Void Lord: My Revenge Is My Harem

Chapter 236 : Opening Shop and Increasing Harem Members XIII

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"Yes," Orna said, and her eyes flicked to his hand. "Because if that skill pulls people like that, you will cause trouble without even trying."

"I do not want trouble," John said.

Orna’s mouth curved, not quite a smile, more the shape of a decision waiting to be tested. "Then learn fast."

He nodded and tried again, smaller this time. He aimed at a loose washer on the bench, intending only to pull that, to prove to himself that precision was still possible.

The washer slid.

So did the air.

So did Orna—just a fraction, like a compass needle remembering north.

Her breath hitched again, and this time she did not bother to hide it. The sound lingered between them, soft and undeniable.

John cut the pull instantly. "This is impossible," he muttered. "It is not listening."

Orna’s voice dropped, steadier than she probably felt. "Maybe it is listening too well."

He looked at her then, really looked, and noticed the way her shoulders had squared as if bracing against more than force. The forge light traced the edge of her jaw, caught the faint warmth in her eyes.

She stepped closer until there was only a hand’s width between them. John’s thoughts thinned, the way they did when danger came wrapped in something gentler than claws.

"This is a stupid thing to say," Orna murmured, "but I feel like the room wants me closer to you."

John swallowed. "That is the skill," he said, but it sounded like an excuse even to him.

Her gaze flicked to his mouth and back, quick, assessing. "And do you want me closer," she asked, the question balanced delicately between challenge and honesty.

His heart stumbled. He had faced beasts, nobles, and nights that wanted him dead. He had not trained for this. He did not answer fast enough.

Orna lifted a hand and placed it lightly on his chest, right over the steady beat. The contact was simple, almost chaste, and somehow that made it worse. He felt how real he was in that moment—how present, how unarmored.

Then the door from the front clicked softly.

Edda stepped back in, boots quieter than they had any right to be. She stopped the moment she saw them.

Her eyes moved once—distance, posture, the charged stillness of the air. She took it all in and smiled.

"I leave for half a day," she said lightly, "and the shop becomes a romance novel."

Orna straightened as if caught mid-step. "We were—"

"Training," John said at the same time.

Edda walked closer, calm and sharp, amusement threading her voice. "Training gravity," she said. "Yes. I can smell it. It smells like poor decisions and sudden heartbeats."

John’s ears warmed. "Edda."

She lifted a hand. "Relax. I am not judging. I am observing." Her gaze slid to his palm. "So that skill. It makes people feel pulled?"

John hesitated, then nodded.

Edda’s eyes brightened—not hungry, not reckless, but keen. "Interesting."

Orna muttered, "Do not encourage him."

Edda stepped closer until she stood on John’s other side. The space narrowed, and John became acutely aware of his own breathing.

"You should practice," Edda said softly. "Properly."

"I am trying," John said.

"Try again."

"Why?"

"Because," Edda said, smiling slowly, "you need control before you accidentally charm half the academy and start a riot."

Orna snorted. "He would hate that."

"He would," Edda agreed. "But I would enjoy the story."

John exhaled, flustered. "Fine."

He lifted his hand again, aiming at a small iron ring. The ring slid. The air shifted.

Both women reacted —subtle, unmistakable— like an invisible thread had tightened. Orna’s hand stayed on his chest. Edda’s fingers brushed his sleeve.

John released the skill at once, breathing hard. "This is not—"

Orna leaned in and kissed him.

It was quick and certain, a spark more than a flame, but it landed with intention. John froze for half a heartbeat, then his hands found her waist by instinct, grounding himself in something real.

When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. "That," she said softly, "was not gravity. I am feeling horny."

Edda clicked her tongue. "You started without me," she teased.

Orna shot her a look. "He is not a tavern drink."

"I am not asking you," Edda said lightly. "I am asking him. I am also feeling it. I want to kiss him too. I waited more than enough."

John’s heart kicked hard enough to remind him he was alive.

Edda stepped in and kissed him too — slower, thoughtful, as if weighing the moment before accepting it. When she pulled back, she whispered, "Control your skill, Lord John. Or you will keep pulling people into moments like this. What will happen if we... your followers are not around you?"

Orna’s voice went low. "Maybe he does not mind. He wants to do it too."

From the front came the faint echo of the street, distant voices, the promise of interruption. Edda glanced that way. "Gael and Kel will return," she said. "Lord Fizz will return," she added, with faint dread.

Orna did not step away. Neither did John.

His hand drifted toward the latch, not yet touching it, just close enough to feel the choice waiting there.

The back room held its breath. The forge vent hummed softly, like an audience that knew when to stay silent.

Orna’s cheeks flushed again, but she did step away because she was feeling wet.

John breathed once, shaky. "We should—"

Edda’s smile turned wickedly gentle. "Yes," she said. "You should lock the door. Let’s do it sir. I wanted you inside me for a long time."

Orna’s eyes met his, daring him to do it. She also wanted John inside her very badly.

John’s hand moved toward the latch.

And the moment tightened, warm and inevitable, right at the edge of a choice he knew would change the shape of his days.

"Alright, I will give you what you want."

The back room held its breath. The forge vent hummed softly like an audience that knew when to be silent. The moment is getting hotter with lust.

And John stepped toward the door, not yet crossing the line, but close enough to feel the heat of it.