Half an hour later, an understanding had been reached between them. Dahlia, unwilling to remain under Zamira's rule, chose to return to Bervin City residing with Myra.
Oga had promised that each year, he would spend two months over there.
"I shall remain for the month and await Priscilla's return," Dahlia said, adjusting her underwear as it shifted over her ridiculous curves.
'Her ass is even fatter than my wife!'
"I trust you have prepared a spare room?"
Not long after, Oga departed the dining hall with Dahlia, Yet his fingers never part from her rear.
There were indeed spare rooms—he did not have to break his promise to Zamira.
Although the room was not as big as their master bedroom.
He and Dahlia entered the cozy room, with a heart shape king size mattress
Oga took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day finally pressing upon him.
Dahlia remove her soak underwear, set out for the bath house….
The paperwork had been endless.
Finally, he would have the chance to survey his land. Each line he had signed in the construction agreements and funding allocations reminded him of the responsibilities he had inherited—the legacy his father had left behind, the hidden plans that had gone unspoken but now rested on his shoulders.
And then there was Yaya. Her pregnancy had brought its own set of challenges. She had chosen to forfeit the child, as her transformation would be too great.
Unlike what Oga had believed, Zmos had explained the truth of the matter. Oga had no choice but to accept that if they continued with the pregnancy, Yaya would likely perish.
The anticipation, the preparations, and the quiet worry of expecting a new life had weighed heavily on his mind.
The past days had been a rollercoaster of emotions for Oga—a relentless tide of highs and lows that drained him, his weariness extending far beyond mere physical fatigue.
The silence around him grew oppressive, a weight that pressed heavily on his thoughts as he sought a brief moment of rest. Sleep came, albeit fleetingly, only to be shattered by an unusual sound: the faint, rhythmic noise of Dahlia slurping.
He stirred, eyes fluttering open to take in the scene before him and an inexplicable sense of satisfaction. Dahlia's silhouette caught his eye, her lips stained with crimson, droplets of blood trailing delicately down her chin.
"I was willing to let you sleep, but…" she began, her voice low and teasing, as though her words were an afterthought to the act she had interrupted.
Oga sat upright, his expression one of lingering confusion and faint disbelief. "You... I thought you were a Mertaru?" he finally managed, his voice heavy with a mix of confusion and curiosity.
Dahlia glanced up at him, her gaze sharp yet playful. "Hmm? When did I ever say that?" she replied, her tone almost mocking as her hands remained in motion—intimate, deliberate, and utterly unrelenting.
"Yonga," Oga said, his confusion deepening. "Isn't he blood brother?"
Dahlia's expression flickered for a moment, a shadow of something unreadable crossing her face. "Half-brother," she corrected. "We share the same mother, but our fathers… well, mine was a wanderer. He passed through our settlement and caught my mother's attention. So no, I'm not a pureblood like Yonga."
She said no more on the matter, her focus shifting entirely as she climbed atop him with unhesitating resolve. Her movements were smooth, her intentions clear.
"It's going to be a rough night," she whispered, her lips brushing against his ear. "I'm not interested in origins or bloodlines. The only thing I care about right now is you—stirring my inside."
Her fingers moved with practiced confidence, guiding him with an ease that belied her fervent hunger.
"To possess such strength, such size…" she murmured, her admiration evident. "It's rare enough within our tribe, but what leaves me awestruck is how you wield such a tool…."
Her words were not empty praise; they carried the weight of genuine astonishment. For all his raw power, Yonga—a towering figure with a reputation for having the largest rod—was clumsy, and inept in the art of pleasure the bastard can only last 2 minutes.
Dahlia had endured his attempts, but they had always left her cold and detached.
Oga, however, was a revelation. In mere moments, he had shattered every expectation, awakening sensations she had forgotten.
Dahlia knew what it meant to have her gut rearranged, and she was determined to experience it again and again until the night blurred.
Oga required no further guidance. Before long, Dahlia found herself surrendering entirely, her face pressed deep into the soft pillows, her hips arching instinctively as though reaching for the heavens.
Unlike his demeanor with Zamira—gentle and measured in consideration of the life she carried—Oga was unrestrained.
Dahlia, unburdened by such delicacies, met his fervor with twice the intensity, her spirit as unyielding as her desire.
The night's reverie would leave no corner of the estate untouched by its echoes. The air filled with a crescendo of unfiltered sounds—flesh meeting flesh, mingled with Dahlia's unabashed cries.
