10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 24- Darithi Being First

Thalia bit her lip.

Hard. Hard enough that she tasted blood.

Her hands—trembling, shaking, still smeared with mascara she’d wiped from her cheek—pressed flat against his chest, and she ’pushed.’ Not hard enough to move him. Not nearly. But enough that the gesture meant something.

He didn’t budge.

She pushed again—both palms, fingers splayed, nails dragging through the front of his shirt—and this time it was less a push and more a ’shove’, and she shoved with every last embarrassed, wrecked, humiliated scrap of dignity she had left.

He stepped back. Not because she moved him. Because he allowed it.

She hated that more than anything.

"’You—’" Her voice cracked down the center. She yanked the torn front of her dress up over her chest—the straps were gone, just fabric hanging uselessly—and she pinched it between her fingers and held it like a life jacket. "You ’bastard!’"

And she ran.

Not carefully. Not quietly.

She ’ran.’ Through the hallway. Past the maid who was halfway through mopping who froze mid-stroke. Past the butler who had the audacity to bow at her as she sprinted by with half a dress on. Past two guards at the inner door who looked at each other and then at their earpieces, unsure who to ask.

Nobody stopped her.

The grand doors—tall, ostentatious, hand-carved mahogany from some forest that probably didn’t exist anymore—swung open as she hit them with her shoulder.

Morning air hit her face. Cool, salt-touched, smelling faintly of the mountain pines that circled the estate.

She didn’t stop. Her feet hit the cobblestone path and she ran harder, one hand still clamped over her chest holding the ruined dress together, black hair streaming behind her like she was on fire.

The servants near the garden saw her.

The two topiary shearers near the eastern hedge stopped. A groundskeeper holding a hose let it fall slack, water pooling at his feet. One of the kitchen maids stepped out from the side entrance with a bag of herb clippings and looked—then very deliberately looked somewhere else.

They all did.

This wasn’t the first time.

At the grand doors, Cruxius stood in the threshold.

He hadn’t moved to stop her. He’d watched her go—watched the cobblestones shake under her bare feet, the torn floral dress flapping around her thighs as she sprinted—and he’d raised one hand toward the guards at the iron gate.

’Open it.’

A gesture. Nothing more.

The gate swung wide.

Thalia ran straight through without breaking stride, her dress billowing in the morning wind, skirt flaring around her hips as she hit the open gravel path beyond. The gust caught the hem and lifted it— 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Cruxius’s eyes tracked that.

Just for a second. But he saw it.

The hem rode up high enough. High enough to show the marks on her inner thighs—the redness, the dried trails, the faint streaks of white that hadn’t quite dried completely before she’d started running. Her bare thighs pressed together with every stride, and what was between them—what he’d left between them—caught the morning light like a shame she didn’t know was showing.

His expression didn’t change.

But something settled across his face—not satisfaction, not exactly. Something quieter than that. The look of a man watching something he already owns run.

"Why let her go, Master?"

Darithi appeared at his shoulder from nowhere. She always did that—materialized like punctuation at the end of someone else’s sentence. She stood at his flank with her hands at her sides and her silver-lensed glasses catching the light, watching the shrinking figure of Thalia grow smaller down the gravel path.

"To see a butterfly flutter," Cruxius said simply.

His gaze didn’t move from Thalia’s retreating form.

The morning light was cruel to secrets. As she ran, another gust hit her from behind—the dress lifted, flared, and this time stayed up a beat too long. The full curve of her backside, the backs of her thighs, the slick evidence of seven rounds trailing down toward her knee—all of it briefly, nakedly visible to anyone watching from the gate.

She didn’t know.

She was too busy running.

"...Her condition is showing," Darithi observed.

"Yes," Cruxius said. "She’s magnificent."

He meant it the way a sculptor means it looking at something they carved from raw stone—with ownership baked into the admiration, no apology for either. He watched her breasts jolt with each stride, the torn neckline barely containing them as they bounced free with the force of her run. He watched her hair fly. He watched her thighs flex and catch the light and give away exactly what the night had done to her with every step.

A naked masterpiece.

Just wearing a dress.

"She’ll reach the main road in four minutes at that pace," Darithi offered.

"I know." He turned from the doorway. "Fetch her back."

Darithi was already gone before he finished the sentence.

Not running—’moving.’ There was a difference. Running was what Thalia was doing. What Darithi did was more like the air moved and she went with it—no footsteps, just a gust that brushed past his hair and then the gate, and then somewhere out on the gravel path a small figure that had been sprinting freely suddenly wasn’t sprinting anymore.

"’WAAH—let go of me, you TANK—’"

Thalia kicked. She thrashed. She grabbed at the hand clamped around her wrist and pulled with both arms and achieved absolutely nothing.

Darithi carried her by one arm, Thalia’s feet dangling two inches off the gravel, the torn dress riding up around her hips again and her free hand scrambling to pull it back down.

"’Put me DOWN—’"

"No," Darithi said.

She walked.

Back down the path. Through the open gate. Across the cobblestones.

Thalia dangled.

The sleek black car was already pulled up in front of the main entrance—long, quiet, windows tinted dark enough that you couldn’t see what happened inside. Darithi opened the rear door with her free hand, assessed the interior, and then—without ceremony—’hurled’ Thalia into the backseat.

"’OW—’"

Thalia bounced off the leather seat and immediately scrambled upright, hand going to her knees where the landing had been less than gentle. She looked up—and found Cruxius already seated across from her, legs crossed, appearing for all the world like he’d been waiting for a dinner reservation to be called.

"’You—’" Thalia pointed at him, then at the door, then at Darithi who was quietly shutting herself into the front passenger seat. "’And you—both of you are INSANE—’"

"Probably," Cruxius said.

"’You let her catch me!’"

"I sent her to catch you," he corrected mildly. "There’s a distinction."

"’That is the SAME THING—’"

"We’re going to the doctor." He reached forward and casually tugged the hem of her dress down over her thighs—she slapped his hand, he withdrew it with the unbothered patience of a man used to being slapped. "You need it. So do I."

"’I don’t need anything from you—’"

"You do, actually." He rolled up the hem of his trouser leg slightly.

Thalia looked.

The leg was bad. Even through the bruising and the dried blood that had darkened to rust-brown, she could see the angle was wrong. The kind of wrong that came from something fractured. The kind that—if she was being honest—should’ve had the man howling for a hospital six hours ago.

She stared.