She moved then, quickly gathering a few more items—another piece of cloth, a wooden comb with missing teeth.

Viktor's hand closed around something smooth in the corner pile.

He pulled it out.

A wooden piece, sleek and carved. Cylindrical. One end slightly bulbous, the wood polished from use until it gleamed even in the dim firelight filtering through the doorway.

About the length of his hand. Thick as two fingers pressed together.

Viktor held it up between them. "What is this?"

Mira's entire body went rigid.

Her eyes locked onto the object in his hand. Her mouth parted, lips twitching as blood drained from her face, then rushed back hotter than the flames outside. For a moment she just stood there, frozen like prey before a predator.

Then she lunged forward, snatching it from his grip. She clutched it against her chest with both arms, hugging it tight as if someone might yank it away and expose every shameful habit she'd kept buried in this rotten hut. Her head turned away sharply, eyes fixed on the far wall.

"That's for massage." The words came out fast, clipped.

Viktor blinked.

He looked at her averted face—at the deep flush spreading from her neck to her cheeks despite the dirt and tear stains. At the way her knuckles turned white gripping that wooden piece. At how her thick body curled slightly inward, protective and mortified, like she wanted to fold herself into the wall and disappear.

'Massage, huh.'

The thought rose on instinct, crude and automatic, and Viktor could feel his brain kicking itself even as it happened.

He sighed inwardly, telling himself for the hundredth time that some things were better left unexamined—yet his eyes still betrayed him, slipping over her body even with her clothes dirty and bloodshot eyes.

Viktor's gaze lingered.

[ Awareness is shifting to lust, allowing the race perverted eyes trait to resurface. '''(Non-Accessible Notification) ]

He couldn't help it now—not after finding that polished wooden piece clutched against her chest like some shameful secret, her ears burning red as she refused to even look at him.

His eyes traced down.

The tattered dress clung to her in all the wrong ways. Sweat and smoke had glued the fabric to massive breasts that sagged heavily, stretching the worn cloth until even a saint would get a rough outline of the thick nipples pressing through.

No support underneath—just raw, heavy flesh pulling downward with natural weight, the kind that would sway on their own with every step.

Her waist was thick, soft rolls visible even through the dirty dress where the fabric bunched and creased.

Not sculpted, not delicate—just a woman who'd birthed a child and survived poverty by enduring, not posing.

But it was her hips and ass that made his mind try to jump the fence into filthy territory again.

Wide. Criminally wide. The dress fabric stretched taut across cheeks so fat they created deep valleys where they pressed together, promising a jiggle with every step.

He could 'see' the shape even with the cloth. How they'd spread if she sat wrong. How they'd bounce if someone slapped them. How...

'Th-the fuck is wrong with me...' Viktor's jaw tightened.

His imagination twitched, trying to spin full-blown scenes—the wooden thing in her hand, her on a bed, legs spread, that thick body moving in ways his teenage brain had no business detailing now.

He saw flashes, not full pictures this time, because he strangled the images as they appeared—her biting her lip, her thick thighs trembling, her breasts swaying with each rough breath.

He clenched his teeth and forced his gaze up, annoyed with himself.

'Nope. Not going down that road again. Starving widow clutching her sick son and a wooden… massage stick. Focus, idiot.'

'Fuck... am I having some brain issue?'

Viktor blinked hard, shoving the thoughts down like trash under a rug. This was not the time.

But his eyes betrayed him one more time—dropping to where her dress rode up slightly at the thigh when she shifted her stance, showing skin that was dirty and bruised but undeniably soft.

Fertile in a way that made something primal in him whisper about breeding and big bellies if he stared too long.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing his gaze away as if he could physically drag his sanity back into place. 'Lost case, huh. Control it, idiot.'

"Come on." His voice came out rougher than intended, so he cleared his throat and softened it a bit. "Follow me."

Mira stiffened, then nodded, clutching her bundle and the "massage" piece like precious treasure. Behind the nerves, a different warmth flickered in her chest—so small she almost didn't notice it. 'He's really taking us with him… he kept his word.'

Viktor turned sharply, adjusting Toby against his shoulder—and his own discomfort elsewhere.

Behind him, Mira clutched her belongings and that damned wooden piece, completely unaware that the nobleman's imagination had just tripped three times and face-planted in the gutter because of her.

They stepped out of the hut and into the night. The fire from the burning house still painted the village in orange, but the screams had died down, leaving only crackling wood and distant sobs.

Helena hurried over from the well, dress damp at the hem, cheeks smudged with soot. Her eyes first went to Toby, checking his breathing, then to Mira, then finally to Viktor's face. When she saw the boy resting on his shoulder, and Mira clearly about to follow them, something swelled in her chest.

'Young master really did it…' Helena felt a strange, proud ache in her heart, as if his chivalry reflected on her too. 'He could have walked away like every other noble, but he didn't.'

"Young master," Helena said softly, falling into step beside him, "the old man's fire is under control now. Only smoke left."

"Good." Viktor didn't slow. "We're done here for tonight. Let them lick their own wounds."

But Helena watched his back, the way his shoulders were squared despite his obvious exhaustion. To her, every step almost screamed, 'If I don't move, that boy dies.' Her lips curled into a tiny, proud smile.

'My young master… really is soft-hearted beneath all the cursing.'

They made their way through the village in tense silence.

Viktor walked ahead, Toby's small body limp against his shoulder. The boy had finally fallen asleep, his fevered breathing slightly steadier now.

Behind him, footsteps.

Soft thuds in the dirt.

Mira walked a little to the left, Helena a little to the right, the three of them forming an uneven line as they left the square of frightened eyes and shut doors behind.

Viktor's jaw clenched as he tried not to look back. Tried not to focus on the sound of Mira walking—on the way her heavy footfalls suggested weight shifting with each step.

But his peripheral vision betrayed him.

Helena walked beside Mira now, quietly guiding her around pits and broken stones she couldn't see in the dark. The image—his mature, thick nanny walking next to an equally heavy, desperate widow—twisted something in Viktor's gut in a very unholy direction.

Two sets of thick asses swaying.

Helena's was fuller, rounder—packed into her maid uniform until the fabric stretched dangerously tight across each cheek, the cloth already stressed from earlier abuse.

Mira's was wider, softer—less contained in her tattered dress, fat spilling and shifting with each movement.

The night was quiet enough that every so often, when Mira adjusted her grip on her bundle, Viktor swore he heard a faint clap of flesh under the dress.

His eyes dropped lower despite himself.

Thighs rubbing together. Both women had that solid, heavy step that came from carrying their own weight for years, flesh pressing against flesh, dress fabric forced to negotiate wars it never signed up for.

And those tits.

No matter how much he tried to stare straight ahead, every time Mira stumbled a bit and hugged her bundle closer, her chest pushed up and together, forming a deep valley even the darkness couldn't fully hide.

Every time Helena moved closer to check on Toby, her bodice strained with a faint creak of thread.

'I need a distraction. Now.'

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