Sunlight stabbed through the gaps in the half-collapsed roof like spears of pale gold. The cottage smelled of old smoke, healing herbs, and the faint metallic tang of drying blood. Damien opened his eyes to find Rosalynn already awake, kneeling beside the pallet with a clay bowl of warm water balanced on her thighs.
Her silver hair hung in a loose curtain over one shoulder, catching the light until it glowed like moonlight made solid. The simple linen shift she wore had slipped down one arm during the night, baring the creamy swell of her breast almost to the rosy edge of the nipple. She did not seem to notice. Her entire attention was fixed on him.
When she saw his eyes open, her face lit with such naked joy that it bordered on pain.
"Damien!" The bowl nearly tipped as she set it aside with trembling hands. "You're awake again. Oh thank the Gods, thank every spirit in the grove… I was so afraid the fever would take you in the night."
She reached for him immediately, cool fingers brushing his forehead, then his cheek, then sliding down to rest over his heart as though she needed to feel the steady beat to believe he lived. Tears welled in her emerald eyes, but they were happy tears, the kind that came from relief so sharp it hurt.
Victor Kane, now wearing Damien's skin like perfectly tailored armor, watched her with the detached calculation of a man who had once valued people only by their utility. Yet something else stirred beneath the ice. Possession. Hunger. The sight of her devotion so absolute and so unashamed ignited a dark satisfaction he had never known in his previous life.
"I'm here, Mother," he said, voice low and rough from disuse. "I'm not going anywhere."
Her lower lip trembled. She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead, then another to the corner of his mouth, then another to his jaw. Each one was reverent. Worshipful. The scent of lavender and warm woman filled his lungs.
"I thought I lost you," she whispered against his skin. "When they dragged me away… when I saw you fall… I wanted to die with you. I couldn't breathe without you breathing."
He lifted a bandaged hand and caught her wrist, not hard, just firm enough to hold her still. She froze instantly, eyes wide and trusting.
"Stay close," he ordered quietly.
"Yes, Damien." No hesitation. No question. Her body softened, leaning nearer until the heavy curve of her breasts brushed his chest through the thin linen.
He tested the first boundary.
"Take off the dress. I want to see your wounds. Make sure none of them festered in the night."
Her cheeks flushed a delicate rose. Confusion flickered across her innocent features, but it was immediately swallowed by the deeper need to obey him. She had never denied him anything, not when he asked for extra honey on his bread, not when he wanted to sleep pressed against her back during winter storms, not even when, at fifteen, he had shyly asked to see her bare breasts "just once, to know what a woman looks like." She had shown him then, blushing, smiling, proud that her body could please her son.
This felt different. Heavier. Yet the same devotion guided her hands.
She rose to her knees, reached down, and drew the dress over her head in one slow motion. Silver hair spilled across her shoulders and breasts like liquid moonlight. Her body was magnificent: full, heavy breasts with large dusky areolas, narrow waist flaring into generous hips, soft stomach marked by the faint silver lines of motherhood. Between her thighs a neat triangle of silver curls hid the pink slit that already glistened faintly in the morning light.
She knelt there, naked and unashamed, eyes fixed on his face for approval.
"Are you hurt anywhere?" he asked, letting his gaze travel over her deliberately.
She shook her head. "Only my wrists where they bound me. And my knees from kneeling in the dirt. Nothing important."
He reached out, traced one finger along the rope burns on her wrists. She shivered at the contact, nipples tightening into hard pink peaks.
"Good," he murmured. "Now wash me."
She dipped the cloth into the warm water, wrung it out, and began at his shoulders. Gentle. Careful. Every stroke was accompanied by soft murmurs of love.
"My brave boy… my strong, beautiful boy… I'll take care of you always…"
He let her work down his chest, then guided her hand lower.
"Lower, Mother. Clean between my legs too."
Her breath hitched. The flush on her cheeks deepened to crimson, but her hand never faltered. She drew the cloth along his abdomen, then lower still, until she cradled his awakening length in the warm, wet fabric. He was already half-hard from the sight of her nakedness. Now he swelled fully beneath her touch.
Rosalynn's eyes widened. She looked from his erection to his face, naive wonder mixing with something hotter, hungrier.
"It's… bigger than I remember," she whispered, almost to herself.
"When did you last see it?" he asked, voice velvet dark.
"When you were… when you were still a boy," she stammered, but her fingers tightened slightly around him through the cloth. "Before you started sleeping alone."
"You missed it?"
She swallowed. Nodded once, small and shy.
