The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 118: Her lust, Her abyss

Lara moved through the long, green-marble corridor of the Emerald Palace barefoot, sweat clinging to her brow. She had returned from training late—again—and the wine she’d stolen from the northern cellar was still burning in her stomach. Her footsteps were quiet, but her pulse was not.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

A muffled ’sound’ caught her ear. At first, it was low—barely audible over the creak of palace wood and the whisper of night wind. But then—another one. A gasp, drawn out like silk over skin. A moan, unmistakable.

Her hand froze on the corner pillar.

’No....again?’

Her mother’s chambers.

She wasn’t naive. She knew Isabella entertained. The maids gossiped about the late-night visits. Lara had even seen the guards carry out the bodies before dawn—some broken, some still breathing, all used. But hearing it was different.

It was happening. Right now.

And worse—she couldn’t look away.

The doors were slightly ajar. Not locked. Not sealed. Almost... inviting.

Lara edged forward, her breath tight in her throat. Through the gap in the doorway, moonlight cut across the velvet room—and on the bed, she saw her.

Isabella.

Sprawled across crimson sheets like a queen on a battlefield of lust.

Her legs wrapped tightly around a young man’s waist—a boy, really, barely older than Lara herself. His head was bowed low, buried against her breast, his hips moving in a steady rhythm that made the silk beneath them ripple.

Isabella arched her back, moaning openly. Her gown—if it could still be called that—hung off one shoulder, exposing the full weight of her body, soft and decadent, dripping with sweat and desire. Her mouth parted again, lips glistening as she bit into her own knuckle to muffle the next sound—but it slipped out anyway, raw and animal.

Lara’s stomach turned.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

There was something grotesquely beautiful about it. The power in it. The control. Her mother didn’t beg—she commanded pleasure. She devoured it. And in that moment, Lara realized something sickening:

Isabella was not ashamed.

Not even aware of shame.

She had made desire into a kingdom. And Lara? She was nothing but its bastard daughter—watching from the cracks.

A sudden thrust made the boy groan. His face—half-lit by the golden chandelier above—twisted in something between worship and pain.

Lara gasped aloud.

The sound betrayed her.

Her mother’s eyes opened.

They locked.

Across that narrow slit in the door—Lara and Isabella stared at each other.

A breath.

A beat.

And then—Isabella startled.

startled.

Not angry.

But surprised.

But she did not stop.

She had known Lara was watching but she continued.

The moan that followed was louder—sharper. Almost exaggerated. She threw her head back, letting the boy thrust harder, deeper, with reckless abandon.

Lara backed away, her hands shaking. Her mouth tasted of bile.

She ran.

Down the hall. Around the corner. Until the walls blurred and her body couldn’t remember how to breathe.

’This is my legacy’, she thought, pressing her palm to her chest. ’This is what I came from.’

The palace loomed behind her like a living thing—breathing, pulsing, drowning in perfume and rot.

Lara did not cry.

But something cracked inside her.

And it would never quite heal.

After she saw her again. Like this. She could not cum or would not. She lay sprawled across her massive bed, the moonlight pouring through wide-open balcony doors and painting her skin in shimmering silver. The silk sheets clung to her curves—plump, indulgent, sculpted by years of pleasure and conquest. She was a sovereign of her own making, built on betrayal and whispered secrets. At her side, a new boy stirred, naked and unmindful, still lost in the haze of passion.

But he would not last.

She lifted the ornate pipe to her lips, inhaling deep as the chamber filled with scents of cinnamon, clove, and something darker—death’s promise on the verge. When she exhaled, the smoke wreathed out like spectral serpents, curling in the air toward the balcony where the night breeze carried it away.

Her voice was calm and chill:

"...Dispose of him as well."

The phrase floated, unhurried, yet absolute. Outside on the marble floor, cloaked figures froze. One moment the boy lay still; the next, silent hands whisked him away—disappearing like discarded shreds of cloth. No screams. No pleading. Just the soft rustle of boots on marble. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Isabella closed her eyes, savoring the moment as she ground ash into the tray and sat up. She was both sculptor and executioner—nothing felt too much anymore.

The stale musk of sweat and sex lingered between the sheets. She flicked the ash from her pipe and listened to her own breath. Tonight was long—no, her entire life had been long. Born for power, destined for the shadows.

"...If they had just funded..." she muttered, the words ragged with bitterness. "This war would already be over before it started."

She rose slowly, the cool night marble kissing her feet and sending a shiver up her spine. She drew a slender gown over her body—fabric so thin it whispered against her skin like a lover’s breath, yet covering and emphasizing each bulge and curve.

Her servant entered softly, bearing a stack of scrolls fastened with wax seals. He bowed, voice low:

"Your Highness... All information on Viscount Aiden, as requested."

She gestured for the documents and sat at the carved mahogany vanity. As she smoothed the paper out, the moonlight revealed ledgers and trade routes, shipping manifests and clandestine alliances.

"Good," she murmured.

"Owns a chain of hospitality services across the south—deep pockets, deep influence." Her fingertips brushed the signatures compiling treasure and power. "He works in shadows. Probably the kind of man who built everything but told no one."

A heartbeat. A flicker of doubt: ’too clean....Is this linked with Claire?’ But the war gnawed at her palace; the Marquise houses had tightened their purse strings, and Henry’s cuts had drained the coffers dry.

She lifted the pipe again, the smoke curling around her face.

"Accept his funds. Restart the project," she ordered herself, gliding out from behind the desk like a cat through moonlight. She set the scrolls on the bed—a promise of change.

Isabella perched on the edge of her bed, the documents spread like a sacred sigil before her. Candlelight flickered and the room smelled of incense and anxiety—the still tension of power hanging heavy. She closed her eyes, the lash of choice burning through her heart.

’Hmmm....What if his loyalty is a lie?’ she thought, fingering the parchment.

’If he lies...i will just slice him to pieces...’ she thought but The faint voices of her past dead lovers echoed—seductive barbs that mocked her. ’You trade bodies and favors, but never trust.’

And the scene of laras disappointment lingered.

The tremor in her heart contradicted her mask. Candle flames reflected shattered glass in her mind: ’kill kill kill...How many lives must I break to keep my own and my daughter intact?’

Her pulse tripped under the weight of the silent room.

She touched her neck and felt the last ember of passion fade into emptiness. Laras eyes still on her mind.

She felt like she wasn’t a queen—she was something colder, crafted from necessity.

A voice whispered in her ear: ’You never wanted this.’

But she did.

’I thought I was protecting her.’

She did.

’I needed to survive.’

But at what cost?

The line blurred.

She whispered to the empty air:

"I never wanted this... I thought I was doing the right thing, for her, for Lara."

But it sounded hollow.

Isabella’s hands trembled slightly as she reached for new documents. She pressed her palm flat against the parchment, the edges rough under her fingertips.

A single candle sputtered and the chamber dipped into deeper shadows.

Henry’s voice echoed in her mind—one she dreaded:

"what you are doing....That’s not protection. That’s control."

The sting of his disappointment cut deeper than any blade.

Hours passed. The silver sky drifted into dawn.

Isabella remained on the balcony, overlooking the silent palace gardens steaming in the cool night air. The candles had guttered out; the world beyond dipped into hush.

Pipe long empty, she felt the ache of solitude pool around her. As no sleep would come. She was only left with herself. Her own mind.

’Is this lonelyness....Am i feeling alone?’

She traced the ledge with her fingertip, the cold marble damp under her skin.

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