Pain.
That was the first sensation as the world crashed back into focus. Not the clean, cinematic variety from movies. This was raw, brutal pain—the kind that came with mud and blood and filth. Icy river water soaked through my tunic. Hot blood pulsed between my fingers as I clutched the deep gash across my belly. The stench of wet rye and horse dung clogged my nostrils.
I wasn't myself anymore.
I was Garrick Blackwater, twenty-two winters old, third son in the miller's line. And I was dying on the banks of the River Murk while those Greyson bastards laughed.
The ambush had emerged from the fog like a malediction. Six of them—Red Willem's sellsword kin and their savage hounds—had struck our grain convoy as we loaded the final sacks onto the ox-cart. I'd been the fool who stepped in front of my mother armed with nothing but a flour-dusted billhook and a reckless sense of duty. The original Garrick, that is. The lad whose memories now flooded my mind like cheap ale.
*Protect the mill. Protect the women. Die for the family name.*
Well, he'd handled the dying part perfectly. A Greyson spear had driven straight through the mail hidden beneath his tunic. Now I was the one experiencing every searing throb as blood drained from my body.
"Garrick!" A woman's voice sliced through the chaos like a whip.
*Mother.*
Even in my dying haze, the word struck like lightning. The memories weren't mere facts—they carried raw emotion. And the moment I heard her voice, the modern part of me—the twenty-first-century man who'd spent years chasing experienced, curvaceous older women—roared to life.
I forced my eyes open.
There she was.
Elara Blackwater, thirty-nine winters old, widow of my late father, and the most alluring woman I'd ever laid eyes on in either life. She knelt in the mud beside me, her skirts drenched, full breasts straining against the damp homespun bodice as if fighting to break free. With each ragged breath, they rose and fell, the wet fabric outlining the dark circles of her wide nipples. Her powerful thighs were spread for balance, the torn hem of her dress riding up to reveal glimpses of smooth pale skin and the dark curls of her untamed bush.
She was crying. The formidable Elara Blackwater—who ruled the Blackwater hearth with an iron ladle and a razor-sharp tongue—was weeping over me. One hand pressed firmly against my wound while the other stroked my hair as if I were still her young boy.
"I'm here, love. I'm here. Don't you dare leave me—"
Her voice broke, and the movement caused her generous hips to shift in the mud. That soft, heart-shaped backside I could already picture moving beneath me. My modern desires stirred within this failing medieval body, despite the blood loss.
*Holy fuck. She's mine now.*
The thought was filthy. Taboo. And utterly perfect.
Because I was no longer the original Garrick. I was the man who had fantasized endlessly about mature women who commanded respect by day and surrendered completely in private—experienced, full-figured, and starved for real pleasure.
And the universe had just delivered me straight into paradise.
A shadow fell across us. Grandmother Marta.
Seventy-three winters old, yet still possessing the lush figure of a woman decades younger. She loomed over me with her billhook raised high, three fingers missing from her left hand yet wielding the blade with ease. Her body was even more voluptuous than Elara's—broad, fertile hips, heavy pendulous breasts swaying beneath her flour-dusted apron, and wide, plush curves that stretched her homespun tight.
"Get him up, girl!" Marta snapped, her voice as sharp as her weapon. "The Greysons are circling back. If the boy dies, I'll feed his corpse to the mill myself."
She glanced down, and for a fleeting moment her steely gaze softened. The same flicker lived in the memories: the lonely matriarch who hadn't been properly satisfied by a man in decades.
My vision began to narrow.
The last thing I saw was Elara's rosy lips moving, whispering words lost to the roar in my ears. The last thing I felt was the warmth of her soft thigh pressed against my side.
Then darkness claimed me.
…
I awoke to the crackle of a hearth fire and the mingled scents of rosemary and blood.
Tight, clean bandages encircled my stomach. Someone had known exactly what they were doing. Garrick's body throbbed with pain, but the bleeding had stopped. I was alive.
And I was home.
The Blackwater hearth-house matched the memories perfectly: low-beamed ceiling blackened by years of smoke, stone floors swept free of flour, the massive millstone serving as a table in the corner. A single tallow candle flickered nearby.
Elara was right there.
She knelt beside my straw pallet, dabbing my forehead with a cool cloth. As she leaned forward, her ample breasts hung heavy, the loose neckline offering a deep view of her cleavage and the faint outline of those dark nipples against the fabric. Sweat glistened along her collarbone. A stray lock of dark hair had escaped her braid and clung to her flushed cheek. Her thick legs were tucked beneath her, that plush rear resting on her heels.
"You're awake," she whispered, relief washing over her features. Then, softer, almost to herself: "Thank the gods…"
Behind her, Marta stood at the hearth, stirring a pot with her good hand. The elderly woman held herself tall, shoulders broad and hips wide enough to have borne generations. Even at seventy-three, her body remained full and commanding—soft midsection, proud heavy breasts, and a sway to her movements that spoke of enduring vitality.
She looked over her shoulder, fixing me with those piercing eyes.
"About time, boy. You took a spear meant for your mother and still draw breath. Either the gods favor fools, or you're made of sterner stuff than your father ever was."
I pushed myself up despite the flare of agony. My modern mind was already assessing the situation.
*Mother. Thirty-nine. Widow for six years. Strong, burdened, and long-frustrated.*
*Grandmother. Seventy-three, yet built like a ripe fantasy. The iron-willed matriarch untouched by a capable man for thirty years.*
Both of them. Here. In my home. Part of my bloodline.
The original Garrick's memories protested—*wrong, sin, taboo*. I silenced them.
I had spent my previous life yearning for precisely this: mature, powerful women with lush bodies who ruled their world by day and yielded with passionate submission once conquered.
The universe had handed me two of them, along with a blood feud that would force me to protect them constantly.
The corner of my mouth curved into a grin that belonged entirely to the new me.
Elara noticed immediately. She tilted her head, brow creasing with maternal concern that only heightened her appeal.
"Garrick? You seem… different."
*Yeah. Because I'm not him anymore.*
I reached out slowly and tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger on her warm skin. She blinked in surprise but didn't withdraw.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said, my voice hoarse from the wound yet resolute. "Not until every last Greyson is ground to dust. And not until I've made sure both of you are safe… and well cared for."
Marta snorted from the hearth, though a new spark lit her eyes. A faint blush colored Elara's cheeks—the same rosy hue I imagined lay hidden beneath her dress.
Outside, the mill wheel turned with its steady rhythm, grinding rye and old hatreds alike.
Inside my chest, something far darker and more ravenous began to stir.
The feud tally burned in my mind like fresh ink:
Blackwaters dead: 17
Greysons dead: 14
Bystanders, dogs, and one unlucky tax collector: 9
It was only the twelfth day of Snowmoon, 1274.
And I was just getting started.
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**End of Chapter 1**