The sound was barely human, a whimper that surprised even her.

Before she could react, Viktor twisted her body. His hands gripped her hips, spinning her around with surprising force.

Helena yelped, her balance lost, and she fell forward. Her breasts hit the dusty surface of the chaise first, the impact sending a shock through her chest as they squished against the grime-covered fabric.

"Young master!" she gasped, trying to push herself up, but his hands were already on her.

Both palms gripped her thick ass, kneading the flesh through her skirt with a possessive hunger that made her breath catch.

She could feel his cock now, resting in the valley between her ass cheeks, separated only by the thin fabric of her clothing. The heat of it was incredible, and she could feel it twitch, pulsing with need.

Viktor's belly, once round and soft, now showed visible progress from the harsh days of survival. It pressed against her lower back as he leaned over her, his breathing heavy and labored.

Helena's hand lifted instinctively, reaching back, but not to push him away. It was surprise, shock at how quickly everything had escalated, at how her body was responding.

Then he spoke.

"Helena, I love you."

Time stopped.

Her hand froze mid-air, her entire body going rigid. Those words, spoken in that rough, desperate voice, crashed into her like a physical blow.

Her hand slowly moved to her face, covering her eyes as they squeezed shut. Embarrassment, desire, disbelief—it all swirled together in a chaotic storm inside her.

She felt his fingers hook into the hem of her skirt, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, he began to pull it up.

The fabric dragged across her thighs, inch by inch, exposing more of her pale skin to the cool air.

Her jealousy, the ugly emotion that had driven her to cruelty just moments ago, was burning away under the intensity of his lust, his need for her body.

"I-I..." Helena's voice was broken, barely a whisper. Her face was burning, hidden behind her hand, but her body was already betraying her. She could feel the wetness between her thighs, the traitorous arousal that had been building since the moment she'd seen him stroking himself.

"I... love you too, Young Master."

The words left her lips in a muttered, embarrassed confession...

---

'Should I go inside?', Mira stood outside in the cold, her hand still pressed against her chest where the ache had settled deep and heavy.

The tears had dried on her cheeks, leaving faint tracks in the moonlight, but her eyes remained red-rimmed and hollow.

Half an hour had passed. Maybe more. She'd lost track of time standing there, letting Lady Helena's words sink into her bones like poison.

'I hope you know your boundaries...'

The thought echoed in her mind, and she felt the last flicker of hope—the one that had sparked beside the fire when Viktor had gently cleaned Toby's face—finally gutter and die.

Her green eyes, once vibrant with life before her husband's death, now looked dull and lifeless as she turned back toward the manor.

Each step felt mechanical, her body moving on instinct rather than will.

She was not suited to even stand beside a nobleman. How could she have been so foolish to let herself feel anything at all?

The warmth of the hall enveloped her as she stepped inside, but it did nothing to chase away the cold that had settled in her chest.

Her gaze immediately went to Toby, her precious boy, still sleeping soundly on the far couch.

His small chest rose and fell with each peaceful breath, and for a moment, just a moment, the tightness in her chest eased.

But then she noticed the small couch where the Young Master had been resting. It was empty.

Mira's brow furrowed as she scanned the room. Where had he gone? Was he alright? The concern came unbidden, automatic, before she crushed it down with bitter self-awareness.

'It's not your place to worry about him.'

The depression that had been her constant companion for the past three years crept back in, wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket.

She moved toward her belongings—a worn, torn cloth bundle that held everything she owned in this world—and knelt beside it.

Her fingers worked the knot, pulling the fabric open until she found what she was looking for.

A small wooden doll. Unfinished, unpainted, just rough carved wood.

It was crude, simple, but it was hers. One of dozens she'd made over the years, selling them to merchants for pennies. They'd take her work, slap some cheap paint on it, and sell it in the cities for ten times what they'd paid her.

Dirt cheap. That's what her work was worth. That's what she was worth.

But this one... this one she'd kept.

Mira's thumb traced the smooth curve of the doll's head, the worn grain of the wood familiar under her touch. This had been her anchor. Her lifeline.

After her husband died, the grief had been unbearable. The nights were the worst—long, empty hours where the silence of the house screamed at her, where Toby's quiet breathing was the only thing that kept her from doing something irreversible.

She'd discovered by accident that touching herself, losing herself in the physical sensation, could quiet the screaming in her head. It wasn't about pleasure. It was about survival.

The first time had been shameful, mortifying. She'd cried afterward, disgusted with herself. But the pain had lessened, just for a little while. And in those few moments of peace, she could breathe again.

It became a ritual. A desperate, private act that she hid from the world, from Toby, from herself.

Whenever the depression became too much, whenever the weight of being alone threatened to crush her, she would find a dark corner, clutch that wooden doll like a talisman, and let her fingers work until the numbness returned.

It wasn't love. It wasn't even desire. It was medicine.

The only kind she could afford.

Mira clutched the doll now, her knuckles white, and rose to her feet.

The familiar headache was building behind her eyes, the pressure that signaled the onset of another spiral.

She knew what she needed to do.

Her feet carried her toward the far end of the hall, past Toby's sleeping form, toward one of the unused rooms where she could have privacy.

Her heart felt heavy, her mind numb, and the self-loathing was already starting to creep in.

'What am I doing?'

The thought hit her like a slap. She stopped mid-step, her hand flying to her temple as she pressed her palm against her forehead.

'What kind of woman am I?'

She'd just been reminded of her place, reminded that she was nothing, and here she was, ready to debase herself further.

Was this all she was? A broken widow who couldn't even mourn properly, who had to touch herself just to get through the day?

The headache pulsed, sharp and insistent. She knew it wouldn't stop until she gave in.

It never did.

Either she dies of depression, living in the reality that she is a woman in the countryside raising a child all by herself, or she masturbates to forget all of this, even for a moment.

With a shuddering breath, Mira lowered her hand and continued forward. Just a few more steps. Just find a corner. Get it over with.

Then she heard it.

Pah Pah Pah

The sound was rhythmic, muffled but unmistakable. Flesh against flesh.

Mira froze, her entire body going rigid. Her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes widened as the sound registered fully.

It was coming from one of the upper rooms.

"Umnh...!..."

Her heart began to hammer in her chest, confusion and shock warring inside her. That sound... she knew what that sound was.

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her toward the staircase. Each step was hesitant, her hand gripping the wooden doll so tightly it dug into her palm.

The sounds grew louder as she climbed.

Pah Pah Pah Pah

"Umnh...! Mmhhhg...! Hnnn...!"

And beneath it, something else. Heavy breathing. A low, guttural groan.

Her face flushed instantly, heat spreading from her cheeks down her neck.

'Th-This—?!' Her eyes widened as, through the open door, she saw it clearly, even in the darkness due to moonlight.

"Aahnngg...! Nghh...! Young Master...!?"

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