Chapter 14-the cage was broken

The paper covered in handwriting was crumpled up by Margaret and tossed aside.

She raised her hand and called out to Damon, "Come here."

Damon approached cautiously, trying his best not to step on the satin ornaments scattered on the floor. His steps were somewhat heavy, a result of his efforts to control himself.

The burly and rough orc simply didn't match the exquisite and luxurious atmosphere of the woman's chamber. He looked like a clumsy intruder, awkwardly half-kneeling and bowing his head under the palm of the Duke's daughter.

Margaret rubbed Damon's coarse, ash-gray short hair, pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand, exhaling tiredly.

She had already come to one conclusion.

Douglas wouldn't break off the engagement with her. This marriage was a political alliance from the start; the White family needed a queen to adorn their facade and enhance their reputation, while the royal family needed the wealth and power of the White family.

No matter how hard Margaret tried or what methods she used, she couldn't change the future of marrying Douglas. Could she tell Duke Russell that the royal family intended to devour the White family, sending him and his brothers to the guillotine? Could she tell Lady White that Douglas would never love his wife, would never touch her, and certainly would not grant her any power, so marriage was meaningless?

Her father would only laugh heartily, and her mother would present many old and ridiculous arguments.

As for her older brother, serving as a diplomatic envoy in the distant east... he wouldn't return for another three months, barely making it to Margaret's wedding. Besides, he was aloof by nature, not close to her.

Margaret's head was pounding.

Her brain couldn't handle too much thinking for too long. "The Cinderella of Favors" was only outlined vaguely; she couldn't continue.

...As if some force was preventing her from understanding the book.

Feeling uncomfortable and irritable, she tightened her fingers around Damon's scalp.

The half-orc let out a short whimper. He raised his head, gazing at Margaret with his bright red eyes, not particularly pleased, and moved his lips, calling out, "Miss."

Lost in her own emotions, Margaret didn't pay attention to the guard's words.

Damon's voice was hoarse, with a mixture of hidden longing and affection.

"Miss... Margaret."

"Miss Margaret..."

He couldn't look at her bare legs or the lovely curves of her chest, so he kept his gaze on her face. The tenderness of the white rose garden seemed like a dream, and all the sweet experiences seemed like his own imagination. Yet he longed for her so much.

He longed for her with a curious malice, her fair and tender feet, the moist and bashful inner thighs. He longed for her screams and tears, the hands that ravaged his body.

He longed for her.

And suffered more because of her.

Miss Margaret never confided in anyone. If she felt wronged or encountered trouble, she always tried to handle it herself. Even though Damon had been intimately close to her the previous night, he now found himself half-kneeling, half-sitting before her, like a warm decoration.

Margaret didn't know what Damon was thinking.

As she absentmindedly played with his hair, her fingers slid down his sensitive scalp, gripping his warm earlobes. She kneaded the elastic cartilage a few times, then traced the sharp contours of the orc's jawline.

Lady White didn't allow her daughter to keep any pets, not even a sparrow.

Yet Margaret was fond of the forest cat that patrolled the garden every day, even though the cat was always haughty and carried the scent of the Duke's mistress. She also liked canine animals, such as snow wolves, fluffy foxes, and dogs that were untamed but forever loyal.

Now Damon was like her pet.

A somewhat troublesome, not very coddled large dog.

Margaret didn't pay attention to Damon's calls. But when she scratched his trembling Adam's apple, she felt the hot breath on the back of her hand.

"How...," she looked down and saw Damon's swelling groin. The orc seemed oblivious to the need for discretion, only staring at her with his fiery eyes, his expression stoic yet tense.

"Damon."

Margaret temporarily set aside her thoughts, and nudged his crotch with her toe. "Why... do you get aroused so easily?"

Pure-blood orcs have fixed mating seasons. Depending on the race, these seasons could be long or short. But Damon had always shown restraint, never losing control in front of Margaret, to the point where she doubted if half-orcs even had this trouble.

Until she caught him masturbating last night.

"I remember." Margaret stepped nonchalantly on Damon's sex, the burgeoning heat seeping through the fabric and licking the soles of her feet. "That handkerchief you used to wipe my sweat earlier. So yeah, Damon... are you lusting after me alone, or are you already prone to urges? Do you like to create sexual fantasies with the smell of women?"

The young girl's tone was tinged with careless teasing.

Damon couldn't resist his master's bad intentions and could only answer with muffled difficulty, "I only lust after you, master."

Margaret leaned over and nipped the knot of his throat. Like a reward for an obedient dog, her fingers stroked the back of his neck and her feet moved much faster.

She stomped on the hot, massive contraption, her toes sliding over the bulging sperm sac from time to time, tracing the contours of her sex through his pants.Damon's muscles tensed, his broad, powerful spine drawn into a supremely full bow. He stared blankly at Margaret, whimpering and gasping uncontrollably, jerking his hips and back so that he could be caressed even more.

But just a second before reaching orgasm, Margaret suddenly withdrew her foot, got up and walked around him.

Abandoned, Damon sat still on his knees, not understanding what he had done wrong. The sex beneath him was pressing against the fabric, showing no sign of weakening, and the bound tip was even overflowing with thin mucus, wetting a small patch of his pants.

" Miss...Margaret..."

The girl's whims came and went quickly.

Just like petting a cat—one moment you linger over its silky fur and soft belly, the next moment you feel tired, unwilling to pat its raised tail.

Especially since Damon wasn't that kind of cute and proud little creature. He was massive, dangerous, with coarse and rough hair, and peculiar features harboring boundless heat.

Margaret was lazy to explain her fickleness, let alone consider how much trouble she caused Damon.

She wasn't entirely pure and gentle like everyone perceived her to be.

People had accepted the perfect facade she had crafted over the years, but they didn't know about the coldness and malice that lurked within her. For a long time, Margaret had used this coldness on herself, forcing herself to become a "better fiancée." Growing up according to her mother's aesthetic, conforming to Douglas's preferences, smiling gently, and crying softly. Even when being handled by Dermat against the glass, she still worried about Douglas behind her, habitually showing a fragile beauty in despair.

So, Douglas would use a tone of pity and indifference to call her the woman of the White family.

Once the cage was broken, there was no going back.