The dire boar came at dawn like the wrath of the gods.
Red Willem had timed it perfectly—right after the last raid, while we were still patching the gate and the sick remained weak. The beast was a monster, black-bristled and red-eyed, larger than any ox I'd ever seen in either life. Iron plates strapped to its shoulders, foam flying from its tusks as three Greyson sellswords drove it straight at the mill gate with spears and whips.
"Positions!" I roared, my voice cutting through the thunder of hooves and the beast's squealing roar.
I was already moving. The Flour Man's tactics had become our new creed. Marta took the left tower with her billhook, Elara the right with her sling and pouch of stones. The rest of the Blackwaters lined the wall—slingstones whistling, arrows nocked. I stayed in the yard, spear in one hand, a burning brand in the other.
The boar slammed into the gate like a battering ram. Wood splintered. Iron reinforcements shrieked in protest.
"Now!" I shouted.
The sluice gate I'd rigged the night before slammed open. A wall of river water exploded sideways, crashing into the beast's flank and throwing it off balance. The Greysons behind it stumbled in the sudden flood. Slingstones rained down—Bran and the teenagers striking eyes and throats with lethal precision.
I charged.
The Flour Man struck first. I darted through the broken gate, flour sack over my head, and took the nearest sellsword from behind—billhook slicing across his throat as white dust exploded over his collapsing form. Another turned. My spear drove through his gut.
Then the boar recovered.
It spun, tusks slashing, and caught me across the ribs. Not deep—thank the gods for the mail beneath my tunic—but pain flared hot and sharp. Blood soaked my side instantly.
"Garrick!" Elara's scream pierced the chaos.
I ignored it. I thrust the burning brand into the boar's face. The beast squealed, blinded by fire and fury, and charged back toward the Greysons instead of us. Two of them fell beneath its hooves before their handlers could pull it away.
The raid shattered.
The Greysons fled, dragging their wounded and cursing the devil in the mill. The boar limped after them, half-mad and trailing smoke. We'd lost no one. The mill still stood.
But I was bleeding again.
I staggered back inside the gate before my knees buckled. The world tilted. Pain burned along my ribs like the old spear wound reignited.
Strong arms caught me.
"Garrick—gods, no, not again—" Elara's voice cracked with fear.
She half-carried, half-dragged me into the hearth-house, her powerful thighs straining beneath her skirts as she bore my weight. Marta barked orders behind us to secure the gate and tend the wounded, but Elara didn't stop until we reached the back room. She kicked the door shut and lit the lantern.
She laid me gently on the clean straw pallet and tore my tunic open with trembling hands.
The cut wasn't fatal—just a long, shallow gash across my ribs that bled freely. But Elara stared at it as though it were mortal. Her full breasts rose and fell with every ragged breath, her dark nipples stiff and prominent against the thin, sweat-damp fabric of her bodice. The neckline had slipped low in the fray; I could see the deep valley between those soft, swaying curves, the faint sheen of fear-sweat making her skin glow.
"Stay still," she whispered, voice trembling. "Please, my boy—stay with me."
She knelt between my spread legs to clean the wound, her thick thighs folded beneath her, generous curves settling on her heels. The motion drew her skirt high. I glimpsed the pale smoothness of her inner thighs, the dark, unruly curls of her natural bush, and the soft rosy-pink folds of her sex peeking through the damp strands, already glistening with adrenaline and a far deeper need.
Her hands were gentle yet urgent as she pressed clean linen to my ribs. Each time she leaned closer, her full breasts brushed my chest, nipples dragging across my skin through the fabric. The warm, womanly scent of her—rosemary, flour, and the sweet, intimate musk of her arousal—filled the air between us.
"You could have died," she choked out, tears tracing down her cheeks. "Stepping in front of that beast like a fool… for us… for me…"
She finished bandaging me, then sat back on her heels, gazing at my face as though seeing me anew since the river. Her thick thighs quivered. Beneath the thin skirt her flushed folds clenched visibly, a fresh bead of arousal sliding along one delicate lip and catching in her dark curls.
"Garrick…" she breathed.
Then she leaned down and kissed me.
It wasn't motherly. It was desperate—her soft, full lips crashing against mine, tongue sliding in with a needy moan. Her heavy breasts pressed firmly against my bandaged chest, nipples hard as pebbles. One hand cupped my jaw while the other tangled in my hair, pulling me closer as if terrified I might vanish.
For three perfect heartbeats she kissed me like a woman who had been starving for years.
Then reality crashed back in.
Elara jerked away with a gasp, eyes wide with horror. Her lips were swollen and glistening, cheeks burning crimson. "No—gods, what am I doing? You're my son. My boy. This is… this is wrong. I'm your mother. I'm thirty-nine winters old, I've buried a husband, I've raised you—I can't… I shouldn't want this—"
Her voice broke. She scrambled back, generous curves shifting, thick thighs flashing as she tried to rise. But she didn't flee. She remained on her knees, breathing hard, dark nipples straining against her bodice, the damp patch on her skirt now unmistakably darker.
"I'm too old for you," she whispered, repeating the same words she'd given me in the bathhouse. "Too experienced. You deserve a young wife, not… not your own mother aching like this."
She covered her mouth with both hands, tears still falling, but her gaze kept drifting to the bulge in my breeches, to where her kiss had left me achingly hard.
Marta's voice came from the other side of the door, calm and knowing. "The gate is secure. The boar is gone. How's the boy, Elara?"
Elara flinched as if caught in the act.
I reached up, ignoring the burn in my ribs, and brushed a tear from her cheek with my thumb.
"You're not too old," I said quietly. "And you're not too experienced for the man who's going to protect you."
She stared at me, lips still parted, her sex visibly throbbing beneath her skirt.
Outside, the mill wheel turned slowly, patient and steady.
The Greysons had tried to break us again.
Instead, they had pushed my mother one desperate kiss closer to admitting what her body had already accepted.
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**End of Chapter 8**