A horn. Curved. Jagged at the edges. Glowing faintly with some inner light that made his chest tighten with dread he couldn't explain.

He'd seen it before.

No—he'd 'felt' it before.

In his past life, just days before everything went to shit, before Emperor Leo cornered him, before Elena drove her sword through his heart—small horns had started growing from his skull.

Thin, useless things that granted no power, only questions and stares. And they'd been that same shade.

'Purple.'

Viktor's jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth ache. His free hand—not held by either woman—dropped to his lap, fingers curling into the wool fabric covering his legs until his knuckles turned white.

'System.'

He focused inward, his inner voice sharp and demanding despite the fog still clouding his thoughts.

'That dream I just saw... it has something to do with my race, doesn't it? Answer me.'

Silence.

No blue interface flickered into view. No text appeared in his mind's eye. Nothing.

The system ignored him.

'Of course it fucking did.'

Viktor exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his body to relax one muscle at a time. His shoulders dropped. His jaw unclenched. He leaned back against the cushioned seat, letting his head rest against the wooden wall of the carriage.

The wood was cool against his scalp—solid, real, grounding him back to the present.

"Young Master..." Mira's voice was softer now, gentler. Her thumb brushed over the fabric of his shirt where her hand still rested on his shoulder. "Please... tell us what's wrong."

Helena nodded quickly, her grip on his other shoulder tightening just a fraction. "We're here for you. Whatever it is."

Viktor looked between them—these two women who, for some gods-forsaken reason he still couldn't fully understand, actually gave a damn about him.

His chest tightened again, but not from fear this time.

He forced a small smile, crooked and tired. "Nothing. Just a bad dream."

Neither woman looked convinced.

Helena's brows drew together, her lips pressing into a thin line. Mira's eyes narrowed slightly, studying his face with the kind of maternal scrutiny that made him feel like a kid caught lying about stealing sweets.

But they didn't push.

Instead, they did something that made his breath hitch.

Both of their hands slid down from his shoulders—slowly, deliberately—until their fingers found his.

Mira's thick fingers interlaced with his left hand, her palm warm and slightly rough from years of work. She squeezed gently, her thumb stroking over his knuckles in a soothing rhythm.

Helena's smaller, softer hand clasped his right, her fingers slipping between his with practiced ease. She squeezed too, her touch lighter but no less firm.

They were holding him.

Anchoring him.

Viktor felt their warmth seep into his skin, chasing away the lingering chill that nightmare had left behind.

He was sandwiched between them—Mira's thick, maternal body pressed against his left side, all soft curves and heavy weight.

Helena's slightly smaller but equally soft frame against his right, her shoulder tucked perfectly beneath his.

Their thighs touched his under the blankets covering their laps. Heat radiated from both of them, soaking through the layers of fabric and into his skin.

"Are you alright, Young Master?" Mira whispered again, her breath warm against the side of his face.

"Are you alright, Young Lord?" Helena echoed from his other side, her voice trembling just slightly.

Viktor's smile widened a fraction. He squeezed both their hands back, his grip firm.

"Of course," he said, his voice low and rough. Then he paused, letting the word hang in the air for just a moment before adding, "Wives."

Both women stiffened.

Helena's face turned pink—no, red—her lips parting in a soft gasp. Her eyes went wide, and she quickly looked down at their joined hands like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

Mira's reaction was different. Her eyes widened too, but then a slow, pleased smile spread across her face.

Her grip on his hand tightened, and she shifted even closer, pressing the full weight of her massive breast against his arm until he could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric.

Viktor closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the warmth of their presence. The nightmare was still there, lurking at the edges of his mind, but it felt distant now. Manageable.

He took a deep breath—

—and then something shifted under the blankets.

His eyes snapped open.

Mira's hand had left his.

He felt her fingers slide away, trailing down his forearm before disappearing beneath the wool fabric covering their laps. His breath caught in his throat as her hand brushed against his thigh—tentative at first, then deliberate.

Her fingers moved inward.

Viktor's whole body went rigid.

"Mira—"

"Shh."

Her voice was barely a whisper, but it sent a shiver racing down his spine like lightning striking water. She leaned closer, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

Her breath was hot, sweet, tinged with something that made his cock twitch involuntarily.

"Whenever I used to have nightmares..." she whispered, her tone dripping with lust, "...I did 'this'."

Her fingers found the laces of his trousers.

Viktor felt her working at them with practiced ease, loosening the ties one by one. The cool air hit his cock as she pulled the fabric aside, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

"It relieves the stress," Mira breathed into his ear, her voice low and sultry like honey poured over gravel.

Viktor turned his head sharply toward her, his eyes wide. His heart was pounding again, but for an entirely different reason now.

"You're a pervert, Mira," he hissed under his breath but also a thought cripped—Does she also have nightmares?

'You fool... she survived here alone... haah...'

Mira didn't even flinch.

Her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft—warm, firm, her fingers barely able to close completely around his girth.

She stroked upward once, slowly, her palm gliding over the sensitive skin with just enough pressure to make his hips jerk.

She looked up at him, her brown eyes half-lidded, her lips curving into a small, wicked smile.

"Do you hate me?" she whispered.

Viktor stared at her for a long moment. Then he shook his head slowly.

Mira's smile widened.

Her hand started moving—up, down, up, down—stroking his cock with slow, deliberate motions that made every nerve ending in his body light up. Her grip was perfect. Not too tight, not too loose. Just enough friction to make his toes curl inside his boots.

Viktor's jaw clenched. He forced himself to look away from her before he lost what little control he had left.

"You always outrun her..." He turned his head to the right, toward Helena.

She was watching the exchange with wide, flushed eyes. Her lips were parted, her breathing shallow and quick. Her hand was still holding his, but her grip had gone slack.

"It's cold," Viktor murmured, his voice low and rough. He let his head tilt, resting against Helena's shoulder. His free hand—the one not being held—slid from hers, moving down to rest between her thighs. "Can I rest inside of you?"

Helena's whole body jerked like she'd been struck by lightning.

Her eyes went even wider, and for a moment, she just stared at him. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No words came out.

Then, meekly, she nodded and muttered...

"...P-please... be gentle, young master."

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