"Yes, Daddy… you're reaching into me!" Her words, raw and unguarded, punctuated the charged atmosphere.
They were equals in every way that mattered—matching in height and temperament, kindred spirits in their pursuit of pleasure. Like two birds of a feather, they moved in perfect harmony, each knowing instinctively how to meet the other's needs without hesitation.
Oga was thoroughly pleased. Not only had Dahlia prepared breakfast, but her devotion to him remained unwavering.
Dahlia continued to eagerly attend to Oga; Traces of bite marks and saliva were on every inch. As though marking her territory, this woman was slobbering.
"It's been a while since I last cooked. Hope you like it, hubby!" Dahlia cheerfully said as she swallowed another spoonful of batter.
With each bite, the taste and flavor-filled Oga's mouth, leaving him savoring every morsel. Dahlia's cooking was truly delicious, even more so than Faye's.
"I can see why Nuu never stops praising Priscilla," Oga remarked, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "She must have inherited her culinary skills from you."
"I'm honored to hear such praise!" Dahlia replied with a radiant smile.
"For the month you're here, I expect my breakfasts to come with only an apron," Oga teased, his hand slipping to her waist. His tone was playful, though his touch lingered, his fingers tracing her curves.
"Anything for you, Daddy," Dahlia replied with a slight blush, her cheeks warming with happiness.
She instinctively touched her stomach. The memories of their shared affection last night, filled her belly, and she couldn't help but smile at the thought of their future.
A few minutes later, their conversation took a more serious turn.
"I understand your desire to leave in a month, but I wish you'd stay," Oga said, his voice gentle, yet probing.
Dahlia stood on the balcony, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains. She took a moment to collect her thoughts before speaking.
"Oga," she began, her voice calm but resolute, "I've lived my life on my terms. I won't be told what I can and cannot do. I will accept the role of your consort, though it will be difficult. However…" She hesitated, her eyes still focused on the horizon.
"I'm not one to take orders from another woman. That could cause problems later on."
Her words lingered in the air before she continued. "Your wife might tolerate my presence, but two lions can't share the same mountain. And I don't believe you desire strife!" She turned to him then.
"Let's stick to our original agreement. I'll bring a few members of my tribe to help with your business."
Oga sighed, the frustration clear on his face, but he gave in. "Alright then, but this isn't just about my business—it's about our future children too."
Dahlia's cheeks flushed at his words, a smile forming before it faded, replaced by a flicker of unease.
"But you'll have to stay in Bervin City with Myra," he added.
Dahlia's eyes narrowed. "Hmm? Don't tell me she's your concubine?"
Oga dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "She's simply a good friend. You're reading too much into it."
"Good friend?" Dahlia scoffed, her tone sharp. "The kind who sucks your dick? I'm not stupid, Oga. That little wench can't stop talking about you."
A heavy silence followed her words. Oga remained still, his expression unreadable, the weight of her accusation settling over him.
Dahlia broke the silence. "Fine. I'll agree, but in return, you'll honor your word. You'll stay with me in Bervin City for three months out of the year, not two, as we originally discussed."
Oga said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.
He had no choice but to give in. Slowly, he reached out, and with a soft click, a beautiful ring was placed on Dahlia's finger, sealing their agreement.
"I won't be able to keep you company throughout the day," he said, his voice steady yet tinged with regret. "However, I do promise to take the weekend off. If you desire anything, just let my assistant Gayle know…"
With that, Oga leaned forward, his lips brushing gently against hers.
What was meant to be a brief kiss, led to another round.
Oga then left the room feeling much lighter.
Dahlia watched him leave, her mind dwelling on every word and gesture he had made. Not only was he strong, but there was also a sweetness to him, a tenderness that made her admiration grow even deeper.
As a half-Vampire, Dahlia found herself drawn to his blood—its taste, rich and enticing. Yet, there was another, more intoxicating element she couldn't deny. His essence, his very being, held a divine allure that stirred her in ways she hadn't anticipated.
With those thoughts lingering in her mind, Dahlia turned to open the door, ready to spend the day with her kin.
Standing before her was a striking young woman, likely in her late twenties.
"Good morning, Consort," the woman greeted, bowing slightly. "I am Gayle, the assistant to Lord Oga. For the remainder of your stay, I will assist you around the estate and ensure all your needs are met." She handed Dahlia a small box. "His Lordship has prepared a selection of clothing for you to wear during your stay."
