The market square of Willowbrook buzzed like a kicked beehive under the weak spring sun. Mud sucked at boots, vendors shouted over the lowing of oxen, and the reeve's table loomed at the far end like a judge's bench. I had left the longhouse before first light, a small sack of my secret pea harvest slung over one shoulder—enough to prove the point. No one asked how the Thornwood strip had suddenly yielded extra. They only saw a tall, broad-shouldered youth with steady eyes and a tongue that never stammered.
I sold the grain in three careful deals.
First to old Widow Tanner, who needed seed for her own plot. I haggled the way I remembered merchants doing in my old world's memories—never naming a price first, letting her think she was winning, then slipping in the real ask. She paid in copper and promised fresh eggs next week.
Second to the miller's apprentice—Harl's own boy, ironically. I let him taste a handful, praised his father's millstones, then mentioned how "family favors" sometimes cost less than silver. He left with two measures and a nervous glance toward his father's stall.
Third and sweetest: the traveling tinker who always overpaid for quality. I used the same tricks my old-world brain recalled from half-forgotten haggling videos—flattery, scarcity, a small extra handful of peas "for his wife." He gave me twenty copper pennies and a tiny clay vial of bruise salve from the capital. Real medicine, not the village witch's foul-smelling paste.
By midday my pouch felt heavier than it had in months, and Garrick's deadline no longer felt like a noose.
I bought the salve and a small twist of honey for Mira, then turned homeward with the rest of the coins tucked safely away. Power tasted strange on my tongue—quiet, steady, earned one measured row at a time. Not the cheat-code fantasy I'd once imagined in my old life, but something real. Tangible. Enough to protect what mattered.
The longhouse door stood open when I returned. Inside, the air hung thick with steam and the sharp scent of lye soap. Mother had heated the big copper tub by the hearth—the one we only dragged out for proper baths after market days. Mira and the girls were already upstairs in the loft, their voices soft and tired. Only Elara remained below, sleeves rolled high, arms glistening, that thin shift clinging to every curve like it had been painted on.
She turned at my footsteps. Those green eyes widened a fraction at the weight of my pouch and the confident set of my shoulders. "You're back early. And smiling like you swallowed the reeve's seal."
I set the sack down, pulled out the salve, and placed it on the table. "For Aunt Mira. And this—" I tossed her the honey twist "—for all of you. The fields are paying off sooner than I thought."
She stared at the gifts, then at me. Something shifted in her posture—the strong, commanding widow who had stared down taxmen and bandits now looked impressed. A flush crept up her neck, vanishing into the deep valley of her breasts. The shift had dampened from the steam, turning nearly transparent across her full tits; the dark circles of her nipples pressed visibly against the fabric, thick and peaked from the heat.
"Elias," she said, voice lower than usual, "you're not the boy who used to hide behind my skirts anymore. You're… handling things. Like a man."
The words hit low in my gut. My cock stirred, thickening against my breeches at the way she said *man*. I stepped closer, near enough to feel the warmth rolling off her skin. "Someone has to. Garrick won't wait forever, and those suitors won't either. I'm making sure none of them get close enough to touch what's ours."
Her breath caught. For a heartbeat the dominating woman I loved flickered—then softened, just a little. "You've earned a proper wash, then. Sit. The water's hot."
She didn't wait for argument. Strong hands guided me to the low stool beside the tub. I stripped to the waist, muscles still tight from the walk, and lowered myself. The moment the warm cloth touched my back, I nearly groaned. Mother knelt behind me, one knee braced on the stool's edge, her thick thigh pressing warmly against my side. The scent of her—soap, sweat, that deep womanly musk—wrapped around me like a drug.
She worked in slow circles, the cloth gliding over my shoulders and down the valley of my spine. Water sluiced between us, dripping off her arms onto my skin. Every lean forward brought her massive breasts brushing my back—soft, heavy, the stiff peaks of her nipples dragging lightly across my shoulder blades through the soaked shift. Accidental. Deliberate. I couldn't tell anymore.
My cock was rock-hard now, tenting my breeches painfully. I kept still, breathing deep.
"You're tighter than usual," she murmured, voice husky near my ear. Her hands slid lower, thumbs digging into the knots along my ribs. Another forward press—those glorious tits molded fully against my back, warm and yielding, the valley of cleavage trapping a trickle of water that ran down my spine like a tease. "All this new strength… carrying the weight for us. For me."
I turned my head just enough to catch her profile. Her lips were parted, cheeks flushed darker than the steam could explain. "You don't have to carry it alone," I said, echoing last night's words. My hand rose without thinking, resting on her forearm—then sliding higher, "accidentally" grazing the underside of one heavy breast. The weight of it filled my palm for a single, electric second: soft, full, the nipple brushing my thumb like a brand.
She inhaled sharply. No rebuke. Just a shaky exhale that stirred the hair at my nape. Her body leaned in harder, breasts squishing more deliberately against me now, nipples stiff and insistent. The cloth in her hand slowed, almost stroking. Heat poured off her thick thighs where they bracketed my hips; I could smell her arousal, faint but unmistakable, that wet, ready scent of an experienced woman whose body remembered pleasure and was starting to crave it again.
"Elias…" The word came out half-warning, half-plea. Her free hand settled on my shoulder, fingers digging in as her hips shifted once—pressing her core against the small of my back through the thin fabric. Damp heat. A tiny, involuntary rock of her pelvis. Nothing more.
I didn't push. Not yet. I let the moment stretch, savoring every second of her gentle, submissive warmth cracking through the strong shell she showed the world. My cock throbbed in time with her breathing, leaking against my breeches, but I kept my touch light—another "accidental" brush of her breast, a slow squeeze of her thigh where it rested against mine.
She finally pulled back, cheeks crimson, chest heaving so hard her tits strained the shift to its limit. Water dripped from her nipples onto the floor. "The water's cooling," she said, voice rough. "You should… finish yourself."
But her eyes lingered on the obvious bulge between my legs. Hunger flickered there—real, raw, the kind a widow of nineteen years tried to bury under duty and pride. She stood, thick thighs flexing, ass swaying as she turned to bank the fire. The shift clung to every curve, outlining the generous swell of her hips and the way her pussy lips pressed against the fabric from behind.
I stayed seated a moment longer, heart hammering, letting the tension coil tighter. This was the first real taste—not of grain or silver, but of *power*. The power to make the strongest woman I knew breathe heavy and press her body against mine like she needed me.
Outside, dusk gathered. Inside, the longhouse creaked with the soft sounds of Mira and the girls settling. Garrick's full-moon deadline still loomed. The suitors would hear of my market success by tomorrow and push harder. But right now, with my mother's scent on my skin and the memory of her heavy breasts molding to my back, I felt something new settle in my chest.
I wasn't just surviving anymore.
I was building something.
And when the time came—soon—I would claim every inch of the women who mattered, starting with the one who had just washed my back like a lover instead of a mother.
**End of Chapter 4**