Pherenike - Chapter 20

Ignoring his resistance, Pherenike firmly grasped Deucalion’s thigh through the hem of his himation. Though her grip was not strong, it was resolute. Deucalion was unable to push away her small, stubborn hand, held tightly on his thigh. He struggled through it, breathing painfully.

“Cal.”

“I feel like I would do anything for you. So, you know.”

“Deucalion.”

“I’ve never hated you like this in my entire life.”

“…”

“You’ve never been as dreadful as you are today.”

Tears streamed down his jaw. The prince’s proud face was soaked with tears. He was consumed by a sense of defeat he had never experienced before.

“My existence is dreadful, Pherenike.”

Kneeling between her legs, Deucalion looked exceedingly beautiful. He resembled a sculpted, defeated war god from ancient Ilion.

His body, perfect like the statue of the war god Ares, and his face, as radiant as the sun god in the polar night, where the sun never rises. A disheveled himation. His broad chest rose up and down and was twisted with despair and contempt, while his glorious face was distorted with anger and love.

Everything about him was hers – his sorrow, his pain, his love.

She entered through the door of sadness and exited through the door of joy. Ironically, while he found her dreadful, she didn’t find him dreadful at all.

Pherenike pulled him down to the bed and climbed on top of him. Their positions reversed swiftly, and her lips fell gently on his tear-stained cheek, drinking his tears like a bird.

His body was crumbling under his love for her. She lusted for that crumbling body as well. She yearned for him, like a beast driven into the limb and survived only the least instinct.

Even knowing he wasn’t himself anymore.

“I love only you.”

She whispered, engulfing his lips.

“It’s all temporary.”

But Deucalion turned his head away, refusing her kiss. As his large hand grabbed her shoulder and tried to push her off, she momentarily exerted strong Althea through her hand, pressing on his neck. Ignoring the pain this caused her on the stomach, she bit his lip.

She sent the Althea to her entire body like a towering tidal wave, and momentarily exerted physical influence on the man with a body like a war god.

He gritted his teeth while being crushed by the Althea.

“Pherenike.”

This was a sacrilegious misuse of Althea, a sacred power meant for purification and healing.

It was rare to be blessed with such power in the first place, and even rarer for someone to divert it for personal use. Even if they were rare, they were all extremely loyal to the goddess. Those who had the ability to steal power and were not loyal were never on par with Pherenike.

‘But without the control device, it would have been impossible.’

The control device on Deucalion’s ankle suppressed his vast Orthea, giving her this momentary advantage.

The inherent Orthea within him was already inducing a kind of paralysis. While Deucalion was still able to resist the Althea entering his body for healing, he couldn’t do the same for his physical exterior.

Pherenike was manipulating Althea within the realm of Orthea in an unprecedented manner that even warriors could never do. It bound Deucalion with a light, leaving him helpless.

Even with his inherent physical strength, he could have broken free from the false Orthea. The false Orthea was bizarre in origin and method but it was not of a particularly high level. It could only be used by twisting a small part of Althea.

However, to do so now, he would have to aggressively confront her Althea, involving direct collision and potential bloodshed, unlike healing.

Deucalion would have surely done so, risking bleeding to break free, if not for the fact that Pherenike was too close to him, risking her harm as well.

Ultimately, everything was the same. Pherenike had always been his weakness. She smiled satisfactorily.

Her fingers trailed across his bare chest, leaving trails of light that constricted his chest. Though pain followed the escaping Althea, she willingly endured it.

“Damn it, Pherenike Vassilios.”

“Ung.”

“Take your hand. Off my body, right now…”

Deucalion thrashed violently while glaring at her. Pherenike met his eyes directly, and her slender hand slid gently over his lower abdomen and moved under the himation.

His wet eyes widened in shock.

“Pherenike!”

“It’s better for you to stay still, Deucalion.”

Her hand moved under the himation, gently stroking him from the base a few times. His manhood quickly rose, protruding outside the himation.

The tip rapidly became wet. He felt extremely fragile as this was an entirely new sensation for him.

* Ilion: Also known as Ilios. The ancient name of Troy. Homer’s epic poem, the “Iliad,” set against the backdrop of the Trojan War, means “the story of Ilion.”