Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 321: Emily Found The Truth

Emily didn't hesitate to follow me into the shadowed room, her pace hurried and resolute. As soon as the door latched shut behind us, she spun around to confront me, her gaze wide and probing. "Tell me where my husband is," she insisted, her voice trembling yet filled with determination.

"What happened to my father? Where can I find him?" Her hands clutched the edges of her sleeves tightly, as though she were bracing for a truth she might not be able to endure.

I observed her for a moment—the naked terror in her eyes and the way her breathing caught as she waited. It suddenly dawned on me: she was completely oblivious to the events occurring outside this room. She had been kept in total ignorance, protected from the turmoil erupting beyond the villa. The weight of this realization pressed against my chest. How much should I disclose? How much truth could she actually withstand?

Taking a deep breath, I picked my words with precision. "Emily," I spoke softly, "are you certain you would even recognize Mike if he stood before you now?" The inquiry lingered in the air, heavy with hidden meaning. Her resolve wavered, and a look of confusion crossed her features. She parted her lips to answer, but no sound emerged. The silence grew thick, saturated with a sense of unspoken horror.

Through the walls, the distant thrum of the fortress's activity vibrated like a heartbeat—a persistent, low reminder that the looming storm was no longer a distant threat; it had arrived.

Emily remained rooted to the center of the room, her back against the door, her chest heaving with shallow, frantic breaths. The dim lighting threw harsh shadows over her face, emphasizing the fright in her wide, staring eyes.

"What are you implying?" she asked again, her voice reduced to a mere whisper. "Stop messing with me. Where is Mike? Where is my father?" Her fingernails pressed into her own arms, as if she were trying to anchor her consciousness to reality through physical pain. "I've been trapped in this villa for days without anyone telling me a thing. If you have answers, give them to me."

I remained silent at first. Instead, I allowed the quiet to linger, watching her panic intensify as her breathing grew more rapid. The atmosphere between us was electric with tension, the kind that precedes a revelation so profound it alters everything.

When I finally broke the silence, my tone was steady, almost mocking. "What if I suggested," I said, tilting my head to the side, "that you've actually been speaking to Mike this entire time?"

The color drained from Emily's face. "That isn't funny," she snapped, her voice shaking uncontrollably. "Mike is—" She cut herself off, her thoughts clearly racing. "Mike is missing. He's been gone for days. What kind of twisted joke are you playing?"

I didn't blink. "This is no joke, Emily." Reaching into my coat pocket, I withdrew a small, obsidian-black object—the MASK. Its surface gave off a faint shimmer, appearing almost sentient, and Emily’s eyes fixed upon it, her muscles tensing. "What is that?" she gasped, but I offered no verbal reply. Instead, I triggered the device.

The air in the room grew heavy as the transformation took hold—not with a loud crack or a shriek, but with the muffled, sickening sound of bones shifting and resetting beneath my flesh. My cheekbones became more defined, my jawline squared, and my voice sank into that familiar, gravelly tone that had greeted Emily every morning for seven years. The slight curve of my shoulders, the specific way my left eyebrow arched when I was teased, the small scar on my right wrist from a clumsy attempt to impress her on our second date—every characteristic snapped into place like the final pieces of a puzzle.

Emily didn't scream immediately.

She just stared, her breath held tight, her fingers clutching her sweater as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. Then, very slowly, she brought her hand to her mouth, her knuckles turning white. "No," she breathed out, the word less of a sound and more like an open wound. "No, no, no—" Her voice cracked, her body swaying as if the very floor had turned into liquid beneath her feet.

I watched as she fell apart. I permitted it. There was a grim beauty in the way her mind struggled against what her eyes could no longer deny.

"How—" Her voice failed her. "How can this be possible?" Tears began to stream down her face, hot and rapid, as her chest labored for air. She stumbled backward until her spine hit the wall, her fingers scratching at the paint as if trying to escape the reality of the moment. "What did you do to him?" The question felt like a blade she was thrusting between us. "Did you—" Her throat tightened. "Did you kill him?"

I stayed perfectly still. I let the silence hang there, allowing it to tighten around her like a noose.

She snapped. "TELL ME!" Her scream shattered the quiet, raw and full of despair. She lunged toward me, hands balled into fists, her entire frame shaking with a mixture of rage and sorrow. "Tell me the truth, you bastard!"

I took a single step forward. Just enough to make her recoil. My voice was soft, almost gentle—a lover’s whisper that sounded like a funeral song. "Emily," I said, "listen to me." I reached out, not to grab her, but to ensure she saw the way the light hit the ring on my finger—the very one he used to propose.

"There is no other Mike. There never was."

Her breath hitched sharply. "No." A sob escaped her. "No, I would know. I would feel it if he were—" She waved her arms wildly toward me, her voice splintering like thin ice. "My husband was clumsy. He always burned the toast. He snored. He—" Her voice dissolved into a choked noise, something caught between a laugh and a cry. "He loved me."

Those words lingered between us, as heavy as a corpse.

A jagged, sharp laugh broke from her, the sound of a mind fracturing. "Oh God." Her hands gripped her hair, pulling at the roots as if she could forcibly extract the truth from her brain.

"It was you. That day in the kitchen—when I asked why you suddenly had abs—" Her voice broke again. "You just laughed. You told me you’d finally started taking the gym seriously." Another sob racked her body. "And I actually believed you."

I tilted my head, observing her. "You wanted to believe me."