Dahlia stared at the box, puzzled.
Gayle smiled gently. "Everything has been arranged. You'll find it all inside."
Soon after, Dahlia changed into one of the many outfits provided by Lord Oga. It was a form-fitting pink midi dress with a thigh-high split—its design flattering her curves and drawing attention to her long legs.
"You look stunning, Lady Dahlia," Gayle said, her voice filled with admiration.
Dahlia blushed at the compliment, her embarrassment giving way to a quiet sense of pride.
"As for your schedule today, I will take care of everything," Gayle continued. "But first, have you had breakfast?"
"I have," Dahlia replied. "So, what's on the agenda for now?"
"You were going to visit Lord Nuu, but I've been informed he left the estate early this morning," Gayle informed Dahlia, her voice steady and professional.
"Your next stop will be to meet with the head of each department." She gestured gracefully, leading Dahlia through the vast halls and up the intricately designed staircases of the estate.
The experience was wholly new to Dahlia. Servants dressed in pristine uniforms paused as she passed, bowing deeply and offering warm, reverent greetings.
Their gestures, though brief, carried an air of respect that hinted at the high regard in which her position was held.
As they rounded a corner, a towering figure suddenly emerged, his presence dominating the corridor. He was a behemoth of a man, Yimir's thick arms crossed over his broad chest, his sharp eyes fixed intently on Gayle.
"Where is Lord Oga?" Yimir asked, his voice a low rumble that resonated in the stone halls.
Gayle shyly replied, her tone soft and obedient as she relayed the lord's whereabouts.
Dahlia watched the exchange with quiet amusement, a faint smile playing on her lips as the man, who Gayle introduced as Yimir, offered a stiff bow before retreating down the hall.
When the two women resumed their walk, Dahlia broke the silence, her gaze drifting to the ornate walls around them.
"I noticed a great deal of artwork and sculpture on the third floor," she remarked thoughtfully. "What do you know of their origins?"
Gayle nodded as though expecting the question. "The paintings were created by their mother," she explained. "As for the sculptures, they are the work of your lord husband. He crafted them during his youth."
They paused before an exquisite statue depicting a hooded mage locked in battle with a knight. The sheer detail in the piece—each fold of the mage's robe, the determined tilt of the knight's sword—took Dahlia's breath away.
"Remarkable," she murmured, leaning closer to admire the craftsmanship. "This could fetch an impressive sum of ducats at auction."
Gayle stiffened, her expression unreadable, but before she could reply, Dahlia chuckled lightly. "Mmm," Dahlia mused, arching a single eyebrow in mock suspicion. "I saw the way you looked at him. Don't try to deny it—you're sweet on him."
A faint blush crept up Gayle's cheeks, her fair skin betraying her emotions. She parted her lips to protest but found herself at a loss for words. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the smooth stone floor, her heart beating an uneven rhythm.
It wasn't just Yimir's presence that flustered her—though she couldn't deny the growing warmth she felt whenever he was near.
For days now, she had been visiting the House of Breeders, a place surrounded by whispers and rumors that often painted it in a scandalous light.
Yet the reality was far from the tales. The compound, far from being intimidating, was lively, filled with people whose warmth and humor turned her initial trepidation into genuine fondness.
They welcomed her without hesitation, and though her position as Lord Oga's assistant ensured no one overstepped their bounds, it was clear they valued her company.
Most of her evenings, however, were spent in Yimir's company. Something about him drew her in—his quiet strength, his kind eyes, the way he seemed to see through her reserved demeanor.
Before Gayle could recover or muster a response, Dahlia stepped into the bustling kitchen, their conversation swept away by the cacophony of activity. The room was alive with motion, a symphony of sights and sounds.
Steam curled upward from massive pots bubbling over open flames, filling the air with savory and spiced aromas.
Cooks moved with practiced precision, their knives flashing as they diced vibrant Emberback Grouper, the fish's fiery red scales glinting in the light.
Nearby, a butcher carefully carved chunks from the imposing carcass of a Dreadscale Crock, its meat marbled with an iridescent sheen that hinted at its magical origins.
Long wooden tables groaned under the weight of fresh ingredients: earthy root vegetables, bundles of aromatic herbs, and baskets of golden bread, still warm and fragrant from the ovens.
Workers dashed back and forth, their aprons stained with flour and grease, shouting orders and requests above the din.