Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 388: Mira’s Twisted Ankle

With boundless gentleness, I cradled her face in my palm, my thumb tracing the defined edge of her jawline in a slow glide, as if cradling a delicate treasure beyond replacement.

Using my free hand, I captured a stray lock of her raven hair loosened by the twilight wind, securing it gently behind her ear with focused attention, allowing my fingers to rest against the heated curve of her earlobe a moment beyond what was needed.

"I... didn’t want you to be worried," I whispered, my tone hushed and smooth as silk, nearly like a secret admission. "I figured if I lingered nearby — if I kept appearing as I always had — it would just widen the rifts between you and Jack. The very last thing I desired was to turn into the dark force that shattered your family."

One tear escaped from the edge of Mira’s eye, carving a glistening trail slowly along her face.

She attempted to blink it back, yet a second one soon trailed after. Her mouth quivered as she breathed, "I’m so sorry... because of me... because I let you get so close... you’ve been accused like that. Called those horrible names. I’ll explain everything to Jack tonight. I’ll make him see. He’ll apologise to you — I swear he will."

Her words broke on the final syllable.

I offered her a faint, sorrowful smile and shook my head briefly. "Don’t," I replied softly, wiping the impending tear with my thumb’s soft pad before it could descend.

Then she lifted her gaze to mine — eyes wide and shimmering, probing for comfort, for forgiveness.

My hand moved from her face to the back of her neck, fingers weaving softly into her locks, not tugging, merely... supporting. Fixing her stare to my own.

"I already spoke to your wife," she went on, her voice steady and composed. "She was crying when you left. I told her the truth — that there is nothing. That there never has been. She believed me... mostly. But she’s still scared. She wants you home. So let’s go back now, okay?"

Before my response could form, Mira lunged forward abruptly and seized my hand. Her digits encircled mine with unexpected firmness, gripping so hard that I sensed the subtle shake coursing through her.

I allowed her to cling. I made no move to withdraw.

Rather, I rotated our clasped hands gradually, facing palms together, and intertwined my fingers with hers in a thoughtful weave, like staking a claim on a cherished item without uttering the word mine.

A shaky breath escaped her, her posture easing as if that simple link had drawn away some of the strain from her frame.

I nodded gently, with quiet encouragement. "It’s not your fault, Mira," I assured her, my voice sinking even deeper, private, intended solely for her hearing.

"None of this is. If there’s blame, it’s mine. I should have maintained more separation. I should have noticed how my nearness was tainting the bond between you two. Because of me, he began questioning you... and now you’re both in pain."

Her bottom lip shook. She parted her lips — likely to argue, to repeat that it wasn’t my doing — but I placed my thumb’s tip softly over her mouth, quieting her with the tenderest contact.

"Shh," I breathed.

Within my mind, a sly, enduring laugh echoed — a shadowy, composed mirth that would never surface on my expression.

I knew precisely the outcome if we returned to that home side by side and attempted to "explain" matters to Jack. Each precise phrase, each sincere rebuttal would merely cinch the knot tighter.

The harder Mira defended her purity, the firmer his belief would grow that she deceived. That we both deceived. That a hidden, sordid connection truly festered between us.

And as the yells erupted once more — as he flung further charges, as he bolted out or barricaded himself in the spare room with liquor — Mira would stand amid the ruins of her union, isolated, exposed, heartbroken.

And I would remain.

Silent. Reliable. The sole figure who never shouted. The only one who regarded her as redeemable.

Her beacon amid shadows.

Her refuge.

And when Jack ultimately departed forever — when the final door banged shut — she would face me with those identical damp eyes and grasp the one hand that had always held firm.

She would belong to me then.

Entirely.

Totally.

I squeezed her intertwined fingers once, in a deliberate, comforting press, and lowered my head slightly so our brows nearly met.

"Come on," I whispered near her temple, my lips grazing her skin so faintly it could pass for a fancy. "Let’s go back."

I began to move, at an easy, leisurely pace, leading her onward with the subtle pull of my hand in hers — directing her precisely to my chosen path.

She trailed along without opposition.

Naturally, she did.

She always did.

Mira’s grip on my fingers grew firmer until her nails dug faint moons into my flesh. Dusk was falling soon... the sun dipped low as we strolled for what felt like ages.

The evening breeze carried scents of jasmine and a subtle whiff from an incense that had burned before; crickets throbbed in the bushes like a pulse.

We had scarcely advanced ten paces when her foot snagged on a root protruding through the grass. Her ankle twisted inward with a jolt. A faint, unintended sound escaped her—"Aaa..."—sharp and surprised, almost innocent in its abrupt vulnerability.

She faltered, her balance lurching ahead. On reflex, I steadied her, one arm encircling her midsection, the other still entwined with hers.

My hand pressed flat against her lower back, fingers spreading to support her, sensing the rapid heave of her breaths beneath her light coat.

"Are you okay?" I inquired, my voice lowering, pressing yet composed. I eased her to face me so I could view her features in the filtered light. "Tell me where it hurts. Right now."

Mira’s eyebrows furrowed; she bit her lower lip. She tested weight on the hurt foot and winced right away, a quiet hiss slipping out. "Hm... my ankle," she murmured, her eyes watering anew—not from prior sorrow, but from acute, new ache. "It hurts... I think it’s twisted. I can’t... I can’t step properly."

"Easy," I soothed. "Don’t try to walk on it yet."

Without seeking consent, I adjusted my hold, securing my arm firmer around her waist until my forearm rested warmly along her side’s curve. I detected the quiver along her flank. "Lean on me. All your weight. I’ve got you."

She paused for a brief instant—perhaps from routine, or a lingering sense of decorum—but then she leaned into me with relief, her other hand rising to grip my shoulder like clinging to the sole stable force in the whirling dusk.

I led her gradually, one cautious step at a time, from the clear trail to the closest sturdy neem tree, its wide trunk cloaked in shade. The rough texture of the bark met my fingers as I helped steady her.

"Here," I said quietly. "Lean against the tree. Just like that—good."