God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem

Currently, Kafka stood there, his chest rising and falling, his breath steady despite the carnage that painted the alleyway in silence.

But what baffled him wasn't the broken bodies sprawled across the ground.

It was Olivia.

She was standing right in front of him, her plump frame still trembling, but not out of fear. Her cheeks were flushed crimson, sweat glistening on her forehead, droplets sliding down her temples into the strands of her hair that clung damply against her skin.

Her lips parted ever so slightly, her eyes wide—no, not wide with horror, but glazed, limpid, almost dreamlike, locked onto him with an enamored softness that made his chest tighten.

It wasn't terror. It wasn't revulsion. It was...something else.

And Kafka couldn't figure it out.

His mind churned.

Just moments ago, he had lost himself completely, snapped in a way he almost never did.

Normally, he was composed, collected, calm no matter what.

But hearing those bastards laugh, threaten, and spit such vile words about Olivia right in front of him, it had broken something inside him.

A fire had surged up, cold and merciless, and for once, instead of shielding her from his violence, instead of keeping his brutality hidden, he had wanted to show it.

To show them, to show her, exactly what happened when someone dared touch what was his.

And he had done it. He hadn't held back. He hadn't restrained himself. He had broken them all.

Shattered them so badly that now, staring at the alley floor, he realized none of them were even breathing.

A ring of silence sat heavy over the bodies, and for the first time, his own face paled.

Shit.

It hit him like ice water. Olivia had seen everything. Every crunch, every scream, every limp body collapsing into silence.

Just like how earlier, when she thought he was watching her. But this time was worse, so much worse.

This wasn't a scuffle, this wasn't self-defense.

This was carnage.

And as a result, he cursed himself internally, calling himself an idiot over and over for letting rage take him like that. For forgetting she was behind him. For letting her see the side of him he never wanted any of his woman, especially not her, to see.

Quickly, he then closed the distance between them. He had to fix this, had to reassure her before she panicked, before she recoiled from him forever.

"Mom, it's not...it's not what it looks like." His voice came out low, almost hurried, as he reached for her trembling hand. "They're all right. I didn't...I didn't hit them that hard. They're just...sleeping. They're fine, still breathing. You don't need to be afraid."

He hated how desperate he sounded. He hated that he had to lie to her, and yet he did it anyway, hoping, praying that she wouldn't look too closely, that she wouldn't see through it.

But when he looked into her face, he froze.

Olivia wasn't pale with fear. She wasn't trembling in terror. She wasn't shrinking from him like a fragile woman who'd just seen the man beside her turn into a butcher.

No...her eyes were soft. Dreamy. Enamored. She was staring at him as if she were lost in some hazy dream, her lips parted, her whole expression flustered and tender.

Her gaze didn't waver even when he moved, she followed him with her eyes alone, as though he were the only thing that existed in the world, and Kafka suddenly recognized the expression.

He had seen it before, on Abigaille when she turned into a succubus in bed and drained him dry; on Camila, Bella, Nina...women caught in the grip of overwhelming desire, worked up past the point of reason.

But Olivia? From this?

He blinked, genuinely bewildered.

'I just tore men apart in front of her. That's not...that's not something that excites a woman. So then why…?'

He opened his mouth, tried to ask, but she wouldn't even answer. She simply stood there, flushed, sweating, trembling, and looking at him with such a loving, yearning gaze that it rattled him more than the fight itself.

For a brief moment, his throat went dry. He didn't know what to say. All he knew was that they couldn't stay here.

Not with a pile of broken bodies around them. Not with Olivia in this dazed state.

So he did the only thing he could, he reached for her and gave a firm tug, pulling her out of the alleyway and back onto the open street.

The air outside felt different, cleaner, cooler, but the moment they stepped out, Kafka froze again.

Two women were already waiting.

One of them with long black hair stood with arms folded across her chest, her face calm, unreadable, like a still pond that hid a thousand daggers beneath.

The other, however short pink hair, broke into a small smile the moment she laid eyes on him.

Seraphina and Lyra, the sisters from the assassin's guild.

Kafka narrowed his eyes slightly, realizing at once what had happened.

Of course. They'd been tailing them all along.

Not him, but Olivia, her safety was their priority, and they had been watching from the shadows.

He then glanced around now, taking in the subtle movements in the street beyond. Other guild operatives, working quietly and efficiently, guiding stray pedestrians away with excuses, blocking entrances, diverting attention.

A whole invisible barrier set up so no one from the public would stumble into the alley and witness the carnage.

