The Conquerors Bloodline - Chapter 298: Faces of Menagerie 3*

Hannah, the name of the amazonic girl, staggered on her heels. Almost tumbling to her knees as she shot a hand to her belly and panted. Even though her rich, chocolaty skin, he cheeks flared crimson. Eyes just as sharp as daggers.

Across from her, Parc stood, his scarred and fit chest laden with red welts where her gloves beat his skin shone bare for the women to ogle at. He’d drawn eyes when he stripped off his top after changing into shorts and jumper in the changing rooms. His mere presence had sent the other girls sharp and lips wet from their tongues.

He brought his motions to a halt, still as he watched her hunch over, clutching her stomach and clamping her thighs together. “Pushing it, ain’t ya?” she forced out a laugh, hoping to hide or at least, make her intense flush seem not as prominent.

“You’re the one who suggested an all or nothing type of fight. I’m just playing by your rules.” He threw up his hands and spun his eyes to their onlookers. The ones who weren’t versed in combat sports hadn’t noticed anything but those who had had clearly seen his fingers go places not permissible in a competition fight.

“All or nothing as in we fight in any style.” Hannah straightened her back, sucked in sharply and exhaled slowly, quickly feeling her skin cool.

“I got that. And I chose my style. It’s more… carnal, you could say. A mix between somatic input and psychological aftereffects.” He paced on the spot, rolling his arms and stretching his fingers, his smile never diminishing, not for a second.

“Fingering me mid-fight, isn’t a style.”

“I mean, it’s a style of foreplay.”

“We ain’t fucking.”

“Not yet.”

Hannah went silent, staring at him dumbfounded by his nonchalance. “You’re actually a pervert.”

“Did it take the nipple tweaks or the kancho to figure that out?” he huffed amusedly.

Hannah hung her head, a tick on her forehead where a vein bulged soon brought a twitch to her eye. Feeling an oncoming tide of… not, lust, she shut her eyes and steadied her thoughts. “I won’t rip his arm off. I won’t rip his arm off…” she said under her breath.

Just as she was about to lift her head, she felt a whiz of the wind and quickly jerked her eyes open to find Parc but centimetres from her face.

“Hola, the bell didn’t ring.”

Hannah shot back, the turnbuckles strained against the force. When it constricted, it flung her forwards, she pulled her arm back and tucked her body down, launching into a barreling tackle.

Pity there just wasn’t enough room to give it power or speed as Parc stepped to the side. She kept her stride going, never faltering even as she felt Parc’s swift approach behind her.

“Bastard!” she bellowed. With a stomp of her left foot before her, she sent her right on a rising course to Parc’s chin. He hissed, pulled his head back but threw one hand up and latched onto her vulnerable ankle.

Captured, Parc slid his leg between hers and kicked out her foot.

Hannah yelped, flipping onto her back with the added draw of Parc turning her captured leg.

She raced her hands behind her, pushed against the floor hoping to launch herself up but before she could Parc stood on her other ankle and pressed it into the tactile boxing ring floor. Parc leaned onto her right foot, bending it over her belly and sending a pang of pain through her thigh.

“So, how’s the weather down there?” he tormented her. Hannah tried to kick herself free but he only pushed down harder on her leg. It wasn’t a difficult pin to get out of, she knew that, but for some reason, she just couldn’t.

She looked up at him, scowled at his cocky expression like a hunter having his prey and felt something… dank, rising in her body. Hannah smirked and said, “like I’m being cheated out of a win.”

“It’s not cheating if there weren’t any rules, to begin with.” Parc glanced out the ring, noticing a shifting in the crowd as a woman, muscular and tall pushed through them. A woman related to Hannah? She looked like Hannah, broad shoulders, chocolate skin and muscles defined by the gods, hair was even the same vibrant red and eyes illustrious yellow. Though she had tattoos on her bare shoulders and bandages wrapped all the way from the tips of her fingers to the middle of her upper arm and not to forget, two horns that curled over her head.

