The sun bled red across the western hills before finally sinking, leaving the ruined village wrapped in deepening indigo. Smoke still rose in thin gray threads from the blackened timbers of what had once been homes. Damien stood at the edge of the square, arms folded, watching the handful of survivors work by torchlight. They moved with the numb efficiency of people who had lost everything except the faint hope that obedience might buy them another sunrise.
He had given clear orders earlier in the afternoon. Bodies were to be carried to the old burial field beyond the stream. Broken weapons collected and stacked near the cottage. Any salvageable food, cloth, or tools brought to him for inspection.
The three who had first come to the cottage, old Tobin with his bandaged arm, young Mara with her chestnut braids, and Mara's widowed aunt Lira, had spread the word quickly. By dusk another seven stragglers had appeared: two boys barely old enough to shave, four women of varying ages, and one girl of perhaps sixteen who kept her eyes on the ground and clutched a torn shawl around her thin shoulders.
They all looked to him now. Not to Rosalynn. Not to Tobin. To him.
Damien spoke in the same calm, measured tone he had once used to close billion-dollar deals.
"You will sleep in the barn tonight. It still has most of its roof. Tomorrow, you begin clearing the square. Stone by stone. We rebuild stronger. We rebuild better."
No one argued. They nodded, murmured thanks, shuffled away carrying their pitiful bundles. Mara lingered longest, stealing glances at him from beneath her lashes. Her cheeks flushed when he met her eyes. He filed the reaction away for later use.
When the last torch disappeared around the corner of the mill, he turned back toward the cottage.
Rosalynn waited on the threshold, silver hair glowing softly in the firelight that spilled from inside. She had spent the day obeying his earlier command: naked beneath only a thin apron while she prepared what little food remained, stew from the last of the root vegetables, flatbread baked on hot stones. Every time one of the survivors approached the door she had stepped back into shadow, trembling with a mixture of shame and strange, fluttering pride that her son wanted her this way: exposed, vulnerable, his alone.
Now the apron was gone. She stood bare before him, arms at her sides, chin lifted, offering herself without a word.
"My beautiful Mother," he said softly, crossing the distance between them. He cupped her face in both hands, thumbs brushing the delicate skin beneath her eyes. "You've been so perfect today. So strong for your son."
Her breath hitched. Fresh tears shimmered.
"Anything for you, my son," she whispered. "Always for my son."
He kissed her forehead, then her eyelids, then the tip of her nose, gentle, reverent touches that made her sway against him.
"Come inside," he murmured against her temple. "Night has fallen. It's time for us."
She followed him into the cottage without hesitation.
The fire had been built high. A copper tub, salvaged from the wreckage of the headman's house sat near the hearth, already filled with steaming water. She must have carried bucket after bucket while he was outside. The effort showed in the faint sheen of sweat between her breasts, the slight tremble in her thighs.
Damien removed his tunic and breeches slowly, letting her watch. When he stood naked before her, his thing already thickening at the sight of her devotion, she made a small, needy sound in her throat.
"Wash me, Mother," he said, voice velvet and loving. "Every inch. Show your son how much you love caring for him."
"Yes, my son," she breathed.
She took the soft cloth, dipped it, wrung it, and began at his shoulders. Slow circles. Tender pressure. She worked down his chest, tracing the fading bruises and bandages with feather-light touches, murmuring all the while.
"My brave son… my strong, beautiful son… look how well you're healing… Mother's so proud…"
When she reached his abdomen, she sank to her knees in the warm puddle that had formed on the floorboards. The position brought her face level with his now fully erect length. She paused, eyes wide and shining, lips parted.
He threaded his fingers gently through her silver hair.
"It's all right," he soothed. "Touch your son. Wash him there too. He needs you."
Her hands shook as she wrapped the warm cloth around him. She stroked from base to tip with exquisite care, watching his face the entire time for any sign of displeasure. Finding only adoration, she grew bolder. The cloth slipped lower, cupping his heavy sac, rolling it gently.
Damien groaned softly, the sound pure praise.
"That's perfect, Mother. You make your son feel so good."
She whimpered, thighs pressing together. A thin thread of arousal slid down the inside of one leg.
