The hallway was cold.

Elara stood just outside the kitchen doorway, one hand pressed flat against the cracked wooden wall, the other clutching a small cloth bundle—her meager belongings wrapped hastily that morning.

She'd come to tell them. To say goodbye properly before leaving this cursed place.

But now—

'"...then doesn't it mean, I will not be able to have sex with him for a month?"'

The words hit her like ice water.

Elara's breath caught. Her fingers tightened against the wall until her knuckles went white.

'No... no, no, no—'

'"N-n-no..."' Helena's voice trembled through the doorway. '"...The worry is even more burdensome..."'

Pregnant.

They were talking about being 'pregnant.'

Elara's legs trembled. Her amber eyes—wide, round, framed by long dark lashes—stared blankly at the floor as her mind raced.

Last night.

She'd seen it. Through the ground floor in the balcony when she'd gone to garden for some fresh air.

Helena. Hugged tightly while moaning loudly. Her massive pale breasts swaying with each brutal thrust. And 'him'—Viktor—hugging her. Gripping her thick hips. Slamming into her with such force that the railing shook. The wet 'PLAP-PLAP-PLAP' echoing through the hallway. Helena's broken, high-pitched '"Ahh! Ahhhn! Y-Young Masterrr—!"' punctuated by gasps and moans.

Like an animal.

That's what Elara had thought, frozen in the shadows.

He fucked her like an animal. No mercy. No gentleness. Just raw, violent breeding.

And now they were talking about 'pregnancy.' About him getting them pregnant. About accelerated pregnancies—three months instead of nine.

Elara's hand moved unconsciously to her flat stomach.

Her breath came faster. Shorter.

'He's breeding them.'

The realization crashed through her like thunder.

'That's why they're here. That's why he keeps them. He's a nobleman who impregnates women and keeps them trapped—breeding stock—'

"Hkk—!"

The sound escaped her throat before she could stop it. A tiny, choked gasp.

Her free hand flew to her mouth, palm pressing hard against her lips to muffle any further noise.

'Move. Move, you idiot. Before they hear you—'

But her body wouldn't obey. Her legs felt like they'd been nailed to the floor.

Because last night—

After she'd seen it. After she'd stumbled back to her small room, heart pounding, face burning hot—

She'd touched herself.

Her hand had slipped beneath her clothes. Fingers trembling as they found the wet hairy heat between her thighs.

And she'd 'imagined.'

Viktor. Pinning her down. His weight crushing her into the mattress. That thick cock—she'd caught a glimpse when he pulled out of Helena to reposition—stretching her own virgin pussy. His hand fisting her dyed black hair, yanking her head back as he pounded into her from behind—

'"Ahhn—!"'

She'd bitten her pillow to muffle her own moans as she came. Hard. Harder than she ever had before.

And now—

Now she understood.

If she stayed here, 'that' would become truth.

Bent over. Bred. Pregnant with his child. Trapped in this decaying manor with no escape.

'No.'

Her survival instincts finally kicked in.

Elara took one shaky step backward. Then another.

Her amber eyes were huge in her pale face. Her shoulder-length dyed black hair—normally tied in a practical braid—hung loose around her face, the ends brushing against her collarbones.

Soft hair locks revealing her amber tones, the hints of her hair present within black dye showed her actual hair color to be orange.

However, unlike thick Helena or Mira, or as tall as Bella, she was on the smaller side. Petite. Maybe five-foot-three at most, with a slender build that made her look younger than her twenty-three years.

Her face was soft, almost doll-like under that young man's makeup to look rough—large amber eyes framed by thick lashes, a small nose, full lips that trembled now as she fought to keep her breathing quiet.

She wore a simple brown traveler's dress. Practical. Worn at the edges. The kind a merchant's assistant would wear on long journeys making her easily hide her identiy from everyone else as a woman and hide away from her family.

She needed to leave now.

But Aldrin wasn't here now as he had gone to show samples of clothes made by Mira to the main market areas near these territories.

And if she ran—

'Monsters.'

The frontier was crawling with them. Wolves. Worse things in the deeper forests. And bandits—human monsters who'd do worse things than any beast.

