NTR: Stealing wives in Another World
Chapter 187: Weight of obedience

Chapter 187: Weight of obedience

Allen didn’t need to say another word. Soreya had already fallen silent, eyes half-lidded and glassy, her once-defiant lips now slack and dripping as she knelt at his feet. The glow from the torches framed her in warm orange, softening the stark red around her mouth, the trails of spit clinging to her chin, the wet sheen between her thighs that betrayed her.

He didn’t look at her with lust. He didn’t even look at her with anger. Just... assessment.

This was no longer about punishment. It wasn’t even about revenge.

It was order.

He stepped back, adjusting his tunic as Soreya instinctively lowered her head, almost pressing her forehead to the stone floor. No command had been given—but the memory of his grip still lingered on her scalp, and she moved as if it were still there.

Behind them, the courtyard was still. Rinni sat cross-legged atop the stone bench now, lazily twirling a dagger between her fingers while Fina leaned against a column with arms folded, her smile unreadable.

"Take her to the lower chamber," Allen said, his voice even. "She’s not done being useful."

Fina gave a nod, already stepping forward. Rinni hopped off the bench, stretching like a cat. Between them, they lifted Soreya—not gently, but not cruelly either. Like a tool being moved after use.

Allen turned and began walking, the sound of his boots echoing across the quiet marble, shadows growing longer as they moved through the palace’s inner corridors.

It wasn’t late, but the nobles left behind in the tribunal chamber had remained still, unmoving, unsure if the day’s judgment had truly ended or if the next blow might fall at any moment. That was the beauty of leaving them stewing. Uncertainty was better than torture—it did most of the same work without the mess.

Allen passed a window overlooking the inner garden, pausing briefly. Fireflies hovered lazily over the lily-strewn pond. He saw himself reflected faintly in the glass—tired eyes, straight shoulders, bloodless knuckles.

He didn’t feel tired. Not yet.

But there was a weight building inside him. A pressure. Not guilt—never guilt—but momentum. The kind that didn’t stop once it had started. The kind that crushed everything in its path.

By the time he descended to the chamber, Fina and Rinni had already secured Soreya to the wall. Her wrists were spread above her, not painfully, but enough to keep her exposed. Her chest rose and fell slowly, hair plastered to her neck, skin flushed from the heat and humiliation.

Fina knelt beside her, wiping Soreya’s face with a damp cloth. She didn’t say anything. Rinni stood nearby, arms behind her back, a faint smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

Allen stepped in without ceremony.

"Did she speak?" he asked.

Fina shook her head. "Only begged for permission to swallow. Nothing else."

Allen let the silence stretch. Then, he moved closer, just enough that Soreya could see the boots in front of her, just enough to remind her where she was.

"Tomorrow, you’ll speak in front of the others," he said. "And you’ll tell them what you did."

Soreya shivered. "Yes, Master..."

It was the first time she’d called him that.

The word was barely a whisper, like she hated how natural it sounded leaving her tongue. Allen watched her eyes as they flicked up toward his. There was still a spark there—small, flickering, but alive.

Perfect.

He turned slightly. "Rinni. Fina. Go prepare the Meros suite. I want them comfortable. Terrified, but comfortable."

The girls exchanged a glance—both clearly curious about what Allen had planned—but obeyed without question. Once they’d gone, the chamber fell into silence again, broken only by Soreya’s shallow breathing and the faint hum of the torches.

Allen crouched in front of her. She flinched—but didn’t pull away.

"You always thought you were better than them," he said quietly, his tone stripped of cruelty. "You thought your titles, your robes, your clever little masks made you different."

Soreya swallowed. Her lips parted, but she couldn’t find words.

Allen reached out and brushed a strand of damp hair from her face.

"But now you understand. They’re all rotting. You were just closer to the fire when it lit."

A small sob broke through her lips—not loud, but genuine. Something in her cracked then, some tiny dam giving way as she slumped against the restraints, no longer holding herself up out of pride.

Allen rose and turned without another word. There was no triumph in his face, no smug satisfaction.

Just calculation.

This wasn’t conquest.

It was transformation.

He left her there, in the quiet dark, where shame clung to her like perfume. The guards would check on her. The maids would gossip. And tomorrow, she would return to the chamber where the nobles sat and trembled.

But not as one of them.

Not anymore.

And when she spoke, when she named names, when she confessed what her family had hidden behind velvet and coin, the whole room would listen.

Allen stepped out into the corridor, boots echoing against stone, and a faint smile touched his lips—cold, fleeting, unreadable.

Another piece had shifted.

And the game continued.

The stone halls of the palace breathed with silence as Allen walked, the only sound the steady rhythm of his boots on polished tile. Every step felt heavier—not from exhaustion, but from purpose. The council chamber loomed ahead, dim now, its torches low and the tribunal long dissolved, but the tension remained like old smoke clinging to drapes.