When every part of him gleamed with water and firelight, he caught her wrists and drew her to her feet.
"Dry me now," he whispered. "With your mouth."
Her eyes flew wide. Naive confusion flickered then understanding dawned, followed by a rush of heat that painted her from throat to breasts in rosy flush.
"With… my mouth, my son?"
"Yes." He cupped her cheek. "Kiss every place the cloth touched. Show your son how deeply you love him."
She trembled so violently he thought she might collapse. Instead, she dropped back to her knees, pressed her lips to the center of his chest, and began.
Soft, open-mouthed kisses. Tongue flicking out to taste clean skin and lingering soap. She worked downward with agonizing slowness—sternum, ribs, navel—each kiss accompanied by a reverent whisper.
"My son… my beautiful son… Mother loves you so much…"
When she reached the base of his cock she hesitated again, breath coming in shallow pants.
Damien stroked her hair, voice dripping tenderness.
"You promised me once, Mother. Do you remember?"
She looked up, eyes glassy.
"Promised…?"
He let more of the original boy's memories surface, layering them over his own will like silk over steel.
"You were tucking me into bed. I was eight. There was a storm. I was afraid. You held me close and said, 'Nothing will ever hurt my son while Mother lives.' And I asked… if you would always protect me. Always keep me safe. And you said yes. You said you would give me anything I ever needed. Anything at all. Even when I grew up. Even when the world tried to take me from you."
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I remember," she choked. "I meant it, my son. Every word."
"Then prove it now." He guided her head forward until the swollen head of his cock brushed her lower lip. "Take your son into your mouth. Protect him. Love him. Give him everything you promised."
Rosalynn closed her eyes for one heartbeat. When they opened again the last trace of hesitation was gone replaced by shining, obsessive certainty.
"Yes, my son," she whispered.
She parted her lips and took him inside.
The heat was blinding. Wet velvet. Her tongue flattened instinctively along the underside, cradling him as she slid forward. She gagged softly when he reached the back of her throat, but she did not pull away. Instead, she breathed through her nose, relaxed her jaw, and took another inch.
Damien groaned, fingers tightening in her hair not to force, but to hold her steady.
"Oh, Mother… my perfect Mother… you feel like heaven…"
She moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight to his spine. Her hands gripped his thighs for balance as she began to move slow, loving bobs of her head. Each time she drew back she let her tongue swirl around the head, tasting the bead of fluid that welled there. Each time she pushed forward she tried to take more, eyes watering, cheeks flushed, but never once breaking rhythm.
"My son… my son…" she managed to mumble around him whenever she pulled back far enough to speak. "Mother's son… so big… so perfect… all for Mother…"
He rocked gently into her mouth, matching her pace, never rough only deep, possessive affection.
"You're doing so well," he praised, voice thick with emotion. "Look at you… so beautiful on your knees for your son. So devoted. I've never felt anything this good. You're healing me, Mother. Every stroke. Every kiss. You're making your son whole again."
Tears streamed freely now, but she smiled around his thickness, radiant, broken, ecstatic.
He felt the pressure building, coiling tight at the base of his spine.
"Mother," he breathed. "When I finish… swallow every drop. Take your son's gift inside you. Let it mark you as mine forever."
She nodded frantically, sucking harder, tongue working desperately.
He came with a low, shuddering groan, hips jerking once, twice. Thick pulses flooded her mouth. She swallowed greedily, throat working, not spilling a single drop. When the last tremor passed, she pulled back slowly, lips swollen and glistening, a thin string of saliva and seed connecting her tongue to his softening length.
She looked up at him with shining, worshipful eyes.
"Did I please you, my son?" she whispered. "Did Mother keep her promise?"
Damien sank to his knees in front of her, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her deeply tasting himself on her tongue, tasting her devotion.
"You did more than please me," he murmured against her lips. "You bound us together forever. Just like you promised when I was a boy. Nothing will ever take you from your son now. Nothing."
She sobbed against his shoulder, clinging to him with desperate strength.
"Never, my son. Never. Mother is yours. Always yours."
Outside the cottage, the night wind carried the distant sound of survivors settling into the barn.
Inside, the fire crackled, and the first true chains of empire tightened around the heart of the woman who would help him forge them.
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