Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions Chapter 371: A Witch and A Bitch

Ravenna de Vries, a na he both loved dearly, and a girl he had hurt deeply.

The [Empyrean] queen. And to think he had promised to flee his pain no more in the aftermath of Emberfall so seven years ago. He was shit for a demon—at least when it ca to his Little Raven. So when Najwa sohow got her na from the reading of his palm, it hurt him the more. So fuck being polite, he reasoned, the tattooed witch better give him an answer, and soon.

Presently the girl was looking at him funny. "You better not be reading my mind, witch, and give answer to my damn question. You might be the avatar of the ocean goddess but I’ll have you know I have skewered bitches more favored...for less." Eotigan pronounced this coldly into the refined gaze of her cobalt eyes. He was never letting Najwa use her weird [chakra] bullshit on him again. Who knows what she might cipher this ti? That he was the sole, free Principality of Hel? Maybe. Or that he was the main attraction of Stormanos, probably.

"I am neither a witch nor a bitch, Your Eminence," Najwa began rising from her tiny stool as she said these words, "I am though a dium of the divine Kama." Her pupils dilated on him. "The Heaving Hut is so nad because—"

"What?" Najwa glowered. "I’m about to give you your answer." She did air quotes with her fingers.

Najwa rolled her eyes. She gave him a look on her feet, but he just kept staring, no, smothering her with the lupine orbs. "Why?" She chuckled, and smoothed down her robes, "I know who you are...who you really are. I am a [Rank A] shaman. Two seconds is enough for to get all I need from your palm—not that you tried to hide it even. It was there. Bare. You can’t expect to look into the abyss and not notice the smoke." She folded her hands, giggling at his incredulous stare. "Wow! This is incredible. You seriously have never had your palm read before, have you?" she did a small laugh, "I KNOW you are Prince Israfel Bludthirste, Exalted Earl of Hel, and the fugitive bae of the Empr—"

He quite literally, flew.

Eotigan watched her small eyes explode in fear, so palpable he could taste it right off her pretty face. That’s it, wench, he mused, now you get it.

"I’m sorry, Your Eminence. I’m really sorry. I-I ant no disrespect." Najwa’s eyes were welled up in tears from exhaustion, and gratitude. Her big voice croaked out. Her throat was raw. She bit her bottom lip over his structured face. This demon could have killed her without a twinge. She felt she needed to apologize more—and thank him even. Now, reflecting in hindsight, she saw that perhaps she had gone too far with the whole ’palm-reading’ thing. It was her gift and she loved to explore it, but this man before her wasn’t just so rando stumbled into her Hut for a chance at redemption; Eotigan was an Arch of the Abyss.

"I’m sorry, Your Eminence," she tried again, "you can call wench, your bitch, whatever—"

He blinked, and the pools of fire that had beco his pupils dulled their intensity back to the sowhat usual mortal color of poured gold. If Najwa squinted and deceived her mind enough, she could almost think of him as a human. Almost.

Eotigan didn’t an to, but his eyes witnessed the flash of full, ripe thighs. The curve of leg and calves that’d make a Babylonian idol jealous. He glimpsed gorgeous, caral flesh. The figure of a rmaid. Her hips were large, flaring out so deliciously. And he would have caught her bush if she hadn’t been fast with the modesty.

Eotigan didn’t miss Titans Landing and its abundance of prepubescent pussies. He liked his salt, musk, and curls. No one could bla him in his unashad preference. Everybody from here to fucking Thomopolis knew the damp, dewy secretplace of island won added to the allures of great, green Tropicana.

Najwa—intent on keeping her robes down—finally caught on the trail of Eotigan’s citrine eyes. He was at the mont intimately connecting himself with the Lallì ink which painted her small feet.

"—ahem," Najwa cleared her throat. She covertly put out one leg and let the robe fall open just shy of her upper thigh. She was skin sin, the darn girl. Eotigan’s eyes had flown to her own stare from the spot, then back to the spot again. But he still wasn’t prepared when she said softly, "I like what I see too, Your Eminence," she lifted the robe higher still, "I am down for whatever."

The island n were nice company, but co on; she was their avatar. So how about a demon, eh?

Eotigan could already taste the honey in her flesh. The milk of her pear breasts. He knew with no doubt she’d be a good fuck. A great fuck. He had all but strangled the life out of her seconds ago, and now they were this close to a fevered hands-on experience.

Eotigan forced his eyes to close. To shut out the picture of a ready, moistened female. To shut out Najwa. It worked—for the most part.

And by that nearly obliterated the last of his restraints. Her fucking voice, fuck him and the gods. Eotigan was so turned on it made him angry. "I said, enough of that," he growled. "Drop your robe and don’t call that." He waited three seconds. "Is it dropped?"

He didn’t think he could handle another thigh flash on a body like hers.

"It’s called the Heaving Hut because it sits on the Eye of Mother Diamante." Najwa dropped this out of nowhere, prompting Eotigan to turn and stare at her. "What, you asked!" She defended.

"The Crocodile on whose back the island sits on."