Evil MC's NTR Harem

Chapter 1052: Chapter 1052 Route

“You have a husband,” Ross replied, his voice a low, infuriatingly calm counterpoint to the chaos still echoing faintly in the streets.

He didn’t wait for an invitation, lowering himself onto the plush velvet of a nearby sofa as if he was the king of the world.

He spread his legs in a gesture of vulgar ownership, claiming the space, the moment, and her diminishing sense of control.

A smirk played on his lips, devoid of warmth.

“Tell me, Miku, what would he want you to do today? Would he want you to be a good girl? To be safe? If I were him, I’d fuck you five times a day if not more.”

“Don’t.” The word shot out of her, sharp as shattered glass.

It was a brittle edge laid over a bottomless well of fear.

Her hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists at her sides, trembled.

“Mention him again, and I walk. I swear it. I’d rather take my chances with the zombies. They’re more honest than you.”

The threat was hollow, and they both knew it.

The world outside the reinforced door of this penthouse sanctuary was a graveyard of the living, a landscape of gnashing teeth and mindless hunger.

Ross’s protection was a gilded cage, but it was a cage with breathable air, a stark contrast to the certain death that waited outside.

Yet, her feet carried her to him, each step a profound betrayal—not just of the man she loved, whose face she desperately tried to hold in her mind’s eye, but of the person she had believed herself to be.

The ornate rug seemed to clutch at her shoes, a final, feeble protest.

She had to get this over with.

If this was the price of another sunrise, she would pay it, and bury the memory so deep it could never see the light.

Sinking to her knees on the cold, hard floor, the soft pile of the carpet doing little to cushion the jarring reality of her position, she focused on the mechanical task.

Her fingers, numb and clumsy with self-loathing, worked at the heavy buckle of his belt.

The cold metal was a shock against her skin.

She tugged his jeans down just enough, the rough denim scraping against her wrists.

Her breath caught, hitching in a throat gone impossibly tight.

And in that moment, all thought stuttered to a halt, short-circuited by the sheer, daunting reality of him.

Ross was… enormous. More than just a man, he was a monument to crude, physical power.

Thick and heavy with a prominent, defined vein tracing its length, he lay against his thigh like a weapon.

He was easily the largest man she had ever seen—not that she had much for comparison, having only ever known her husband in the tender, familiar dark of their marital bed.

This was different. This was an imposition, a demand.

A silent, painful gulp stuck in her throat, refusing to go down.

Her eyes, wide and unblinking, remained fixed on the sight, her mind scrambling and failing to reconcile the gentle, loving memory of her husband with this brutal, immediate truth.

The air grew thick, pressing in on her, and the daunting task ahead suddenly felt infinitely more terrifying.

The air in the opulent study was thick with the scent of old leather, fine whiskey, and the cloying sweetness of Miku’s own scent, which now felt like a fragrance worn for a sacrifice.

Miku’s gaze was fixed on Ross’s face, tracing the lines of a smile that was both a promise and a threat.

It was a handsome face, sculpted with an arrogance that came from a lifetime of getting exactly what he wanted.

That smile made everything clear.

She realized with a cold, sinking certainty that if she hadn’t preemptively threatened him, he would have long since voiced some scathing, demeaning comment about her husband.

The thought of Ace, with his gentle eyes and quiet demeanor, being dissected by Ross’s cruel wit was unbearable.

It was true, Ace possessed a smaller cock in a world dominated by men like Ross—men who filled rooms with the gravity of their will and the size of their dicks.

Ace merely has a 5 inch cock but she was happy with it.

But what Ace lacked in domineering force, he more than made up for in a quiet, steadfast love that had been her anchor.

He was her sanctuary, and the thought of him was a shard of warmth in the chilling atmosphere of Ross’s domain.

He was enough, more than enough, for her heart. This act with Ross was a desperate, ugly transaction to protect that sanctuary.

Steeling herself, a process that felt like forging her own will into a cold, hard blade, Miku leaned forward.

The plush carpet beneath her knees seemed to swallow her, grounding her in this moment of no return.

Her lips parted, her breath hitching as the musky, masculine scent of him filled her senses, overwhelming the last traces of her hesitation.

The sheer, intimidating size of him, thick and substantial, was a physical manifestation of the power he held over her.

Her world had narrowed to this single, terrifying point, her tongue hovering a mere centimeter from the head, its heat a brand against her skin.

It was then that his voice cut through the heavy silence, not loud, but laced with an absolute authority that froze her in place.

“I don’t wish to remind you, Miku,” Ross began, his tone as chillingly casual as if he were discussing the weather, “but if you do this, you will become my woman. A woman exclusively for my pleasure.”

The words hung in the air, each one a drop of ice water down her spine.

She didn’t look up, her eyes fixed on the veined, flesh-and-blood reality before her, but she could feel his gaze boring into the top of her head.

“This isn’t a one-time indulgence,” he continued, the softness of his voice making the threat all the more potent.

“It is a transfer of ownership. If you try to pretend this never happened, if you so much as let your husband touch you after this, I have no problem killing him in front of you.” He paused, letting the image form in her mind—Ace, his gentle eyes wide with confusion and terror.

“And I won’t make it quick. I’ll be sure to make him suffer a great deal before he dies. I want you to understand the cost of betrayal perfectly.”

With that final, soul-crushing pronouncement, he leaned back against the sofa, the leather sighing under his weight.

The decision was now entirely hers. The illusion of choice was a cruel game, and they both knew it.

The safety of the man she loved was the chain around her neck, and Ross held the end of it.

Miku remained frozen, the weight of his ultimatum pressing down on her.

She counted the frantic beats of her own heart, each one a thunderous protest.

Then, she began to count her breaths—seven shaky, ragged intakes of air that did little to calm the storm inside her.

On the seventh exhale, a shudder ran through her entire body.

The last vestiges of resistance crumbled, not with a bang, but with a whimper.

She closed the minuscule gap.

The first touch was a ghost of a sensation, her tongue tentative and dry, licking the broad head with a palpable hesitation that was more telling than any words.

The taste of him, salt and skin and power, was a brand on her tongue.