10x God-Tier Stealing System: Pumping S-Rank SuperHeroines Daily!-Chapter 30- Shocked to See

She looked away.

His thumb resumed its slow trace along her stomach. His buried fingers moved again—barely, just enough—and she exhaled through her nose and told herself it was irritation.

"Then ’let me go,’" she said.

"No." He said it the way he said everything irreversible. Flat. Already done. "I love you."

She turned her head to look at him. His profile. The clean jaw, the half-lidded eyes aimed at some middle distance. No performance in it—that was the thing that bothered her. He’d said it like ’it’s Tuesday.’ No drama, no angle, no setup.

"No you don’t," she said.

"Mm."

"You don’t ’know’ me—"

"I know enough."

"’Sex isn’t—’" She stopped. His finger moved again—slow, deliberate, that infuriating depth that hit somewhere she couldn’t reason around—and her sentence dissolved. She picked it back up with effort. "’Sex isn’t love. If it were, every—’" Another press. "’—every sex worker alive would be—ngh—’"

"Would be what?" He sounded genuinely curious.

"’Stop that.’"

"Stop what." He wasn’t stopping.

"’Your—’ finger—while I’m—’talking—’"

"You can do both."

She could not do both. She was demonstrably unable to do both. His other hand had drifted upward again, palm settling over her breast from outside the dress, kneading the soft weight in slow, full rolls while she was trying to construct a philosophical argument about the nature of love and her body was catastrophically failing to support the effort.

"’...You’re a child,’" she managed.

"Possibly." His lips curved. Not a smirk—something smaller. "Make me fall for you properly, then."

She blinked. Turned her head further to look at him. "’What?’"

He tilted his head toward her—that slight nudge, almost playful, the gesture of someone who’d decided to be in a good mood and was committing to it. "Make me fall. You don’t want the version of this that’s just physical—fine. Give me more than physical."

"’I don’t want to impress a—’" His thumb rolled her nipple through the fabric and her voice cut off entirely for three full seconds. "’—pervert—like you—’"

"You don’t need to impress me." His voice dropped, settling into something that had no performance left in it. "I’m already more than impressed."

She looked at him. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

He looked back—eyes half-closed, relaxed, the posture of a man who’d just said something completely true and wasn’t interested in walking it back.

She understood what he meant. The same thing he always meant. That ’this’—her, spread across his lap with his fingers inside her and her lipstick smeared and her hair a disaster—was what impressed him. The body. The way she couldn’t fight her own reactions even when she wanted to. The way she argued with him while trembling from a post-orgasm she was still feeling in her knees.

"’Perverted pig,’" she said.

"Yes," he agreed.

His fingers shifted inside her again—slow and easy, not building toward anything, just ’maintaining,’ like he was keeping a fire at exactly the temperature he wanted. She felt herself clench around him reflexively and hated it with sincere depth.

’Just you wait,’ she thought, pressing her head back against his shoulder. ’I will absolutely find a way to run from you.’

Her body said nothing useful in response.

The car slowed.

Not the hospital—she could still see the private driveway in the distance—but the fleet had to queue, apparently, because outside the windows the traffic had thickened in a way that suggested something ahead was causing it.

Then she heard it.

Murmurs. The specific excited murmur of a crowd that has collectively identified something of interest.

She shifted slightly—which moved her hips against his hand and sent a small, unwanted shiver up her back—and looked through the tinted glass.

A fleet.

Black Rolls-Royces. Range Rovers. Too many of them, too deliberate in their positioning, the bodyguards along the sides moving with the practiced efficiency of people who did this professionally. The main gate of the hospital, which presumably had regulations about vehicle access, had opened for all of it like the regulations had gotten a phone call and decided to step outside for a moment.

"’Wait—’" Thalia straightened. His fingers withdrew—finally, at last, the absence rushing through her like a cold front—and his hands settled neutral at her waist as she sat up. "’Weren’t we—’"

"We’re part of it," he said. "That’s us arriving."

She looked at the fleet ahead. Back at the car they were in.

"’You called ahead,’" she said.

"The dean needed to know we were coming."

"’You made all of this—’" She gestured at the gathering crowd visible now through the glass—hospital staff, patients near windows, phones already appearing. "’You made all of this happen on purpose.’"

"Presence is useful," he said simply.

She stared at him.

He looked serene.

"’Should I also go out?’" she asked, hearing the car door ahead already opening—chauffeur moving to her side.

The door opened before she finished the question. Morning air rushed in, and beyond it—’everyone.’ Staff. Patients. The subtle rustle of a small crowd organizing itself into staring. Phones raised. The specific quality of attention that a fleet of Blac Corporation cars generated upon arriving anywhere.

"Don’t hesitate," Cruxius said. He was already adjusting his cuffs, unbothered, wearing his composure like the well-cut shirt. "It’s your stage. Use it."

"’In these clothes?’" She looked down at herself. The dress—clean, fitted—was decent enough. But it was tight across the bust, the neckline dipping just past the point she’d normally allow, the hem sitting where she’d normally prefer more hem. She felt the slight damp at the backs of her thighs. The marks on her neck. The general evidence of a morning she was still carrying on her person. "’I’m not—’"

"You should look like my girlfriend, shouldn’t you?"

The grin he gave her was something she filed immediately under ’reasons to eventually escape.’

She glared.

He maintained the grin.

She stepped out.

The air hit her—cool and open and full of the quiet gasp a crowd makes when it’s trying to be polite while very clearly reacting.

She felt the eyes the way you feel weather—all at once, from every direction.

She kept her chin level and her stride even and told her body to cooperate and for once in the last twelve hours her body agreed.

’Whatever. Not like I care what they—’

"’Th-Thalia?’"

She stopped.

The voice hit her somewhere between the throat and the chest—familiar the way a splinter is familiar, the specific texture of something that had been lodged inside her for years. Sharp where it should have been soft. Mocking where it should have been kind.

But not now.

Now it was none of those things.

Now it was—’small.’ Stunned. The voice of someone looking at a situation that wasn’t computing.

She turned.

Jenny stood twenty feet away—sunglasses on, arm through Jake’s, body language all performed ease—staring at her.

No. Not at her.

At ’this.’ At the fleet. At the Blac Corporation bodyguards and the Rolls-Royce and Cruxius stepping out behind Thalia with the particular gravity of a man who owned the air he moved through.

At Thalia. Standing in the middle of all of it.

Looking like she belonged there.

Jenny’s mouth was slightly open.

Thalia looked at her stepsister.

The woman who’d handed her to this man like a problem to be disposed of—who’d arranged last night’s disaster with the specific intention of breaking something in Thalia that couldn’t be fixed. Who’d wanted her humiliated, discarded, ruined.

Who was now looking at her with an expression that had ’awe’ in it, buried under the shock.

’Awe.’