Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 367: Doctor Anya’s Appointment

Jack advanced a step nearer—his features contorted in anger, arm lifting swiftly, hand spread wide, directed right at Mira's face.

"Bitch, don’t pretend I’m mistreating you—"

I acted in an instant, quicker than anyone could react.

Positioning myself between the two—swift and purposeful—I seized Jack’s wrist during its arc. My hold was like steel—firm yet restrained. Sufficient to halt him abruptly, without causing harm.

"What do you think you’re doing?" I questioned—tone steady and soft, yet laced with an unspoken menace that thickened the atmosphere.

Jack’s gaze bulged—surprise flickering over his expression before wrath surged again. He attempted to pull his arm loose. I held fast.

Instead, he pushed ahead—his torso pressing against mine, features mere inches apart.

"So you cheating pair..." he growled, saliva spraying. "Protecting your slut now? Can’t bear watching your paramour take a hit, huh?"

The slur whore struck like a tangible strike. Mira recoiled sharply—her form shuddering as though slapped. A stifled cry slipped from her lips. Nicole’s whimpers grew more intense, her face hidden against her mother’s body.

I remained unmoved.

I squeezed Jack’s wrist tighter—merely enough to draw a grimace from him.

"Be quiet," I commanded—voice even, icy, echoing through the open space. "You’re truly mistreating Mira. Listen. There’s absolutely nothing going on between her and me."

Jack chuckled—harsh and grating.

"Is that so?" He nodded sharply at Mira. "Then why are you meddling in our family? Why do you keep handling her? Murmuring to her? Handing over guns like some covert damn present? You believe we’re all oblivious?"

Mira’s words cut in—timid, quivering, yet determined.

"Jack—enough. Please. There’s nothing there. He rescued Bill. He rescued us. That’s it."

Jack’s tone had fractured on the final syllable—hoarse, resentful, drained. He scanned the area—abruptly noticing every stare locked on him: Lisa’s subdued astonishment, Paul’s stern scowl, the girls rigid in shock, Nicole’s damp cheeks pressed into Mira’s side, Bill gazing at the earth as if it could engulf him. Their unspoken condemnation weighed on him like a solid impact.

He retreated—breathing ragged, hands clenching and unclenching beside him.

"I need some fresh air..." he grumbled, voice heavy with restrained rage.

Silence hung in the air.

Jack pivoted abruptly—his boots snapping twigs on the parched foliage—and marched toward the forest edge, refusing to glance behind. His posture was stiff, each stride burdened with fury lacking an outlet.

Bill observed his departure for a prolonged moment—then, saying nothing to the group, not even eyeing his mother, he veered and headed the other way. His frame slumped, fists buried in his pockets, the faint mark from Mira’s prior strike still visible on his cheek. He vanished into the bushes by himself.

Nicole alone remained—gripping Mira’s waist, tiny fingers knotted in her clothing, murmuring "Mom... Mom..." repeatedly like a faulty loop.

Mira lingered—embracing herself so fiercely that her nails bit into her arms, tears streaming without sound. Her complexion was ashen, mouth quivering, stare vacant and far-off.

She glanced at Nicole—then at the assorted expressions observing her with sympathy, bewilderment, and blame.

"I need solitude..." she murmured—throat raw, voice splintered. "Nicole... return."

Nicole’s lower lip trembled. She denied with a shake of her head—petite and resolute.

"Mom, please—"

"Return," Mira insisted—milder now, but more insistent. She crouched for a moment, planted a kiss on Nicole’s crown, then gently pried her child’s hold free. "Please, darling. Just... join the rest. I require a moment."

Nicole paused—fresh tears brimming—but Megan approached softly, grasping her hand.

"Come along, Nic... let’s warm by the flames."

Nicole allowed herself to be guided—looking over her shoulder at her mother with large, anxious eyes.

Mira rose—gradually, as if each motion pained her.

Her eyes met mine from across the expanse.

No words came from her.

None were necessary.

That glance conveyed it all: I’m unable to handle this at present. Not under their scrutiny. Not under yours.

I inclined my head—briefly, subtly—and withdrew.

I headed toward Angela—measured and intentional—ensuring Mira saw I was granting her room.

Angela grasped my arm the moment I neared—eyes broad with worry.

"Dexter... what on earth occurred?"

I shook my head—muted.

"Family matters. Give her space to recover."

Angela peered at the woods where Mira had gone—then returned her look to me.

"She’s in pain."

"I know."

I offered her a faint, weary grin—then moved aside once more, drifting to the clearing’s border where shadows deepened.

The sun of the afternoon dipped further—casting elongated, languid shadows in golden hues over the terrain. Forty-eight hours had elapsed since the chaos began.

And the memory returned.

Doctor Anya.

My scheduled visit.

The fortress.

I surveyed the surroundings briefly—confirming no one watched closely—then ducked behind a dense cluster of pines.

The Magical Tool interface sparked in my thoughts—elegant, luminous, divine.

Jetpack mode engaged.

Energy pulsed within—invigorating, charged. My spine curved faintly as compact, dark mechanical appendages extended from concealed slots along my back—noiseless, fluid, integrated seamlessly. Engines sparked with a subtle, barely audible hum.

I checked back at the camp once more—Mira’s silhouette had fully melted into the foliage, her void palpable in the space.

I launched upward.

The jetpack fired—effortless, potent—and I ascended directly through the treetops, limbs brushing by, rays of sun streaking my features as I emerged into the vast heavens.

The woodland diminished below—minute shapes near the blaze, Jack striding the boundary in isolation, Mira absent from sight.

I veered to the northeast—aiming for the fortress.

Gusts howled by my ears—brisk, purifying.

After twenty minutes, the villa appeared—streamlined, contemporary, strikingly alien amid the wilds. My secluded haven.

I touched down softly on the roof deck—engines silencing, appendages retracting as fluidly as they’d emerged.

Within, the atmosphere was chilled, hushed, clinical.

I shed my ragged garments—tossing them aside in a pile—and entered the shower.

Steaming water assaulted me like retribution—blasting off grime, artificial blood, perspiration, the faint trace of Mira’s sorrow and desire. I lingered beneath the deluge for an extended period—head lowered, allowing it to hammer my shoulders, my spine, my visage.

Upon emerging at last—renewed, crisp, locks sodden—I donned somber, plain attire: ebony shirt, ebony trousers, sturdy boots.

Nathalie awaited in the lounge—graceful, poised, serene as ever. She lifted her eyes from the tablet upon my arrival.