ebookslot Chapter 602 - 601- Viktor became Poor
Chapter 602 - 601- Viktor became Poor
He sat at the table.Naro sat on his lap.
Her thick, heavy body settled onto his thighs, her bare ass pressing against his legs, the apron hanging between them, her heavy tits overflowing at his eye level. She was warm and soft and the weight of her was the comfortable, grounding pressure of a woman who had found her place.
Dara sat on his other side.
She had cleaned her mouth — the cum and saliva wiped away, her lips still swollen but presentable. She kissed his chest, her lips finding the fabric of his shirt, her body pressed against his arm.
Viktor’s free hand found Naro’s tit.
His fingers gripped the heavy, soft, warm flesh, letting the overflow of it spill between his fingers. The dark nipple was stiff against his palm, the areola wide and puckered. He squeezed, pulled, mauled — the idle, absent, proprietary handling of a man who was eating breakfast and needed something to do with his hands.
He looked at Naro.
He sucked her lips.
His mouth found hers, kissing her — the warm, slow, claiming kiss of a man who had broken her and was now maintaining the break. She kissed him back, her thick tongue meeting his, the taste of morning and porridge and devotion mixing between them.
"The firewood pulled down on London," she murmured against his lips — a fragment of something, a half-sentence, the scattered, broken speech of a woman whose mind was still processing last night and was trying to form words while being kissed and groped.
She fed him.
Her hand — thick, strong, scarred — brought the spoon to his mouth, the porridge warm and sweet with honey. He ate from her hand, his lips closing around the spoon, his eyes on hers.
"You look like a child," she said.
The words were soft, maternal, the involuntary response of a woman who was feeding a man and seeing, underneath the devil, something small and hungry.
Viktor smiled.
"You will soon have one," he said.
Naro froze.
The spoon stopped.
Her eyes went wide.
She looked down at herself — at her heavy tits, at the apron, at the dark, stiff nipples that had been aching all morning. And she saw it. The thin, white, liquid trail running from her left nipple, seeping through the fabric of the apron, the dark wet stain spreading.
Her milk was leaking.
"How?" she gasped.
Her hand went to her breast, pressing against the nipple, the fluid running over her fingers.
Viktor took her hand.
Moved it away.
He leaned down, his mouth finding her nipple through the apron, his lips closing around the stiff, leaking peak. He sucked.
The milk came.
Warm, sweet, thin — the taste of a woman whose body had been commanded to produce, whose blood had been manipulated, whose womb had been seeded. He drank, his mouth working, his throat swallowing, the wet, soft sound of a man feeding from a woman who was feeding him breakfast.
"Ah~..." Naro cried.
Her hand went to his hair, her fingers tangling, her eyes filling with tears.
"Wait for three months," Viktor said, pulling back, his lips wet with her milk. "And you will have a baby."
Naro trembled.
The word — ’baby’ — hit her with the force of a physical blow. Her thick body shook, her heavy tits heaving, her eyes spilling tears that ran down her cheeks and onto her chest.
A baby.
After twenty years of emptiness.
After the child she had lost.
A baby.
She couldn’t speak.
She could only hold him — her thick arms around his neck, her face in his hair, her tears soaking into his shirt.
Viktor let her cry.
He held her with one arm, ate with the other, and let the morning settle around them like dust after a storm.
He stood.
He dressed.
The clothes went on slowly — shirt, trousers, boots, the casual, unhurried process of a man who was reassembling his public self. The three women watched him, their bodies still marked, their eyes still carrying the weight of the night.
He walked toward the door.
They followed.
Three women — Naro in her apron, her thick body marked and leaking; Helviana in her borrowed dress, her eyes still carrying the disappointment of the rejected bounty; Dara in her maid’s uniform, her lips still swollen, her eyes devoted.
They reached the entrance.
"Are you not leaving?" Naro asked.
Her voice was thick, rough, the voice of a woman who was afraid of the answer.
"No," Viktor said. "We need to first secure the guild."
He stopped.
He turned.
"By the way," he said, his voice shifting — becoming practical, commanding, the voice of a man who was distributing orders. "Naro, I want you to go to the Santora Guild and guard the mistress there."
Naro blinked.
"Helviana and Dara will accompany you," he continued. "I will come later. I have work."
The three women exchanged looks.
Confusion.
Protest.
Helviana stepped forward. "Master, I should—"
"No," Viktor said. The word was flat, final. "Go. Guard the guild mistress. I will handle things on my end."
Dara’s eyes welled. "But Master, I want to—"
"Dara."
The single word, spoken with the particular, quiet authority that he had used when he tied her wrists in the garden, silenced her.
They nodded.
Naro looked at him — her thick body trembling, her eyes wet, her expression carrying the particular, complicated grief of a woman who had just been told to leave the man she loved.
He kissed her.
Brief, firm, the kiss of a man who was going to work and expected his household to be in order when he returned.
"Go," he said.
They went.
He watched them leave — three women, walking down the street, Naro’s thick ass swaying under the apron, Helviana’s composed stride, Dara’s reluctant, backward-glancing walk.
They disappeared around the corner.
Viktor turned.
He stretched his back.
The morning air was cool on his face, the street beginning to fill with vendors and workers and the ordinary, oblivious population of a capital that did not know what had happened in the inn last night.
’Now,’ he thought. ’I need money.’
The thought was practical, grounded, the thought of a man who had three women to support and an inn that was closed and a household that would not feed itself.
He walked.
His eyes found the pavement, his feet carrying him through the alleyways with the unhurried, observant stride of a man who was looking for something. His eyes caught a poster on a wall — the tournament announcement, the bounty board, the various scraps of paper that covered the capital’s surfaces like ivy.
He looked at the bounty.
At the reward.
At the number.
He sighed.
"Do I need to get my sugar mommy?" he muttered to himself.
The words were dry, self-deprecating, the private humor of a man who had just stolen a woman’s bloodline ability and impregnated her and was now worried about rent.
He needed money.
The inn was closed. The women were his responsibility. The baby was coming. The guild needed securing. And none of these things were free.
He walked toward the staging area — the open square where the demon hunt party was organizing, where the Ktorian family’s banner flew, where men and women were gathering in armor with weapons and the particular, tense energy of people who were about to walk into danger for money.