That Prince Is A Girl: The Vicious King’s Slave Mate Novel

Chapter 841 Chapter 841: Emeriel whistled absently, buoyed by the joy of her new gift. Her Daemon had decided to keep the revelation secret for now, at least until the Oracle could provide more insight. In his own words: "To protect my pregnant mate before people start lining up outside the residence all day just to see her." Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ ꜰindηovel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "Are you listening to me?" Madame Livia asked, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. "Of course," Emeriel replied with a quick smile. The woman was not fooled.

"No, you weren't. I understand how difficult it must be not to think of the Great King every moment, but if you truly want to learn herbalism, you must focus, Princess." Emeriel blushed, still smiling. She hadn't been thinking of Daemonikai... not exactly. "Now, let's gather some valerian for-" Her words were cut off by the sharp whistle of an arrow striking her shoulder. Madame Livia gasped and collapsed. Emeriel had no time to react before hearing another whistle aimed directly at her. By reflex, she caught it midair, flung it aside, and spun on her heels.

She ran with all her strength, driven by instinct. The shot had come from a distance, buying her a few precious seconds. She darted between the trees, using their trunks to shield herself from the line of fire. But she was no longer as fast as before, one hand pressed tightly against her belly. "Seize her! She must not escape!" a voice barked behind her. Heavy footsteps thundered in pursuit. My love, I need your help. My love, please help me. But even after the call, panic clutched her chest. She was no longer the only one. She had to protect her child until he arrived.

Emeriel could not bear the thought of anything going wrong. The twigs cracked under her feet as she pushed harder, her lungs burning. "Did Lord Zaiper send them?" Explore fantastic tales on gαℓησνs; çοm Her hand slammed against the rough bark of a tree to steady herself. Running wouldn't save her; she needed to hide. Scanning the underbrush, she spotted a dense patch of tall grass ahead. It might be enough. She veered toward it. But a root snagged her foot, and she stumbled.

The world tilted; she stretched her arms out to brace for the fall, twisting her body to protect her womb as she slammed into the ground. Pain shot through her arm, and she stifled a scream. Move! Move! Footsteps grew louder, closer. She could hear the rustle of fabric, the . . .