She was assigned to your team during the rift exercise. And you abandoned her.”

”Stop,” Seraphina said again. Louder this time. Her voice, cracking, was the voice of a woman whose walls were being breached.

”You left her in the rift,” I said. ”The dimensional instability. The collapsing space. You were supposed to cover her retreat. You were the team leader. You were responsible. And you ran.”

”Stop!” she screamed. The word, loud and raw, echoed through the hallway. Her hands, on my arm, tightened. Her nails, digging through the coat, found skin.

”She lost her eyesight,” I said. The words, quiet and devastating, were delivered without emphasis. Without emotion. The facts, laid bare, were worse than any accusation. ”The dimensional rift damaged her optic nerves. She will never see again. She is in a care facility in the lower district. She lives on charity. Because of you.”

Seraphina’s legs gave out. Her body, collapsing, hit the floor. Her knees, striking the stone, made a sound that echoed through the empty hallway. Her hands, releasing my arm, went to her face. Her palms, pressing against her eyes, were wet.

”I know,” she whispered. The words, muffled by her hands, were barely audible. ”I know. I know. I was there. I was scared. The rift was collapsing. I could not... I could not reach her. I tried. I...”

”You did not try,” I said. ”You ran. And then you told everyone that it was the dark elf raiders who caused the rift. That it was the half-breeds who destabilized the dimension. That it was their fault, not yours.”

I turned. Looked down at her. At the body, crumpled on the floor. At the hands, covering the face. At the blonde hair, falling around her like a curtain.

”You blame the other races because they did not save the girl you abandoned,” I said. ”That is the truth, is it not? You hate them because hating them is easier than hating yourself.”

The tears came. Not the dramatic sobs of the dark elf’s performance. Real tears. The kind that came from a place so deep that the body couldn’t contain them. They ran from between her fingers, down her wrists, onto the stone floor.

I stepped forward. My body, moving with the casual confidence of a predator who had cornered his prey, closed the distance. I reached down. My hand found her arm. Pulled.

She stood. The motion, assisted by my grip, brought her upright. Her body, weak and trembling, fell forward. Against me. Her chest, heavy and full, pressed against my coat. Her face, wet and contorted, was inches from my chest.

I pushed. Her back hit the wall. The sound, soft and final, was the sound of a woman who had nowhere left to go.

Her body, pressed against mine, was warm. Her breasts, large for her age, pressed against my chest through the uniform. The fabric, thin and formal, did little to conceal the softness beneath. I could feel her nipples, stiff from the cold or the fear or both, pressing against me.

She trembled. Her hands, at her sides, were fists. Her face, tilted up, was wet. Her blue eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, looked at me with the expression of a woman who had been completely dismantled.

”You are beautiful when you are broken,” I said. The words, quiet and honest, were not a compliment. They were an observation. The observation of a man who appreciated the aesthetics of surrender.

My hand moved. Down. From her arm. Over her hip. To the hem of her skirt. The fabric, pleated and formal, was soft. I grabbed it. Lifted.

”Should I also punish you the way you punished her?” I said. The words, whispered into the space between us, were a question that was not a question. ”Of course, your punishment would be much more.”

She trembled. Her hands, finding my chest, pushed. The push, weak and token, was the push of a woman whose body had already surrendered even as her mind fought.

”Please forgive me,” she whispered. ”Professor, please. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

My hand, holding the skirt, lifted higher. The fabric, rising, revealed her thighs. The skin, pale and smooth, was unmarked. The muscles, toned from training, were firm. The skirt, bunched at her hip, exposed her panties.

Flowers. Small, pink flowers on a white background. The fabric, cotton and thin, was the kind of panty that a young woman would wear. Not the seductive lace of a woman trying to entice. The simple, practical cotton of a woman who dressed for herself and no one else.

”What kind of panty is this?” I said. The chuckle that accompanied the words was warm. Genuine. The amusement of a man who found the contrast between the fierce president and the flowered panties endearing.

I touched the fabric. My finger, tracing the edge of the panty, found the seam. The cotton, warm from her body, was soft.

”Sit up,” I said. The words, quiet and commanding, were an order.

She gasped. Her hands, on my chest, tightened. Her fingers, gripping the fabric of my coat, were white.

”Professor, forgive me,” she said. The words, repeated like a mantra, were the words of a woman who had lost the ability to form new sentences.

I pulled. The panties, sliding down, came off. The fabric, catching at her thighs, passed her knees, and fell to her ankles. She stepped out of them. The motion, automatic, was the motion of a woman who had been conditioned to comply.