The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 137: Beneath the dreaming.

"...Then I would say..." Claire’s voice was low, a velvet taunt laced with vulnerability, "...you ought to protect me too, not just my land."

"Oh, I will..." Atlas voiced, his tone rough, a promise wrapped in a growl. His hand moved, bold and unhesitating, reaching for her plump arse, fingers sinking into the soft curve with a possessive grip.

The leather yielded under his touch, warm from her body, and he felt the shape of her, the weight of her, like she was made for his hands. His other hand slid to her neck, thumb brushing the pulse that raced beneath her skin, fast and wild, a drumbeat that matched his own.

Claire’s eyes widened, her lips parting as a shiver ran through her. "Atlas..." she said, her voice a mix of warning and want, "you’re getting too bold... nowadays."

He smirked, a dangerous curve of his lips, his golden eyes locked on hers. "...Me? You think your constant attention, your perfume, your skimpy outfits during our night meetings..." His voice dropped, low and rough, each word a blade carving through the tension. "I may be an idiot, but I’m not dense."

He leaned in, his lips finding her neck, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss against the soft skin. His teeth grazed her, just enough to sting, and he sucked, hard, leaving a red mark—a bruise, a claim, a rebellion against the queen who never was. His hand on her buttock tightened, grabbing it like it was his property, fingers digging into the flesh with a force that made her gasp.

"Aahhhh!!!" Claire moaned, a sound torn between pleasure and pain, her body arching into him, hips pressing against his thigh. The moan vibrated through him, setting his nerves alight, his cock hardening painfully in his breeches. Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails biting through the damp fabric, anchoring herself as the sensation rippled through her.

"Took you long enough..." she voiced, her tone breathless but sharp, a smirk tugging at her lips despite the flush on her cheeks. Her purple eyes gleamed with defiance, daring him to push further, to break the rules they both danced around.

Atlas’s laugh was low, a rumble that shook the air between them. "You’ve been begging for this," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Every glance, every sway of your hips, every time you leaned too close with that damn lavender scent..." His hand on her arse slid lower, fingers tracing the seam of her leather trousers, teasing the heat between her thighs. "You wanted me to snap."

Claire’s breath hitched again, her chest rising sharp against his, her breasts pressing through the tunic, soft and firm against his ribs. "And you think you’re the one in control?" she shot back, her voice a blade, but her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch, chasing the fire of his fingers. Her hand slid down his chest, nails raking over the damp shirt, leaving trails of heat that made him groan.

Knock! knock!

The two of them—Atlas and Claire—froze like guilty children. Claire’s hand dropped from his shoulder first, her fingers brushing her skirt as she smoothed it with surgical grace. Atlas stepped back, adjusting the collar of his shirt, the air suddenly much heavier than it had been seconds ago.

He didn’t need to see her face to know she was smirking beneath that composed exterior. Claire always smirked when the past caught up.

"Brother?" came the voice from beyond the door—soft, poised, but lined with something sharp underneath. "Are you there? I... just wanted to talk before you leave."

Atlas gave a small sigh, shoulders already tightening. He glanced at Claire, whose posture had already returned to battlefield-ready: arms folded, expression bored, jaw just slightly clenched.

"Come in, Lara," Atlas said.

The door creaked open.

Lara stepped inside like she owned the air in the room—but that confidence faltered the second her eyes landed on Claire. Her foot stopped mid-step. Her fingers twitched near the hilt of her sword.

"...You," Lara said.

Claire didn’t even blink. "Yes, dear," she replied, her voice laced with sugar and cyanide. "Lovely to see you too."

The silence between them was loaded—like two archers holding drawn bows across a battlefield made of carpet and marble.

Then Lara lifted her chin. "Can you leave? I want to talk privately with my brother."

"Stepbrother," Claire corrected instantly. "Let’s not pretend the gods got lazy with bloodlines."

Lara’s hand curled tighter around her sword hilt. Not enough to draw, but enough to send a message. One Claire received—and dismissed—with a scoff.

Atlas stepped between them—not with a warrior’s force, but a peacemaker’s exhaustion. He lifted a hand, palm up, like a tired monarch trying to hold two wolves by the throat.

"Cl... Aunt Claire," he said deliberately, his voice strained. "Please."

Claire’s jaw twitched. That old nickname. Aunt. The one she hated. The one she never corrected, because to do so would admit something worse.

She didn’t speak. Just offered a dry little laugh and turned on her heel, heels clicking sharp against the floor like thrown daggers. The door slammed behind her with a final ’thud’

Thud!

The sound echoed.

And then it was just the two of them.

Lara stood still for a beat, as if collecting herself. Atlas watched her closely—the way her shoulders dropped a little, the way she unclenched her grip around the sword, letting it dangle by her side.

"...Why do you even keep her around?" she asked at last, voice low but bitter. "She’s an old fox. Venomous to the end."

Atlas didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at his gloves, flexing his fingers as if testing whether they still obeyed him. "Leave her be," he said. "She’s just... trying to help. In her own way."

Lara didn’t look convinced. But she let it go.

Instead, she stepped closer, fidgeting now—not with her sword, but with the edge of her sleeve. That wasn’t like her. She was a born blade—sharp, honed, composed. But now? She was folding fabric between her fingers like it might tear open a truth she wasn’t ready to speak.

"What brings you here, Lara?" Atlas asked, more gently this time.

She bit her lip. Looked away.

Then, finally, she spoke—but not like a warrior. Like a girl admitting something she didn’t quite understand.

"Something’s been... speaking to me," she murmured.

Atlas’s eyes sharpened. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated. The words seemed to struggle to crawl up her throat.

"It comes... when I sleep. Not dreams, not nightmares. Something in between. I thought it was nothing at first—just echoes of stress. But now..." She swallowed. "It calls itself a Leviathan...

The Voice from the Depths of Dreaming*."

Atlas frowned. "That’s a title."

"It feels like one," she said, finally looking up at him. Her crimson eyes gleamed, not with fire—but with unease. "It doesn’t threaten me. Not directly. But it keeps whispering the same thing: ’Erase....erase erase...’"

Silence fell again. This time, heavier.

Atlas’s mind spun—faster than he let on. ’The Depths of Dreaming’—that was an old phrase. One the Guide once mentioned during his fight ith Dracula, scribbled between ancient prophecies that even the Church had burned. It wasn’t just metaphor. It was place. A state. A realm between realities, neither god nor mortal fully controlled.

And now it was whispering to Lara?

His sister?

"Have you told anyone else?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Just you."

"Not Henry?"

"Especially not Henry."

Atlas exhaled slowly. This changed things. There were too many forces moving now—Isabella’s weapon, the border breach, the psycho mage, Aurora’s cold prophecy—and now, this?

Something else speaking through the cracks?

He looked at Lara again. Really looked at her. Beneath the poise, she was scared. But she was trying not to be. That was the worst kind of fear—the kind worn behind pride.

"Next time it speaks to you," he said, "write it down. Word for word. Date it. And give it to me. Even if it doesn’t make sense." fгeewёbnoѵel_cσm

She nodded. No questions. No pride.

Just trust.

And maybe that’s what scared Atlas most of all.

Because when these things speak in dreams, they don’t speak to save you.

They speak to warn you.

And sometimes?

They speak too late.

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