Dungeon Overlord: Monster Girl Harem!-Chapter 156: A Cute Jealousy - A Bitter Thought

"Me? Never."

But her voice cracked—just enough to betray her.

"I'm your first," she added, softer now. "Your real first. That has to mean something."

He didn't answer.

But his hand shifted beneath hers, turning it palm up, letting her fingers lace between his. Not affection. Not forgiveness. Just contact.

Like he needed the reminder that she was still real. Still here.

Zafira's wings shivered once, then folded tighter behind her. Her lips curled—but she didn't smile.

"…Will you keep her in our room?" she asked after a moment. "Or the west wing?"

Leonhardt let the silence answer her.

Onstage, the next girl stumbled forward. Taller. Hair like copper threads, coiled in bindings meant to restrain her aura. Her eyes were clouded. Half asleep, half empty. Another slave broken just enough to sell.

The crowd stirred.

Zafira leaned in again.

"Not that I care," she said. "But you should know—if she touches your bed

He couldn't help but find her actions appealing. Leonhardt honestly never thought that Zafira would become so expressive towards him... so he leaned close, his lips almost touching her long ears and whispered.

"I don't need anyone else for those things...

only you, Zafira."

Zafira's breath hitched.

Her wings fluttered once, like a twitch she couldn't control.

Then she froze, eyes wide, lips parted.

Zafira smacked her tail against the bench before wrapping it around Leonhardt's leg, slowly... with a seductive grace.

Like a tether, it bound them together, as if to stop him from leaving her side.

"You always say the worst things when I'm trying to stay mad at you…" she whispered.

Leonhardt smirked, just a twitch of his mouth.

The only sign that her words struck true.

She tilted her head, golden eyes burning brighter now, more emboldened than before. More selfish.

"You don't need anyone else?" she asked, voice low.

"Not for that," he repeated.

Zafira leaned forward without waiting.

Her lips brushed his. Soft. Cautious.

But when he didn't pull away—didn't even blink—her kiss deepened, tongue brushing his lower lip with a hunger that bordered on desperate. She tasted like wine and something sweeter. Something only he could describe.

When they broke, breath short, she lingered—forehead pressed against his, lips still parted. Her voice trembled against his mouth.

"Then let me show you why."

Leonhardt didn't answer this time either.

He just let her stay there, heart thrumming through both their chests like a war drum wrapped in silk.

The lights dimmed again.

The next bid started.

And far beneath the noise—beneath the silks and the whispers, and the thrum of cursed auctions—Zafira smiled for real.

She had him.

At least for now.

——

Erina POV

——

The hallway faded behind her like smoke caught in a draft.

Erina didn't stop walking until the velvet curtain swallowed the auction hall behind her. The voices dulled. The weight of the eyes vanished. In their place—silence. Not peace. Just silence. The kind that settles when you've stepped into a forbidden room.

Mira sat near the wall.

No chains now. But Mira didn't move. Her body curled in on itself, arms wrapped around her knees, the ruined shimmer of wings slumped against the floor like wet parchment. Not angelic. Not graceful. Just broken.

Erina stared.

There was nothing graceful about the girl, the way she leaned to one side like her spine had forgotten how to hold her up.

Her skin looked too pale.

Her lips were too dry.

And her eyes—those were the worst.

They were open. Empty. The kind of empty that made Erina's stomach twist.

Not because she pitied her.

But because it reminded her of Dia.

Same silence. Same vacancy. Same smell of something holy, warped into something obedient.

She stepped closer.

The air around Mira shimmered faintly. Not from power. From memory. Magic long since used up, still clinging like smoke after fire.

"You were…" Erina started, voice low. "One of Alba's?"

The voice sounded like it accused her of a crime, causing Erina to halt and cover her mouth in shock.

Mira didn't look up. Her lips moved.

"I was a voice."

Just that. No name. No past. Not even a title.

Erina's hands curled into fists.

"Why are you like this now?"

Mira didn't answer at first. She tilted her head slightly, like the question took effort to understand.

"Because the voice was never mine."

Erina's breath caught.

The line was soft. But it hit like glass pressed into flesh. Erina's mouth opened, ready to speak, but the words caught on her teeth. Her throat tightened. She turned away.

Water waited in the stone basin near the wall. She filled it without thinking, splashing her face. It wasn't to clean herself, but to feel. To do something with her hands that wasn't clenching them.

Her reflection stared back at her—wet cheeks, raw eyes, lips parted in something between confusion and grief.

Behind her, the silence broke again.

"Do you hate him?" Mira asked.

Her voice didn't waver. It was too tired for that.

Erina stood still.

The answer didn't come.

She wanted to say yes. But it caught somewhere in her ribs.

So she said nothing.