Elara had seen what bandits did to lone women on the road.

She'd rather die.

Forget women, last time a gay bastard touching her made her skin crawl... hell, she even doubted men were safe here or not.

But if she 'stayed'—

A flash of imagery exploded behind her eyes.

'!'

''Viktor.'' Looming over her. His dark eyes—those strange, inhuman eyes she'd glimpsed once—boring into hers. His hands pinning her wrists above her head. Her legs forced apart. That massive cock pressing against her entrance—

'"No—please—I—"'

''"Shhh."'' His voice. Low. Amused. ''"You'll take it. Just like the others."''

And then—

PHAAACK!.

The image was so vivid she could almost 'feel' it. The tearing sensation. The impossible stretch. Her pussy splitting open around his thickness as he buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke—

'"IIIIEEE—!?"'

Her vision contorted. Eyes rolling back. Mouth opening in a silent scream. Hair yanked backward, forcing her spine to arch as he started moving—pounding—'breeding'—

Elara flinched so violently she nearly dropped her bundle.

Her hand clutched tighter over her mouth, muffling the whimper that tried to escape.

'No. No. I have to leave. Now. Right now—'

She turned.

And ran.

Her room was barely a closet.

A narrow cot. A cracked washbasin. A single shelf.

Elara's hands shook as she grabbed her spare clothes—two dresses, undergarments, a cloak—and shoved them into her travel sack.

She moved to the small, dirty mirror hanging on the wall.

Her reflection stared back.

Amber eyes. Wide with fear. Pupils dilated.

Black hair. Tangled now from sleep and panic.

Pale skin. Flushed across her cheeks and neck.

Full lips. Parted. Breathing hard.

And her expression—

'Terrified.'

But beneath the terror—

Something else.

Her thighs pressed together unconsciously. A dull, shameful ache pulsed between her legs.

Because even now, even knowing what Viktor was—what he 'did'—

Her body remembered.

Last night. Her fingers. The wet heat. The fantasy of being taken, claimed, 'bred'—

'"Stop it,"' she hissed at her reflection. '"Stop thinking about it—"'

But the image came again.

''Viktor.'' Grabbing her by the hair. Forcing her onto the bed on all fours. Her dress ripped off, tossed aside like garbage. His hand pressing down on her lower back, forcing her into a deeper arch. His cock—thick, veined, leaking—nudging against her virgin entrance—

''"You'll give me a hundred children, won't you, Elara?"''

Her pussy 'clenched.'

'"Hnnngh—!"'

She stumbled backward from the mirror, hand flying between her legs to press against the shameful wetness soaking through her undergarments.

'What's wrong with me?! Why—why does my body—?!'

She shook her head violently, black hair whipping across her face.

'No. I'm leaving. I have to leave. Before he notices me. Before he—'

She grabbed her sack. Threw her cloak over her shoulders.

And moved.

The manor had a back entrance.

Servants' exit. Rarely used. The door was old, the hinges rusted, but it opened with a low creak that made Elara's heart lurch into her throat.

She froze.

Listened.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No voices.

Just the distant sound of Mira and Helena still talking in the kitchen.

Elara slipped through the doorway.

The morning air hit her face—cool, damp, carrying the scent of herbs from the overgrown garden.

She didn't look back.

Couldn't.

If she looked back, she might—

'No.'

Her feet moved. One step. Two. Then she was running.

Down the cracked stone path. Past the skeletal trees. Toward the edge of the property where the forest began.

Her sack bounced against her hip. Her cloak flared behind her.

And in her mind, one thought repeated over and over:

'I have to get away. I have to survive. I can't—I won't—become another one of his broodmares—'

But even as she ran—

Even as fear propelled her forward—

A tiny, shameful part of her whispered:

'What if you stayed?'

'What if you let him?'

'What if—'

'"SHUT UP!"' she screamed at herself, voice breaking.

And she ran harder.

Into the forest.

Into the unknown.

Away from the manor.

Away from Viktor just anywhere but this hell hole.

Away from the terrifying, shameful truth that her body 'wanted' what her mind feared most.

'I-I WILL NEVER COME IN THIS DIRTY PLACE!'

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