He caught her chin, tilted her face up.
"Then take the cloth away. Use your hands."
Her lips parted on a soft gasp. For one heartbeat she hesitated not from refusal, never from refusal but from the sheer intensity of the line they were crossing. Then she set the cloth aside, wrapped both hands around his shaft, and stroked him slowly, reverently.
The sensation was exquisite. Her palms were soft, callused only in the sweetest places from years of kneading dough and tending gardens. She watched his face the entire time, desperate to see if she was pleasing him.
"Does it feel good, Damien?" she breathed. "Am I doing it right?"
"Perfect," he told her. "But slower. Worship it."
She obeyed instantly. Her strokes became long, adoring glides from root to tip. Her thumbs circled the sensitive head. A bead of clear fluid welled at the slit; she caught it on her fingertip, stared at it in innocent fascination, then brought it to her lips and tasted.
The sight nearly undid him.
A soft knock sounded at the ruined doorframe.
Rosalynn froze, eyes flying wide with sudden terror. She tried to cover herself with her arms.
Damien caught her wrists before she could.
"No," he said calmly. "Stay as you are."
"But… someone's there…"
"Let them see." He raised his voice. "Enter."
Three villagers stepped inside, hesitating at the sight of Rosalynn's nakedness. Two women, one young, barely twenty, with chestnut braids and frightened doe eyes—and an older man with a bandaged arm. They carried makeshift bundles of salvaged food and blankets.
"Mistress Rosalynn… young Damien…" The older man swallowed hard, eyes carefully averted from her body. "We're all that's left from the east quarter. The rest are dead or taken. We came to see if you still lived… and to ask for shelter."
Rosalynn looked to Damien, waiting for him to decide. Her hands still rested on his erection, hidden now only by the angle of her body.
He considered them for a long moment.
Then he spoke, voice carrying the same quiet authority that had once made executives sign away their companies.
"You may stay. But you will obey me. Completely. Without question. This cottage, this land, this village, everything belongs to me now. You will rebuild under my command. You will bring me anyone who survived. Women. Girls. Anyone useful. Do you understand?"
The three nodded quickly. Fear and relief warred on their faces. In a world without lords or guards, a strong young man who had killed two bandits single-handed was better than nothing.
"Good," Damien said. "Leave the supplies. Go back to the square. Gather the bodies for burning. Then return tonight with anyone else who lives."
They backed out, bowing awkwardly.
When they were gone, Rosalynn exhaled a shaky breath.
"You were so strong," she whispered. "So sure. Like a king."
He smiled slowly.
"I will be more than a king, Mother."
He guided her hands back into motion on his cock.
"Now finish what you started."
She resumed stroking him, faster now, eyes glassy with growing arousal. Her thighs pressed together; he could see the slickness shining on her inner thighs.
"Damien…" she whimpered. "It's so hot… so hard… I feel strange…"
"You're wet for me," he told her. "Your body knows who it belongs to."
She moaned softly, nodding.
He reached down, slid two fingers between her folds. She was drenched. Hot. Swollen. She bucked against his hand with a broken cry.
"Please…" she begged, not even knowing what she asked for.
He withdrew his fingers, brought them to her lips.
"Taste yourself. Learn how much you want me."
She sucked his fingers eagerly, tongue swirling, eyes never leaving his.
When he pulled them free, he gave the first truly depraved order.
"Kiss me, Mother. Passionately. Pour all your saliva into my mouth. They say a mother's love can heal any wound. Prove it. Heal me with your tongue."
Her eyes widened. Shock. Confusion. Then utter, trembling acceptance.
She climbed onto the pallet, straddled his hips without hesitation, and lowered herself until her breasts flattened against his bandaged chest. Her silver hair fell around them like a curtain.
Then she kissed him.
Not a mother's kiss.
A lover's.
Her mouth opened wide. Tongue seeking. She poured herself into him—wet, hungry, desperate. Saliva flooded his mouth; he drank it down like wine. Her hips rocked instinctively, sliding her slick sex along the underside of his cock without penetration. She moaned into his mouth, tears slipping down her cheeks, not from sorrow but from overwhelming emotion.
When she finally pulled back, gasping, strings of saliva connected their lips.
"Did it help?" she whispered, voice wrecked. "Did I heal you?"
He smiled, dark and triumphant.
"You did more than heal me, Mother."
"You made me stronger."
He gripped her hips.
"Now we begin building everything else."
Outside, the survivors moved through the ashes.
Inside, the first stone of an empire was laid.
XXXX