YumNovel Chapter 517- Tianlong’s Leave to Deal with Outer Sepians
Chapter 517- Tianlong’s Leave to Deal with Outer Sepians
She was not unconscious.
She wanted to be clear about that, internally, to herself, in the private court of her own dignity.
She was simply — lying down. With her legs open. Because closing them required a muscle group that had filed a formal complaint approximately three hours ago and had not returned to active duty since.
Her body moved up and down with each breath — shallow, the petite breasts rising and falling in the slow rhythm of something that has been thoroughly used and is now running on maintenance power only. The nipples, still flushed, caught the garden’s lantern light on each rise and released it on each fall.
Her eyes were rolled at a comfortable forty-five degree angle toward the inside of her own skull.
This was fine.
This was a choice.
PAH.
"Nnh~—"
PAH.
"Mnh—"
He was giving her the last few.
Not fast. Not the driven urgency of earlier. The slow, thorough, almost contemplative strokes of a man who has been doing something for a significant period of time and is arriving, without hurry, at the end of it — his cock moving through her anal in long, unhurried pulls, each withdrawal dragging warmth with it, each return pressing it back in, her body accepting both with the boneless cooperation of total surrender.
Her ass jiggled with each one.
Softly.
The impact had none of the sharp percussion of earlier — just the gentle oscillation of flesh that is too tired to resist even the small physics of motion.
"How long," she said.
To the sky.
The garden ceiling above her — lanterns in tree branches, real stars beyond them, the blizzard palace’s open architecture letting in the cold clean air that she had completely stopped noticing at some point in the last several hours.
"It’s already been a day."
A pause.
"Isn’t men’s stamina supposed to be low."
Tianlong looked down at her.
At the complete horizontal devastation of the tiger clan’s tournament champion, Late Death Gate Realm cultivator, woman who had nearly killed him at first meeting — lying in the silk with her eyes rolled and her legs open and her tail curled loosely around nothing in particular.
"You already know how my stamina is," he said.
"Yes," she said.
She closed her eyes.
The expression on her face was the specific expression of someone making a formal attempt to sleep in a situation that is still technically in progress.
"I do."
He looked at her for a moment longer.
Then, slowly, with the deliberate care of a man removing something from somewhere it had been for long enough to have established residency, he pulled out.
She made a sound.
Very small.
Not protest. Not relief.
Just — acknowledgment. The body’s quiet note that something had changed.
Her tail uncurled from the nothing it had been holding and settled against the silk.
Tianlong sat back.
His hands on his own knees. His gaze going upward, past the lanterns, past the trees, to the sky above the palace garden where the blizzard peaks were visible as white shapes in the dark.
He breathed.
The garden was quiet around them.
The other women had been peripherally present for — he didn’t calculate how long — and had, somewhere in the last several hours, arrived at a collective understanding that this particular conversation with this particular woman had a different quality than the others, and had given it appropriate space. Yuna was visible at the far edge, sitting with her knees drawn up, her red suit back in place, her expression doing the complicated thing it did when she was being mature about something she wasn’t entirely mature about.
"Who were those people," he said.
To the sky.
"Don’t know."
From the silk.
Flat. The tone of a woman who has been well-fucked to the point where information retrieval requires manual effort.
"Completely."
A pause.
"Don’t know them."
He looked down at her.
She hadn’t opened her eyes.
"You don’t know them. But they attacked you."
"Tried to eat my soul, yes."
"Why."
A longer pause.
Her chest rose and fell.
Her brow furrowed with the specific effort of someone conducting an internal investigation from a horizontal position.
"They were trying to smell you," she said. "On me."
Her canines showed, just slightly. Not threat. The tiger clan’s equivalent of a shrug. "That’s all I know. They wanted your trail."
Tianlong processed this.
Looked at her body.
At the evidence of the last day, distributed thoroughly across every available surface of her — the warmth of his seed still seeping slowly from two locations, the specific scent of his cultivation qi soaked into her skin and meridians and the newly crystallized beast core at her center.
He chuckled.
"Well," he said.
"They’re going to have a very clear trail now."
He considered the precise scope of what he’d left inside her.
"Considering I painted your insides with my scent."
Three cultivation levels’ worth of his qi, directly into her core. His seed in her meridians. His pheromones in her beast cultivation pathways.
"They find you now, they’re going to try to kill you."
Silence.
Then:
"...Shut up."
Low. Flat.
The sound of someone who has assessed this information and chosen not to engage with it at present.
He chuckled again.
The specific chuckle — private, warm — that she was beginning to recognize as the one that meant he found her responses genuinely funny rather than simply convenient.
His hand moved.
Found her breast.
The petite, tight weight of it filling his palm, the skin still flushed, still warm.
He squeezed.
Gently. Evaluating.
"Soft," he said.
Observational.
"And tight. Interesting combination."
"Ah—" Her eyes opened. Found the ceiling. "Yes. I know. Just stop being—"
He found the nipple.
