The axe bit deep into the log with a satisfying crack, splitting it clean in two. Wood chips flew, scattering across the frozen mud of the backyard. He swung again, muscles coiling and releasing in rhythmic power he hadn't possessed in his old life. Each impact sent a jolt up his arms, but it felt good—grounding. The cold air burned his lungs, steam rising from his breath and sweat-slick skin.
Behind him, the bakery door stood ajar. He could feel her eyes on him.
Mira—that was the name she'd given when he'd asked, voice soft and wary. Mira Harrow, widow of a miller killed five years ago in a Greyson ambush. Thirty-nine winters, she'd said, with a bitter twist to her full lips. Blackwater by marriage, though she claimed no loyalty beyond feeding whoever paid. Her pulse of arousal hadn't faded; if anything, it thrummed stronger now, a steady heat he sensed like sunlight on his back.
He paused to shrug off his cloak, letting it drop to the pile of split wood. The linen shirt clung to his chest, damp and outlining every line of muscle. He knew she was watching. The Sin whispered temptations: *Nudge her. Make her thighs slick. Let her imagine your cock stretching her wide.*
He resisted. Slow. Earn it.
Another swing. The log exploded apart. He stacked the pieces neatly, aware of every shift in her gaze—the way it lingered on his broad shoulders, the flex of his forearms, the growing bulge in his trousers that he no longer bothered to hide.
The backyard was sheltered by a high fence of woven willow, but sounds carried from the village: raised voices, the distant bark of dogs, the endless creak of the mill wheel. The feud simmered like a pot about to boil over.
He wiped sweat from his brow and turned. Mira stood in the doorway, arms crossed beneath her heavy breasts, pushing them higher against the strained bodice. Flour still dusted her cleavage, a pale contrast to the flushed skin beneath. Her hazel eyes met his, then flicked away, cheeks pinking.
"You swing that axe like you were born to it," she said, voice huskier than before. "Most strangers tire after ten strokes."
He smiled, stepping closer. The scent of her—warm bread, yeast, and the faint, intoxicating musk of arousal—wrapped around him. "I've stamina to spare."
Her breath caught. The pulse surged, a sudden clench between her thighs that he felt echo in his blood. Wetness gathering, soaking the hidden folds he ached to taste.
She cleared her throat, turning back inside. "Bread's cooling. Come eat before it goes hard."
He followed, ducking under the low beam. The bakery's heat enveloped him again, thicker now with the scent of fresh loaves and her body. A small table was set with a heel of rye, a crock of butter, and a jug of small beer. Simple, but his stomach growled.
They sat across from each other. Close quarters—the table barely fit. Her knee brushed his under it, and she didn't pull away.
He tore into the bread, slathering butter that melted instantly. "Best I've ever tasted," he said truthfully. "Your hands make magic."
She snorted softly, but her eyes softened. "Hands are all I've got left. Husband took an arrow through the throat over a sack of grain. Left me the bakery and debts." Her gaze drifted to the window, where snow had begun to fall in fat, lazy flakes. "This feud… it chews up men and spits out widows."
He reached across, brushing flour from her wrist. The contact sparked—her skin hot, pulse racing under his thumb. "You deserve better than scraps and suspicion."
Her lips parted. For a moment, she leaned into the touch. Then voices outside shattered the quiet—rough, angry, approaching.
"Blackwater bitch! We know you're hoarding flour for Marta's lot!"
Mira stiffened, yanking her hand back. Three men—Greysons, by their rough farmer's garb and the red armbands—stood at the front door, banging with fists. One carried a club; another a skinning knife.
"Open up, Mira! Red Willem wants his share, or we take it!"
Her face paled beneath the flour. "I pay both sides," she whispered. "But they're bold today."
He stood slowly, the Sin coiling in his chest. Danger sharpened everything—the thud of his heart, the scent of her fear mingling with lingering arousal.
"Stay here," he said.
"No." She grabbed a rolling pin, knuckles white. "You don't know them."
He moved to the door anyway, opening it just enough to block their view inside. Cold air rushed in, carrying snow and the stink of unwashed men.
"Evening," he said calmly. "Bakery's closed for private business."
The leader—a thickset man with a scarred lip—sneered. "Who the fuck are you, stranger? Marta's new Flour Man?"
"Just a traveler earning bread." He let a thread of Lust unfurl—not at Mira, but at the air itself, a subtle pressure that made the men shift uncomfortably. Nothing overt. Just enough to unsettle.
The scarred one spat. "We'll be back with more. Tell the widow her time's running short."
They retreated, muttering threats, boots crunching away through snow.
He closed the door, latching it firmly. Mira stood behind him, rolling pin still gripped tight, breasts heaving with adrenaline-fueled breaths. Her nipples strained visibly against the damp linen, dark and peaked.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said, but her voice trembled with something besides fear. "They'll mark you now."
He turned, stepping close until her back met the table's edge. "Let them. I'm not leaving you to wolves."
Her eyes searched his—wary, wanting. The pulse of her arousal roared back, hotter than before. Danger had stoked it. Thighs pressing together, slick heat building, clit swelling with need.
He cupped her cheek, thumb tracing her full lower lip. "Mira… you're shaking."
"Not from fear," she admitted in a whisper. The confession hung heavy, scented with her desire.
He leaned in, slow enough for her to pull away. She didn't.
Their lips met—soft at first, reverent. Hers parted on a sigh, tasting of butter and warm bread. He deepened it, tongue sliding against hers, coaxing a moan from deep in her throat. His hands settled on her wide hips, pulling her flush against him. She gasped into his mouth as his hard cock pressed against her soft belly.
"Gods," she breathed, hands clutching his shirt. "It's been so long…"
He kissed down her neck, inhaling the salt of her skin, the faint flour sweetness. One hand slid up to cup a heavy breast, thumb circling the hardened nipple through fabric. It was fuller than his palm, soft yet firm, begging for more.
She arched, grinding instinctively against his thigh. Wetness soaked through her skirts—he could smell it now, rich and heady, her pink cunt dripping for him.
But voices rose again outside—closer this time, Blackwaters shouting back at the retreating Greysons. The village teetered on violence.
He pulled back reluctantly, both of them breathing hard. Her lips were swollen, eyes glazed with lust.
"Not here," he murmured, voice rough. "Not like this. When I take you, Mira, it'll be slow. Proper worship. All night."
She shuddered, nodding, thighs clenching visibly. "Upstairs… after dark. When the mill quiets."
He kissed her once more—possessive, promising—then stepped away before the Sin tempted him to bend her over the table right then.
Snow fell thicker now, muffling the shouts. But the feud wasn't done.
And neither was he.
Tonight, he'd taste her. Lick every drop from that dripping pussy until she screamed into his mouth.
Five rounds, he reminded himself. Maybe six.