Seeing this, Kafka exhaled through his nose. They had been ready to step in and clean everything up the moment it was necessary. And now that he had done the job himself, Seraphina and Lyra were here to dispose of the aftermath.

Watching them work so swiftly, Kafka felt a pang of responsibility stir in his chest. He was the one who had lost control, who had made a mistake. He owed them gratitude.

But first, his eyes drifted back to Olivia. She still stood there, dazed, staring at him as though entranced.

"Mom...can you wait here for a moment?" He said gently. "I just need to talk to some...friends. Won't be long. Just a few minutes."

But Olivia didn't nod. She didn't shake her head either. She only stared at him, her gaze tender, her lips parted slightly, her flustered face glowing with heat.

That dreamy, enamored look hadn't left her since the alley. It unsettled and confused him in equal measure. Still, he gave her a small smile and said.

"Alright...I'll take that as a yes."

He guided her to a bench nearby, positioning her where he could still see her, making sure she wasn't too far. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and walked toward Seraphina and Lyra.

Lyra, who had always carried a playful streak in her tone, crossed her arms and tilted her head at him with a sly smile.

"Well, well...what was that, Kafka?" She teased, half-laughing. "We were supposed to be the ones taking care of any threats that got close to the woman. That's our job. And yet…"

Her eyes slid casually to the alleyway, where broken bodies littered the ground like discarded dolls.

"Look at them. Look at what you did. Handled it all yourself. Trying to put us out of work, are you?"

Kafka chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, his other hand wiping sweat from his brow.

"Sorry about that, Lyra. Really. I didn't want this to happen...but in that moment, I lost it. Rage got the better of me, and I overdid it."

Lyra shook her head, though her grin only widened.

"It's fine, it's fine." She said lightly. "I heard everything. Anyone would've snapped hearing those bastards say the things they said. It's only natural you'd react."

Her playful expression dimmed just slightly, the edges sharpening with something darker.

"Still...it's a pity. I had so many ideas for what I'd do to them if I'd gotten the chance. Kidnap, then a couple of days of torture and then disposal...the works. Now that's gone."

She said it so cheerfully it was chilling, her tone at odds with the venom in her words.

"You don't have to worry about that." Kafka sighed, then surprised her by patting her gently on the head. "Some other bastard will surely try something sooner or later...You'll get your chance."

That brightened her instantly. She smiled, almost bouncing on her toes.

"True! Guess I'll keep my knives sharp."

Then her energy shifted as quickly as the wind, her eyes lighting up.

"Oh, by the way! Speaking of keeping sharp, where's Bella? I found this book, Kafka. A good one. She'd love it. But she's not picking up her phone."

Seraphina, who had been silent until now, answered calmly.

"Bella's with her mother. They went to a pottery making class. Her hands are probably full of clay right now, so she isn't answering."

"That's a pity. I was really excited to show her this book." Lyra let out an exaggerated sigh.

Kafka couldn't help but smile faintly at the sight. Their closeness warmed him.

Truth was, when Lyra and he first met, she had been terrified of him. She'd seen him skinning a man alive, and it was only natural she'd paint him as a monster in her mind.

But over time, as she monitored him and his women, she saw the other side of him, the kind, gentle, protective side. The man who loved the people around him dearly.

Slowly, her image of him had shifted.

And what brought her even closer into his circle was Bella.

Ever since Bella had dropped out of college, she hadn't had many friends her age. She stayed cooped up at home, always around her mother, Kafka, or the family.

The betrayal of her old friends had left scars; she'd stopped reaching out, stopped trusting.

Kafka had noticed and he hadn't wanted to force anything on her, but he had asked Lyra, around the same age, to try becoming friends with Bella.

It could've failed. But...it hadn't.

In fact, it had blossomed quicker than anyone expected.

They met in a library by "coincidence," started talking, and discovered they shared a surprising amount in common.

That very same day, Bella even invited Lyra home. Kafka had been there, stunned by how quickly the two connected.

But he was glad. Bella finally had a true friend again.

Now, watching Lyra pout about missing the chance to share her new book, it was obvious she and Bella genuinely cherished one another.

And that, more than anything, reassured him.

Kafka's eyes then shifted from Lyra's playful pout to Serafina, only to find her meeting him with that same stone-cold stare.

Duty radiated from her posture, her mind clearly fixed on her role, not on him.

He offered an awkward smile, but unlike her sister, Serafina gave nothing back, no warmth, no ease, only silence.

The contrast was stark, and Kafka couldn't help but feel that while he'd grown close with Lyra, but with Serafina he wasn't getting anywhere at all...