Supreme Warlock System : From Zero to Ultimate With My Wives-Chapter 420: A Battlefield to Conquer

Warlock Ch 420. A Battlefield to Conquer

Damian stared after her for a second longer than he should've, his brain still trying to catch up with the chaos she kept dropping on him like live grenades.

Because yeah—of course the dragon general didn't just agree to help.

Conditions, remember?

And judging by the mischievous glint in her eyes when she turned back toward him, he hadn't even heard the worst part yet.

She sauntered back to the table, moving with that lethal, slow grace dragons seemed to breathe, and leaned casually against it, arms crossed.

"So," she said smoothly, "I'll help you tonight."

Damian exhaled a breath of relief he hadn't even realized he was holding.

"But," she continued, voice sharp as a blade sliding free of its sheath, "on one condition."

He tensed immediately, shoulders stiffening.

'Here it comes.'

"You have to sleep with me," Lysandra said, perfectly deadpan.

Damian blinked.

Then blinked again.

"Wait—what?" he said, voice pitching higher in disbelief.

"You heard me," she said calmly, like she was asking him to pass the salt.

Damian threw up his hands. "Hold on, why? I mean, I get dragons are weird but—sleep with you? Out of nowhere?!"

Lysandra tilted her head slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth.

"I want to know," she said simply.

Damian stared at her like she'd grown a second head. "Know what, exactly?"

"How a dead man tastes like," she said, eyes gleaming.

Damian made a strangled noise halfway between a cough and a laugh.

"You want to kill me?" he demanded, stepping back a half pace.

"No," she said, rolling her eyes. "I said sleep with you. Not murder you."

"Right," Damian said, dry as a desert. "Because that's such a clear distinction."

He raked a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath, "You dragons and your messed-up priorities..."

Lysandra shrugged one shoulder, utterly unbothered. "It makes sense to me."

Damian gave her a flat look. "You think demanding sex out of nowhere makes sense?"

"For dragons," she said simply.

"For dragons," Damian echoed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course."

He paced a slow circle around the table, trying to think.

Sleep with the general and get guaranteed backup for tonight's insane mission?

Or refuse, piss her off, and probably face the vault battle down a SSS-rank ally?

Damian sighed loudly, throwing his hands in the air.

"Fine. Fine. Fiiiine."

Lysandra smirked, victorious.

"But for the record," Damian added, stabbing a finger at her, "this is officially the weirdest diplomatic negotiation I've ever been part of."

"You haven't seen anything yet," she said cheerfully.

Damian grunted. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."

He slid his coat off, tossing it onto a nearby chair, and cracked his neck. His mana stirred faintly under his skin, his muscles coiling instinctively.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let's get this over with."

Lysandra pushed off the table with predatory grace, stalking toward him slowly.

"Over with?" she repeated, amused. "You make it sound like a chore."

Damian gave her a deadpan look. "Considering you might eat me halfway through, yeah, I'm not exactly writing love poetry here."

Lysandra laughed, low and rough.

"You'll survive," she said.

Damian muttered, "If I don't, I'm haunting you."

She smirked, stopping just in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her.

"You wish you could," she murmured.

Before Damian could fire back a retort, Lysandra reached up, fisting her hand lightly in the front of his shirt—and yanked him down into a kiss.

Damian staggered slightly at the force of it, but recovered fast, hands snapping up to her waist, holding her steady as their mouths collided.

The kiss was nothing like Selena's.

Selena had kissed him like he was something precious.

Lysandra kissed him like he was a battlefield to conquer.

Rough. Demanding. Fierce.

Damian groaned into her mouth, instincts kicking in hard. He pushed back just as fiercely, their teeth clashing slightly, their mana flaring between them in volatile sparks.

Somewhere between one kiss and the next, Lysandra shoved him backward—hard—and he stumbled against the table.

She followed immediately, crowding into his space, grabbing his belt with one hand and yanking his hips against hers.

Damian swore under his breath, fighting to keep up.

This wasn't slow.

This wasn't romantic.

It was raw. Brutal.

Exactly what he should've expected from a dragon general who smelled blood and battle like perfume.

Lysandra stripped off his shirt with efficient, predatory hands, tossing it aside like it was irrelevant.

Damian caught her wrist before she could shove him fully onto the table.

"Bed," he managed to gasp out. "We have beds, you maniac—"

She grinned, all teeth and sharp delight.

"You assume you'll make it that far."

Damian gave her a look.

"Bed," he said again, sternly.

Lysandra laughed—a throaty, wild sound—and let him steer them roughly across the hall toward the adjoining chamber.

They barely made it to the side of the massive, spartan bed before Damian twisted, reversing their positions and pinning her down against the mattress.

"Still think I'm dead meat?" he growled lowly against her ear.

She laughed breathlessly beneath him, her legs hooking around his waist.

"Not yet."

Damian kissed her again, biting at her lower lip until she gasped—and used the opportunity to slide his hands under her armor, feeling the searing heat of her bare skin underneath.

The armor hit the floor with a loud clatter seconds later.

And after that?

There were no more words.

Just heat.

Breath.

Clashing bodies.

A battle of dominance fought with teeth and nails and desperate, unspoken need.

Damian claimed her mouth, her throat, her chest—earning low, approving growls from her with every kiss and scrape of his teeth.

Lysandra returned every touch with equal ferocity, clawing down his back, biting his shoulder hard enough to leave marks.

When he finally thrust into her—hard, fast, with a snarl against her throat—she arched under him, a vicious, broken moan ripping free.

They moved together, rough and frantic, bodies slamming into each other hard enough to bruise.

But even through the intensity, Damian never lost control.

Never let her slip fully away from him.

It wasn't gentle—but it wasn't mindless either.

It was wild.

Real.

Electric.