Pinched.
"—BRUTAL, you BASTARD, it HURTS—"
She grabbed his wrist.
He released.
Examined the nipple in question — pinkish, hard, the specific color of something that has been comprehensively attended to and is now in recovery.
"Should I chew it," he said.
Sabrina turned her head.
Found his face.
The look she gave him was the look that the tiger clan used in situations that their seven formal vocabularies had collectively failed to prepare them for.
"Don’t."
One word.
Entire dictionary in it.
"Even think."
He leaned down.
She tracked the movement.
"Don’t—"
His mouth closed over her nipple.
"YOU BASTARD—"
Both hands in his hair. The grip. The one she kept returning to, the tiger clan’s strongest available anchor when the floor had become unavailable.
"I SAID DON’T — LET GO — STOP—"
He bit.
Not hard. The same pressure as a question rather than a statement.
Her back arched off the silk.
"STOP!!! I WILL ACTUALLY KILL YOU—"
He released.
Pulled back.
Looked at her face — the crimson flush, the silver hair wild, the amber eyes bright with fury that was fighting hard against everything else in the room.
He was smiling.
She hated the smile specifically.
"Stop smiling," she said.
He kissed her.
Not the urgent kiss of earlier — not the muffled-curse, mating-press, drowning-in-sensation kiss that had characterized most of the night.
Slow. Deliberate. The kind of kiss that doesn’t have somewhere else to be.
His tongue present and patient.
Her hands in his hair loosening from the grab-grip to something else, something that held rather than fought, and she kissed him back with her eyes open for exactly three seconds before they closed with the resigned admission of something that has stopped arguing.
He pulled back.
Looked at her.
"Do you love me."
Sabrina blinked.
The amber eyes, fully open now, regarding him with an expression that went through several phases in rapid succession — surprise, the tiger clan’s instinctive retreat from the direct, the seven formal vocabularies for this is not a conversation we are having — and then out the other side of all of them into something simpler.
She looked at him for a long moment.
"Why do you think," she said,
Her tail — autonomous, honest, always honest — moved.
Wrapped once around his wrist.
"I spread my legs for you."
Not loud.
Not performative.
The specific quiet of a woman who has never said something like that before and has chosen to say it exactly once in exactly these words because the direct approach is all she has left.
He chuckled.
Looked down at the tail around his wrist.
"Fine," he said.
And stood.
She watched him from the silk.
"For hurting the woman I love," he said, pulling his outer robe from wherever it had ended up, "I’ll kill them."
"As if you can."
He looked at her.
The expression on his face — the gold-red eyes, the composed certainty, the quality of a man who has not encountered a problem he couldn’t resolve and has filed two demonic cultivators from an outside continent under problem without much adjustment to his general posture — was not the expression of someone entertaining doubt.
"Of course I can."
He adjusted the robe.
"Come on."
A pause.
"Have a little faith."
Sabrina lay on the silk and looked at the sky and considered the concept of having faith in a man who had just spent a full day doing what he’d spent the last day doing and was now straightening his collar with the unruffled demeanor of someone who had briefly set aside a hobby and was now returning to regular programming.
"Whatever," she said.
He vanished.
Not gradually. Not with a portal’s visual fanfare.
Simply — present, and then not present, the garden air closing around the space where he’d been with a soft displacement that carried his cultivation signature, which she could now feel with a precision she hadn’t had yesterday, her newly formed beast core tracking the signature as it moved — outward, upward, away at a velocity that made her own Late Death Gate Realm feel briefly modest.
The garden was quiet.
The lanterns swayed.
Yuna, from the far edge, examined a tree with tremendous focus.
Sabrina lay there.
The warmth of where he’d been still present against her skin.
The beast core at her center tracking the fading signature, the thread of his qi in her meridians pulling slightly in the direction he’d gone, like a compass needle.
Like a compass needle.
Oh no.
She lay with this for approximately four seconds.
"Wait," she said.
To no one.
Then louder:
"Tianlong."
Nothing.
She sat up.
The silk fell away. The garden was full of other women being politely elsewhere. The space where he’d been was empty air and the sound of distant blizzard peaks.
He had left.
He had left her here.
She stood.
Her legs cooperated, which was something — the Late Death Gate Realm’s new meridian density having quietly taken over the structural functions that the evening had compromised, her body already operating at the upgraded capacity whether she’d given permission or not.
She took a step.
Her mouth twitched.
Two steps.
Her tail lashed — once, sharp, the silver tip cutting the air with the specific energy of indignation that has found a target.
"LYRA."
The name came out at a volume that made three catkin women flinch simultaneously.
"OPEN THE PORTAL."
Her voice, carrying the full resonance of Late Death Gate Realm beast qi, was a sound the garden had not heard from her before — deeper, cleaner, the specific authority of a cultivation realm that had been three levels below this one when the evening started.
"NOW."