Reincarnated as an Evil Harem God

"Tell me if it hurts anywhere, I'll help you with anything you need." Sylvaris held a cloth soaked in alcohol, gently wiping the blood off her face.

The cloth dragged across her cheek slowly, as if his fingers were afraid to hurt her further — and truthfully, they were. There was a nasty split on her cheekbone, raw and angry, a reminder that Arathor hadn't held back in the slightest. He had struck like an animal, without pause or mercy, and now, Sylvaris had brought his stepmother to a private room tucked away from the rest of the manor — a place rarely visited, a guest room meant for quiet, for recovery.

But today… Today, he had other intentions. He wouldn't make a move. Not yet. He wanted to see how far she would unravel. How far she would fall. How deep she would slip into desire before he slid between her legs like sin itself.

The cloth was warm, damp with alcohol, and merciless in its sting. It burned like betrayal. The pain bloomed sharp beneath her skin, and Aureve flinched, her body trembling in instinctive defense, a reflex born from years of surviving fists. She almost pulled away from him. Almost. But even now, even bleeding, she was stronger than the mask she wore.

"Hhh—!" Her breath hitched, trembling through clenched teeth as the sting bloomed bright and savage across her split lip and cheekbone. The alcohol bit into the wound like fire made liquid, crawling into every tender crevice, searing nerve and memory alike.

Fuck. She laughed inwardly. Not from amusement, but bitter resignation. She was used to this. Pain had become routine. Bruises were as familiar as breath. And yet… somehow, this hurt more than the punch itself.

She turned her head slightly, trying to escape it, but Sylvaris's hand followed with calm insistence. His movements didn't falter. His touch was steady. Gentle. Inevitable.

"You've got to let it breathe," he murmured, voice low and close, like a secret, like the whole world had gone silent except for the two of them. "If it festers, it'll scar your pretty and kind face badly, auntie."

His words, so simple, so casually spoken, hit her harder than anything else. They melted something. A candle hidden deep in her chest flickered.

What is this fool saying…? Her heart gave a weak, helpless stutter. You can't just say that to a woman… let alone a married one…

But the truth was cruel. No man had called her pretty in years. Too many years.

Aureve didn't reply. Her lashes fluttered, part from pain, part from something she didn't want to name. Her gaze found him. Locked onto him.

And for the first time in a long time, she looked.

He looked… different.

Not just taller. Not just broader. Just a short while ago, he had still been a boy, but now, now he was something else. A man, carved from steel and resolve. There was fury in the set of his jaw, control behind his stillness, and something else… something that made her stomach twist and her chest tighten.

He doesn't look like a reckless boy anymore… Not even close. Her thoughts burned through her restraint. Why do I feel like he suddenly became so handsome? Why is my body reacting like this? No… I can't… I can't… He's my stepson. Sister Elvanya would kill me if she found out… but…

Her eyes trailed across the strands of his long black hair, messy and wild in a way that made her thighs tense. His shirt clung to his chest, wet from sweat or alcohol, nearly translucent in the soft firelight, every sculpted line of muscle framed perfectly like a marble statue draped in flesh. The fur mantle on his shoulders sat crooked, giving him the aura of a savage prince, dangerous, untouchable, and impossibly enticing. And those golden eyes…

Those eyes didn't glow with innocence. They glowed with intent.

Her breath shortened. Her body betrayed her.

Sylvaris wrung the cloth again, soaking it in fresh alcohol, the sharp, bitter scent crashing through the air. It stung her lungs, raw and biting, but not as much as the heat rising through her body.

As he reached forward again—

"Wait," she said, voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Give me the bottle of alcohol…" Her eyes locked onto his. There was shyness in her gaze, yes, but underneath it — a spark of something stronger. A new determination. A quiet shift. Sylvaris noticed it instantly.

He paused for only a breath, then offered her the bottle. So it's come to this, he thought. She wants to calm her nerves. That only plays into my hands.

She took it slowly, her fingers brushing against his — the touch lasting longer than it needed to, lingering with silent hunger.

Then, without breaking eye contact, she raised the bottle to her lips.

GLK— GLK—

The vodka hit her throat like molten steel, cold and hot all at once. Her belly clenched. Her tongue tingled. Her chest flushed red as the alcohol began to pool.

She exhaled — low, ragged, slow — and licked a smear of blood from her lip.

"You feeling better?" Sylvaris asked, voice smooth as velvet. He was watching her carefully, every twitch, every blink.

"Yes… Thank you, sweetie. Let's continue," she said, her voice trembling, not from pain this time, but from restraint. She wanted to say more. So much more. She wanted to ask him to take her right there. To make her feel like a woman again. To erase the years of pain with a single sinful night. But she held it back.

Time passed slowly. Twenty minutes or more. The bottle was emptied. Her face was clean. Her wounds were dressed.

And still, she didn't move.

"Time for me to go," Sylvaris said softly, standing. "You should rest. I'll come check on you again tomorrow."

He moved slightly, testing her. His eyes never left hers, tracking every heartbeat in her gaze, searching for that one weakness.

And then — Ding! Bingo!

"Stay tonight," she said, her voice soft, rough at the edges. Her hand reached out, brushing his arm. "Drink with me… and keep me company. Please?"

Her voice echoed in the dimly lit room. Outside, the sun had dipped past the horizon. The cold air slipped in through the cracked window, but neither of them felt it. Their skin was burning.

Her hand still held the bottle, but her eyes were the real invitation. Flickering. Raw. Glimmering with danger.

The kind of eyes that dared him to become not just her protector…

But her sin.

Her drug.

The man who would make her feel alive again.

"…Alright," Sylvaris said, voice low. "Let's drown today in alcohol and forge new memories of just you and me."