“Hannah.” She focused her attention on the rim of the ring. Hannah tilted her head back to see who called her. “Mind explaining why this man has got you spreading your legs like a whore?”

“Cause I’m letting him?” Hannah gulped and said.

“Oh, perfect. You’ve decided to become a whore and not a fighter.”

“Just, give me a minute okay? This fuckers not playing fair.”

“Should have come up with some rules,” Parc said, finally earning the recognition of the woman.

“And you.” She grumbled, “hurry it up. Other people are wanting to get in there.” Parc lifted his brow at that, quirked to some of the other women, the ones who’d surrounded the ring at first and saw them swaying and stretching, staring daggers at him with menacing intent.

He turned back to the woman, “you one of them?”

The woman scoffed, “I have better things to do than fight some brat who doesn’t get laid enough.”

Ironic, Parc thought, “says the woman who can’t get laid herself.” She sharpened her eyes to dagger-like slits.

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. A titan like you probably makes all the other men squeal and run away. Your arms are thicker than their heads in the first place. No wonder you stink of sexual frustration.”

Parc watched as each word stabbed into the woman, turning her cheeks red and veins blue across her forehead and neck.

“Ohhh, you’re asking for it.”

“When am I not?”

***

There had been reports, numerous, honestly more than she was tempted to answer. Words of a man crossing through all of Kuo Kuana, he was tall, black hair with red eyes, he-he, he pushed her down in an alley—they-they, they were having sex in the back of the grocers!

She could hear them over the phone, that whistle in her ear of her contact back at home base sending her on a goose chase after some virile monster who kept shoving it where the sun don’t shine.

Ilsa stood beneath the large Engage sign. They’d gotten a call, a message more like, Menagerie was nothing like Mystral when it came to call-ins, without a ccts tower people had to run to a guards box so they could send a radio signal to home base and home base to her.

The message they’d gotten had come in from a young girl, she’d been planning to exercise but as she entered the building she smelt something off with the place. Something musky, as she pushed into the main building she saw it, by the ring. A dozen women naked and with white stuff between their legs and across their bodies. She had bolted from the building, ran to a box and set off an alert.

Which is where Ilsa came in. As the closest officer to the incident she and her partner—a tall, finch Faunus man with feathers in his hair and a large scar on his cheek—had sprinted in hopes of getting there before the perp could get away again.

“You go around back, I’ll take the front.” Ilsa reached for the pistol at her hip, pulled it from its holster and readied her finger over the trigger guard, not inside it. Her partner nodded, rushed around the side to look for the back entrance.

Waiting for backup was good and all, but they couldn’t risk it. This man has been slippery as all hell. They get a message and a minute later he’s gone. Worse yet, the victims all refused to press charges, saying it was consensual and nonsense like that.

Consensual, Ilsa scoffed. From everything she’d heard, this guy stank. Quite literally at that. He appears and they smell cherries, no, chocolate, no, a fresh summers day, no, caramel, on and on no one had a similar one.

Approaching the front door, Ilsa slowly pushed it open and spun her pistol around only to quickly straighten when no one was there. Her eyes narrowed, lips pursed, she could smell it herself. A stench of sex, of many women, and sweat, couldn’t forget that. But there was something else, something sweet, like a pastry shop billowing with rich delicacies. Licking her lips, she spun around the divider and peered into the gym proper. There were voices, whispers.

“What do I say to my husband?” one mournfully said.

“Nothing hun. You say nothing.” Another whispered.

“He’s going to kill me if he finds out about this…” a third whined to someone else, getting a cooing response from a fourth.

One more corner she turned, then she saw them, huddled closely by the ring at the back of the hall. A baker’s dozen of half-clothed women. Hair matted and bodies sweaty. Each was dishevelled with a rosy tint to their skin, and the closer she got, the stronger the smell of sex and pastries became.

“Gone…” Ilsa immediately knew.