The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 139: Create

Isabella’s voice trembled, a soft, breathless plea cutting through the heavy silence of the office. "Aiden...?" she called, her body slumped against the mahogany desk, slick with sweat and trembling with exhaustion.

Her once-pristine green gown lay in tatters on the floor, her lush curves exposed, glistening under the dim light. Her cheeks burned a deep crimson, flushed with the afterglow of pleasure and the sting of her shattered pride. Her emerald eyes, still hazy with the remnants of ecstasy, flickered toward him, searching for something—answers, dominance, or perhaps a trace of the man who’d just claimed her so completely.

Aiden stood a few steps away, his broad chest heaving, his own skin glistening with the evidence of their ferocity. His cock, still half-hard, glistened with her arousal, a silent testament to the relentless pounding he’d delivered. He glanced at her, a smirk curling his lips, his voice low and rough. "Oh, nothing..." he drawled, wiping sweat from his brow. "Just... catching my breath."

Isabella’s breath hitched, her body still quivering from the onslaught of orgasms he’d forced from her—ten, maybe more, each one ripping through her like a storm, stripping away her regal composure until she was nothing but a trembling, submissive mess. She shifted, her hand sliding down her trembling abdomen, fingers grazing the sensitive skin just above her cunt.

The warmth there was intoxicating, a pulsing reminder of his cum flowing deep within her, filling her in a way no man ever had. The sensation was raw, primal, a delicious burn that spread through her core, marking her as his in a way that both thrilled and unnerved her.

Her fingers lingered, tracing the edge of her swollen, slick valley, still throbbing from his relentless thrusts. No man had ever reached so deep, had ever claimed her so thoroughly. The satisfaction was overwhelming, a forbidden pleasure that made her heart race and her pride recoil. "You... really aren’t afraid," she murmured, her voice soft, almost reverent, tinged with a mix of awe and disbelief. "Cumming inside me..."

"You let me..." he said, voice low—almost too low. Like even speaking it was a risk, like the truth might burn if held too long.

Isabella tilted her head, a smirk twitching at the corners of her mouth, though her eyes remained sharp and unreadable. "Hmmm... what if I decide to ditch the shift potion?" she whispered, silk over stone. "Let myself get pregnant...?"

His chest rose slightly, one small break in his otherwise unreadable form. He didn’t step back. Didn’t blink. Just held the weight of her words like it wasn’t the heaviest thing in the room.

"You won’t," he replied. Not cruel. Not dismissive. Just... sure.

She leaned in closer, still playing the role of coy queen, but her voice lowered, eyes narrowing. "Why not, Aiden? I’m already a mother. One more child won’t break me. Wouldn’t be my first sin."

Her fingers grazed his wrist. Just enough to feel him flinch beneath the contact.

He didn’t pull away.

"Actually..." he murmured, "I don’t mind."

She blinked. Her breath hitched just slightly.

"...What?"

"I don’t mind," he said again, quieter. "We might both be executed before a child’s born, but... I’d like to know what it feels like. To be a father. Just once. Before I die."

It wasn’t tenderness.

It wasn’t even longing.

It was brutal honesty. Raw. Undressed. The kind of truth that peels back the masks and shows what’s left underneath.

And for the first time, Isabella—the Queen who had shattered lords with a glance—blushed.

Not from seduction.

But from something terrifyingly real.

"Yo...you..." she started, but the words didn’t form. Her voice slipped, cracked under the weight of vulnerability she hadn’t braced for. Her fingers twitched, but she said nothing more. Her heart was pounding and she hated it.

So she pivoted.

"What were you going to say?" she asked, forcing a change in topic, redirecting like she always did when cornered.

Aiden breathed in, deep.

"Yeah... I’m going," he said at last.

Her voice sharpened. "What? Going where?"

He looked at her—not with coldness, not even anger. Just resignation.

"My fief is near the border," he said. "You know the Empire owns the sky now. They’ll reach it soon. I need to return. My people need me."

She gripped his arm, harder this time. "Then I’ll move you," she snapped. "You can rule lands farther south—safer ones. I can make that happen. You forget I’m still the queen."

He looked at her hand.

Then slowly, deliberately, looked back up.

"I’m not forgetting," he said. "But I’m also not running."

"Then you’re abandoning me," she whispered.

"I’m doing what I can live with," he replied. "Or die for."

Isabella’s breath caught.

She took a step back, eyes narrowing. Her chest tightened, and for the first time in days, she didn’t know what to say.

"...You sound like someone I hate....," she said, her voice suddenly hollow.

"Maybe that’s not such a bad thing."

He reached for his coat. The last of his belongings.

No drawn-out goodbye. No grand speech.

He stepped toward the door.

She didn’t stop him.

But just before he crossed the threshold—

"Aiden," she called.

He paused, back still to her. One hand resting on the doorframe.

"If... if it had been another life..."

He waited.

Silence.

She didn’t finish.

And he didn’t ask her to.

Instead of wishing him luck, instead of letting him slip away, Isabella acted on instinct, her body moving before her mind could protest. She crossed the room in a heartbeat, her tattered gown barely clinging to her curves, and climbed onto his lap, straddling him in the office chair. Her thighs, still slick from their earlier encounter, pressed against his, her valley brushing against the hard bulge in his trousers, reigniting the fire that never truly died.

"What are you doing?" Aiden asked, his voice low, a mix of surprise and dark amusement, his hands instinctively gripping her hips. His eyes burned into hers, searching, challenging, as if daring her to admit the truth of her desperation.

Isabella’s breath hitched, her cheeks flushing crimson, her pride warring with the raw, aching need coursing through her. She leaned closer, her lips hovering near his, her voice a sultry whisper laced with defiance and surrender.

"If you’re going..." she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, "...just fill me to the brim and then go." The words were a plea, a command, a final act of rebellion against the inevitability of his departure. She wanted him—needed him—to claim her one last time, to leave her marked, overflowing, utterly his.

He only smiled, his cock trying to rise once more. The office remained locked for the rest of the day, the outside world oblivious to the queen’s surrender, her moans and whimpers the only echoes of the battle lost to lust within those walls.

.

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[’create’ has been chosen.]

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