Two guards bowed as he passed. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

He reached the doors to the east wing—his wing now. Fina and Rinni had done as asked. The suite was prepped. Candles lit. Curtains drawn. Wine poured. But there was no celebration here. Just anticipation. The air was thick with it.

Inside, the five Rhelgar maids sat in a line on the floor, backs straight, knees parted slightly as they’d been taught. Allen didn’t need to say a word. They’d already been told.

Calla was trembling the most—her straw-blonde hair clinging to her cheeks, her freckles standing out bright against pale skin. Beside her, Mira kept her chin up, but her eyes darted nervously. Niva, the redhead, looked as if she hadn’t slept in days—haunted, hollow. Tessa’s lips trembled, and Brin, sharp-jawed and silent, had her hands folded neatly in her lap, as if that’d protect her.

Allen stood before them, his shadow stretching across their bare thighs.

"Did you enjoy the time I gave you?" he asked, his voice soft and quiet, like a father chiding children who knew they’d done wrong.

No one spoke.

He didn’t move. He didn’t raise his voice. Just let the silence stretch, tighter and tighter, until it coiled around their lungs like a rope.

Then, finally—Calla broke. "We—we did our best to—"

"Quiet."

She froze.

"I don’t want excuses. I want honesty. Full, filth-stained, ugly honesty." He crouched down in front of them, his eyes level with theirs. "Tell me how the Rhelgar family used you. No titles. No politeness. Just the truth."

Mira opened her mouth, hesitated—then, with a glance to Fina (who stood silently by the wall like a sentinel), she spoke.

"They... used me for their sons. When they turned thirteen. Said I was for training. That it was a gift. I had to smile the whole time. If I didn’t smile, they punished me."

Allen nodded slowly. "Good. Keep going."

"I—once had to clean Lady Rhelgar’s feet with my mouth," Calla whispered, almost sobbing. "She hadn’t bathed in two days. She told me it was better that way. Said it would teach me humility."

Tessa covered her face, trembling.

Allen’s voice didn’t rise. "And did you feel humble?"

Calla nodded through her tears. "Yes..."

"Say it properly."

"I felt... grateful to be humiliated," she choked out, voice breaking. "It made me know my place."

Niva was next. "They used me in the stables. Said it would prepare me for rougher guests. They tied me up. Left me out there for hours. I... I bled."

Brin spoke last, voice flat. "I was never allowed to orgasm. Ever. They said I wasn’t worthy. If I begged, they mocked me. If I stayed quiet, they ignored me. I thought maybe I was broken."

"You’re not broken," Allen said, his voice firm now. "They are. And they’ll pay."

He rose, walking behind them slowly. "But first—you will be made clean."

The maids glanced at each other, confused.

Fina stepped forward and held out a bowl of scented oil and a soft cloth. Allen dipped the cloth in and wrung it out slowly. Then he crouched again, this time behind Calla, and pressed the warm cloth to her shoulders.

She gasped—but didn’t move.

He wiped gently, firmly, not with lust, but with precision. Down her arms. Across her back. Over her chest. He worked slowly, methodically, letting each stroke strip away the past—not just physically, but symbolically.

He moved to the next, then the next. All five of them, cleaned by the man who’d seen them at their lowest and still deemed them worthy of protection. Worthy of vengeance. Worthy of new purpose.

"You don’t belong to the Rhelgars anymore," he said. "You belong to me."

Their breathing hitched.

"You’re not toys," he continued. "You’re not training dummies. You’re not shame. You’re mine—and that means you carry my mark, not theirs."

He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small bottle of ink. Not magical. Just permanent.

"I want you to write one truth on your body," he said. "Somewhere visible. Something the world will see, and they’ll know you were mine."

He handed the ink to Fina, who offered the first brush to Mira. The dark-haired girl took it with trembling fingers.

She hesitated—then wrote slowly, just above her left breast: "Property of Allen. Finally safe."

Next came Calla: "Used. Broken. Claimed. Healing."

Niva: "His now. Not theirs."

Tessa: "No longer afraid."

Brin, slow and deliberate: "Let them stare. I kneel only for him."

When they were finished, Allen looked down at them, then turned to Fina. "Put them in silk. Red."

Fina nodded, her lips curled slightly in approval.

Tonight, they would sleep in proper beds.

Tomorrow, they would kneel beside Soreya at the tribunal, dressed not in chains but in proof. And the nobles would be forced to witness it—not just the breaking, but the rebirth.

There was no sanctuary left for those who thought themselves untouchable. Not behind gold. Not behind names.

Allen was here.

And he was building something terrifyingly pure.