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“You should leave,” I suggest, her presence now unsettling.

“No!” Sandra clutches my arm tighter, as if her life depended on it. I don’t understand where her fear or desperation comes from. Why does she cling to me when there is no danger?

“It doesn’t make sense. I felt your... cock get hard,” she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you keep pushing me away. Don’t you like me?” Her voice falters, her head dropping as she continues. “Or do you prefer Lexie? Is that it?”

So many questions. They swirl in my mind in a maelstrom of chaos. Battles, tactics, strategies I navigate with ease. The answers are as clear as Klendathor’s sun. But this... this is different. Princesa, Sandra—what does it matter which I prefer?

“Female, you are lost.” I begin with a sigh of frustration at having to repeat myself. “My preference means nothing.”

“It matters to me!” Sandra snaps with surprising fervor, her fierce blue eyes meeting mine. “And it should matter to you too.” Her desperation is plain now, written across her delicate features. “Please... Dracoth.”

Both Sandra and Princesa are beautiful and exotic.

In any sector of the universe, they would be coveted.

Only their small stature counts against them, but only the ugly, more alien species stand taller.

As for their personalities... Princesa—while sometimes humorous, challenges me endlessly, as unpredictable as a rampaging aurodon.

Sandra is the more pleasing—submissive, helpful. Qualities any warrior would prize.

“You would be my choice,” I say at last, nodding thoughtfully.

Sandra’s face lights up, her grip tightening as she buries her head against my shoulder.

Although Princesa’s fuller curves and height are more attractive, I almost add. But the desperation in Sandra’s actions holds my tongue. Sandra is fragile—like a beautiful flower growing too close to the sun.

“That’s so good to hear,” she giggles, joy in her voice.

“See, it wasn’t meaningless after all.” Sandra rests against me, her beautiful fiery hair damp and clinging to my skin.

Her heartbeat flutters, and I feel the coolness of her pale flesh against my heat.

I should push her away. Despite her words, this serves no purpose, and yet.

.. I hesitate, enjoying the quiet peace of this moment.

Finally, I find my resolve. “Sandra, this serves no—”

“Just let me hold you for a while,” she cuts me off, her arms tightening around mine with unexpected strength.

Fine. Why not indulge her request? I must wait regardless.

My head settles against the warm stone edge of the pool, eyes closed, savoring her eager feminine scent mixing with the steamy heat from the geyser waters.

It’s intoxicating, and I sense a part of me relaxing, a stalwart bastion unraveling under her sultry erosion.

Her body melds into mine, her softness conforming to my hardness.

Time drifts, as if suspended in this haze.

Did I sleep? Her faint, almost inaudible moans echo softly in my ear, and I realize her hand is tracing the ridges of my chest, moving lower.

My pulse surges, tension rising in my body.

I glance down, surprised her face is flushed, her blue eyes blazing like distant azure stars.

“I don’t care what your gods say. I just want you, Dracoth,” she whispers, her voice low and sultry, pink lips parting with hunger.

I know that look—it’s the same madness I’ve seen in warriors after a kill, drunk on Arawnoth’s blood.

It’s infectious. Drawing me in. My arm wraps around her petite shoulders, pulling her closer as she fumbles frantically with my loincloth.

My heart hammers in my chest, the Rush bursts from my crimson eyes and pumps through my veins like boiling lava. Her small tongue wets her lips, and I can’t resist being drawn to them. My fortress of self-control is now obliterated. My head lowers, my nose touching hers, our breaths mingling—

Then... disgust.

It hits me like a blow. A rank, putrid stench fills my senses, twisting my stomach into knots. I almost heave, staring into her wide, confused eyes.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice tinged with hurt that only deepens my disgust.

“Nothing!” I lie, having no logical answer, lurching out of the water, sending it splashing around us.

My mind reels. What is wrong with me? Sandra places a hand on my leg, but I recoil.

Her touch feels too soft, like a wyrm wriggling against my skin.

Even her scent, which moments ago enticed, now reeks—foul, sour, like spoiled borack milk.

How can this be? Again, I’m forced to retreat. This weakness... this sickness in me, that I alone seem infected with—I hate it. With every fiber of my being, I curse it.

“I must go,” I snarl, my fangs bared in a rush of rage.

I storm out of the pool, but there is no speed fast enough to outrun this disgrace. Sandra’s broken sobs follow, echoing off the cavern walls, surrounding me from every direction, like a horde of wailing spirits haunting my every step.

I am cursed.