Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion Chapter 129- Raven’s Claim on His Thing

She knew him.

Had t him — ’t’ was a generous characterization for sothing that had been a collision and a rescue and an event she’d been processing in the background of her mind for days.

Had thought about the purple of his eyes more tis than was sensible.

Had watched the kissing CD he sent last day with a smile emoji with her hands pressed over her mouth and her knees pulled to her chest and felt sothing complicated she hadn’t sorted out.

And he was here.

At Alexander Dalton’s funeral.

With Victor Dalton six inches to her left.

Victor, who had guards.

Elena could count three of them at the garden periter from where she was standing, which ant there were more she couldn’t count. Victor, who had the specific relationship with violence that n of his position had when they’d grown up watching it wielded as a tool.

Raven looked up.

Found her imdiately. Like he’d known exactly where to look.

He smiled.

Not the formal smile of soone attending an occasion. A small, private one that was directed entirely at her and contained several things she couldn’t read.

’Leave’, she thought. Directly at him. Across thirty feet of rain and mourning. ’Leave right now. He will kill you. He doesn’t know what you are but he’ll find out and he’ll—’

The priest continued. Victor’s umbrella stayed tilted over her shoulder. The coffin rested, patient and final, waiting.

Elena looked at her shoes.

Looked up.

Raven had moved three feet closer.

Veronica’s voice, addressed to Victor. Quiet and direct.

"I need you to accompany Marga to the car. There are docunts for the estate that need to be retrieved before the formal proceedings tomorrow."

Victor looked at his mother.

His eyes moved to Raven for one second — the brief assessnt of a man categorizing an unfamiliar elent — and then slid away. He’d registered him as staff, Elena realized. Had looked at him and placed him in the category of ’soone else’s employee here for a peripheral reason’ because that was where his mind put people who stood at the edges of things in dark clothes.

The privilege of a man who’d never been surprised by anything he’d underestimated.

"Of course," Victor said. He turned to Elena. His hand moved to the back of her waist — the familiar proprietorial drift of it. "Don’t go anywhere," he said, pleasantly, for her ears. The way you’d tell sothing you owned to stay where you put it.

His eyes flicked to Raven one more ti.

"And you—" To Raven, with the brisk, dismissive authority of soone who has decided the classification is ’servant’ and is conducting themselves accordingly. "Co with us. My mother apparently needs help with materials."

Raven said nothing.

Veronica looked at Victor.

"’Victor.’" Her voice went sharp in a way Elena had never heard from her. Not loud. Just — the sharpness of a blade drawn rather than displayed. "’He is not your servant. You’ll mind how you address him.’"

Victor went still.

Elena watched his face run through sothing — confusion, recalibration, a flicker of sothing that looked almost like uncertainty, which was not an emotion she’d associated with Victor Dalton.

"I—" He looked at Raven. At his mother. At Raven again. "I apologize."

The words ca out automatically, the product of twenty-sothing years of knowing what Veronica’s voice in that register ant.

Marga had already moved toward the car path. Veronica followed, turning with the ease of soone who has said what they intended to say and considers the matter concluded.

Victor gave Elena one last look — the wink, the particular confident one that knew she was going nowhere — and followed.

They moved away through the rain, the three of them, until the path curved around the old yew tree and they were gone.

The remaining staff dispersed quietly. The priest had concluded. The lowering chanism would be operated shortly.

The rain fell.

Silence except for the rain.

Elena stood beside Alexander Dalton’s grave holding her umbrella and watching the direction where Victor had gone.

"You should leave," she said.

She hadn’t heard him approach. He was simply — closer than he’d been. Five feet. Four.

"You’re going to get hurt," she said. Still looking at the path. "He has guards everywhere. He’s going to co back and when he sees you—"

"Elena."

She turned.

Raven was three feet away.

He had no umbrella. The rain was in his hair, running down the sharp geotry of his face in thin lines, and he looked entirely unbothered by it. His eyes were that color — the one that was purple and was also sothing else depending on how the light moved across them.

"Step back," she said. Her voice ca out less steady than she intended.

"Why?"

"Because you’re—" She took a step backward. Her heel caught slightly on the wet grass, a small stumble she caught.

Her back t the stone of the nearest marker — a cross, old granite, solid — and she stopped. Nowhere left to retreat. "’Step back.’"

"You watched the footage," he said.

It wasn’t a question.

"Are you here to blackmail using that CCTV footage," she said. "to get money from Dalton family?"

His hand moved.

Not fast. Not sudden. Just — decisive, the way everything about him was, the way he moved through space as if he’d already decided where things would end up and was simply guiding them there. His arm went around her waist and pulled.

’Pulled’ was the clean word for it.

What actually happened was that the distance between their bodies went from three feet to zero in a single motion, her hips eting his, and his arm around her waist was already settled with the ease of sothing that had done this before except they had not done this before — except her body reacted as if they had, as if this was recognition, as if so part of her physical mory that had nothing to do with her brain had catalogued the warmth of him and was responding to its return.

She could feel him.

Through the fabric of her dress.

Through her clothing and his. The specific reality of him pressed against her core, the warmth of his body that was wrong — too much, too deliberate, the warmth of sothing that generated itself rather than absorbed it from the air.

"’Let go.’" Her hands were at his chest, pushing, except they weren’t — her fingers had curled slightly into his shirt without permission and she could feel his heartbeat against her palms. "’Raven. Let go right now, if Victor sees—’"

"I need you notoney," he said, against the top of her head.

"’Victor is also a bit 30 tres away—’"

"Forty now." His hand was flat against the small of her back. Not grabbing. Just — there, present, warmth spreading through the fabric. "Marga knows how to stretch a logistics conversation."

Elena’s hands pressed harder against his chest.

Pushed.

Did not push him back.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice was barely above the rain now. Her forehead was — she was too close, her forehead was almost at his jaw, and the rain was coming down and she could feel the cold of the granite cross at her back and the warm of him at her front and neither of them was moving. "You can’t be here. You killed a man in front of caras even if no one recognizes you. Half the country’s looking for you. If he finds out who you are—"

"He won’t."

"You don’t know—"

"Look at ."

She didn’t.

"’Elena.’"