And Mira laughed—a quiet, breathless sound, like someone remembering the punchline to a cruel joke.

"You don't," she said. "That's how it starts."

The stone basin shimmered as she leaned over it.

Erina watched her reflection ripple — first from the residual warmth of her touch, then from the deeper tremble in her chest. It was subtle, almost imperceptible. But it was there.

Her eyes looked wrong. Too wide. Too dark around the edges.

Too curious.

The soft scent of lavender oil clung to the steam, a comfort placed by the dungeon maids — goblins, maybe. Or worse. She didn't know. She didn't want to ask.

The water stilled.

Her face stared back — same golden hair, same green eyes. Same girl who once prayed every morning at the temple, who blessed children and cried for men she'd never met. The one who once wore white because it meant something.

Now her cloak hung limp, damp at the collar.

Leonhardt hadn't said a word to her since he took Mira inside.

He didn't need to.

That silence, that indifference, should have chilled her. It should have reminded her of the danger. But instead, it echoed in her chest like a whisper. Like a warning in a language she was starting to understand.

He didn't look at Mira the way Father would have.

Not with ownership. Not with calculation. Not even with lust.

He looked at her like a man staring into a well, not sure if it reflected or swallowed.

Erina's fingers touched her lips, as if trying to feel whether they'd changed. Whether her mouth still said prayers or only murmured his name in the dark.

She hated that thought.

She hated that she didn't hate him.

She hated that her knees had gone weak, not when he punished someone, but when he whispered her name like it already belonged to him.

Why am I still here?

She should've run. Months ago. The moment she noticed Leonhart's strangeness, when he killed those bandits without care. When she heard him speak commands like a tyrant to Dia, her father's agent, someone who loved him and adored him... Now twisted into a tool.

But she didn't run.

And that… terrified her more than anything.

Her fingers balled into fists against the stone edge.

Not because of fear.

But because a small, flickering, treacherous part of her wondered:

What if I have already made my choice?

The thought caused Erina's pupils to dilate, she took a sharp breath, before looking back at Mira... and shook her head.

"What happens to her now?"

Mira remained behind the velvet curtain, curled atop a low bench under the spell's quiet hum. She hadn't spoken again. Her limbs were folded like paper, her eyes half-shut, lips parted just enough to show breath.

The room was sealed, but not cruelly—its faint rune pulsing along the frame like a heartbeat made of old magic. Not a cage. Not mercy either. Just stasis. A breath caught between ownership and purpose.

The corridor beyond the washroom was warm.

Too warm.

A kind of unnatural heat radiated from the walls — not fire, but something deeper. Magic. Living, pulsing through the stone as though the entire place breathed.

She walked it alone.

No attendants. No guards. No instructions.

Only a flickering set of wall-lanterns guiding her forward, one by one, like stars fading into dawn. freewebnoveℓ.com

Erina didn't know where she was going.

But her feet moved anyway.

The floor beneath her boots felt too smooth, too polished, as if worn down not by use, but by design. The dungeon didn't just exist — it responded. Bent to his will. Reacted to her presence. The very air adjusted its weight depending on how quickly she exhaled.

She hated that it felt safe.

She hated that it felt like it knew her.

And then, as she turned the final corner… the safety ended.

She froze.

The next room wasn't just large. It was cavernous.

A curved amphitheatre of black stone and velvet banners. A private theatre for devils. She hadn't heard noise from within when the doors first closed, but she could now.

Voices.

Low, reverent. The hush of power. Of patrons bidding not for goods, but lives.

She spotted Leonhardt from behind. Even seated, he looked tall. Still. A carved shadow wrapped in red silk and command. And beside him, closer than Erina liked, Zafira leaned forward with a lazy tilt of her head, her lips close to his ear. Whispering.

Something sharp twisted behind Erina's ribs.

She told herself it was disgust.

But her legs still carried her forward.

One step. Another.

Until the edge of the curtain brushed her shoulder, and the chill of the theatre settled around her like frost.

He didn't look back. He didn't have to.

"Welcome back, is Mira safe?" Leonhardt asked — quiet, smooth. Like he'd known the exact moment her fingers touched the door.

"I…"

Her voice caught.

Zafira turned her head slightly, golden eyes sliding over her shoulder, lips curled in a slow, knowing smirk.

"I'm ready," Erina said finally, steadying herself. "To sit beside you."

Leonhardt raised his hand — two fingers flicked.

A chair appeared beside his throne.

Not below.

Not behind.

Beside.

Zafira's smirk wavered.

Just a fraction.

And in that moment — that tiny, invisible war of gazes — Erina understood something:

Zafira didn't smile when she was truly calm.

She only smiled when something hurt.

And now?

Now they were both smiling.