At home, his mom, Aunt Grace, and Katherine were busy at the table.
Since selling the lower floors, they had no kitchen, but the room's fireplace worked fine for cooking.
Dinner was meat pies, which were a luxury in these rationed times. Maybe his mom was celebrating their guests, or Aunt Grace was thanking them.
Ritchie didn't care. He just wanted to eat.
Pulling up a chair, he watched. Seeing others work could be a treat. Three pairs of hands swiftly shaped dough, stuffed it with meat, brushed egg white on the edges, and pressed them into half-moons.
His eyes lingered on the sticky egg white in the bowl.
His mind drifted to Lina. He'd be fucking her plenty, but she wouldn't stop until she "juiced" him. If he couldn't come, he'd have to fake it.
Could egg white fool her?
While the women worked, Ritchie's mind stayed on cum. When the pies arrived, the egg white coating turned his stomach.
Forcing down two pies, he fought nausea and climbed to the attic.
He froze.
His room was transformed. His mattress was shoved into a corner, replaced by a pink one. A curtain split the already tiny attic in two.
Ritchie eyed the mattresses. Two-thirds of the space was clearly claimed by his cousin, leaving him a measly third.
his was too much!
Before he could snap, a soft, sweet voice came from behind. "Sorry, cousin. While you were out, Aunt helped me rearrange. Hope it's not too much trouble."
Her words were polite but pointed. It was his mom's doing.
Ritchie deflated. His mom's obsession with appearances was ironclad, and he'd inherited that trait. "It's fine, fine," he mumbled, turning. He wanted to slap himself for caring about face.
Wondering how he'd coexist with his cousin, he glanced back and nearly got a nosebleed. She was peeling off her conservative floral dress, revealing a tight, lacy pink bodysuit that clung to her curves.
Her figure was flawless: curves in all the right places, no excess fat. The suit's youthful, suggestive pink was dotted with lace at her breasts and crotch, faintly showing her nipples and a hint of pubic hair.
He'd seen Isabella naked, but this half-hidden tease was even more electrifying. His mind flashed to Rosa or Lina in such lingerie… what a vision that would be.
"I…" Ritchie fumbled, then remembered the list in his pocket. "I've got to go."
He fled, embarrassment burning. Behind the door, he heard giggles. Not just Katherine's, but Aunt Grace's and his mom's too.
All night, he barely slept. Knowing a gorgeous girl lay so close sent desire raging through him. Before he knew sex, he might've coped. Now, he was a wolf tasting blood.
To calm himself, he tried meditating, but his technique backfired. The more he focused, the hotter his lust burned, and the faster his fighting aura grew.
This was a revelation. His perverse technique thrived on desire. The deeper, the stronger. If he became a sex-crazed maniac, he might be invincible.
He knew it was a poisoned chalice, but he couldn't stop. All night, he cultivated to keep his mind from wandering.
At dawn, he bolted out and ran straight to camp, unable to stay without losing it.
It was early, a whole hour before training. Bored, he drifted to the kitchen.
Then he remembered: it was too early for food.
His mind flicked to yesterday's meat pies. The egg white had reminded him of cum.
Eggs were rare at home in wartime; his mom would never let him experiment. But here, they were common.
Rummaging, he found a basket of eggs and grabbed two bowls. One for yolks, one for whites.
It was less an experiment, more play. He whipped the whites, mixed in flour, sniffed, even licked them.
"What are you doing? Making a cake?" Marilyn's voice startled him.
Ritchie froze, unable to explain he was faking cum to fool the Juicer because he couldn't ejaculate. "Uh…"
"Cakes aren't made like that," Marilyn said, amused, seeing his egg-smeared, flour-dusted face. She assumed he was using camp supplies for a cake, maybe for his classmate, parents, or even Lina.
Everyone knew what yesterday's "swordsmanship lesson" with Lina was. They'd seen Ritchie as a kid, but after Randy treated Isabella, they knew he was a man in some ways.
"Let me show you," Marilyn said, smiling.
Ritchie stepped back, resigned. Even if he didn't want to learn cake-making, he had no choice now.
Soon, he found it fascinating. Whisking, foaming… all of it a science.
"Your perception's sharp. Strange. Your technique should dull it," Marilyn said, puzzled, watching him. She noticed Ritchie learned fast, nailing subtle details.
It wasn't just talent.
Marilyn's face grew serious. Pulling him aside, she sat him down and whispered, "You're not practicing the technique we saw, are you? It's something else."
Ritchie froze. How did she know? He'd never admit it, not even if it killed him.
Seeing his silence, Marilyn's expression darkened. "We forgot to tell you something. It's common knowledge for knights, but you're an exception."
She paused, then spoke gravely. "A knight's technique shapes their personality. Look at Carrie, Nora, and Rosa. Their traits are amplified by their methods. Diana and I are less affected."
He'd always thought the squad's quirks were odd. Now it made sense: their techniques.
"What about Lina and Robin?" he asked. They were the least normal.
"They… have other reasons," Marilyn dodged.
Ritchie's face fell. He'd suspected his technique was flawed, but not that it could twist his personality. He feared he was already turning into a sex maniac. Stopping now was impossible. He was too deep in.
Marilyn sighed. "I hoped you'd pick a military technique. They're safer, with minimal side effects. Any technique, mastered, is powerful."
But it was too late. All he could do was damage control.
"I'll talk to Diana. Starting tomorrow, you'll join me for breakfast and dinner prep. My technique calms the mind. I can't teach you the core, but some skills are fine."
Ritchie didn't mind learning more, but he was curious. "What's cooking got to do with it?"
"My technique relies on perception, most useful not in battle but here," Marilyn said, pointing to the kitchen.
...