The afternoon was warm.
The dead zone carried the smell of pine resin and river mud. The path back to the hut was narrow and pressed between the trees. Raven walked it with his hands in his pockets and his mind half on the road and half on the First Queen’s face — a face he had never seen but could already picture. Royal. Cold. The kind of woman who threw hot tea at pregnant maids and searched for stolen children while sitting on a throne made of other people’s suffering.
He would enjoy the palace.
He reached the hut’s door.
He raised his hand to push it open.
The door swung outward.
A body hit him in the chest.
It was small. Compact. A tight, firm body with a flat stomach and narrow hips and an ass that pressed directly against his crotch as the momentum carried her backward into him. She had come through the door fast — too fast — running from something inside or toward something outside. She hit his chest and the impact stopped her cold.
A hand shot out from inside the doorway.
It grabbed the woman’s collar.
"How DARE you touch me!" The voice was high and furious. "You perverted woman! Keep your hands to yourself! I know what you are trying to do!"
Raven looked down.
The body pressed against his crotch belonged to a petite woman. Her ass was firm and round against his groin. She was wearing a man’s tunic, her short hair disheveled, her jaw red from what looked like a recent punch. Her eyes were wide and looking up at him from below.
The hand on her collar belonged to Rika.
Rika stood in the doorway in a simple dress, her face furious, her knuckles still white from the grip she had thrown. She was looking at the petite woman with the focused, righteous anger of a woman who had decided something was unforgivable. Then she saw Raven’s face above the petite woman’s head.
She froze.
The petite woman looked up.
She looked at Raven.
She looked back at Rika.
Rika’s grip on the collar loosened.
"You—" Rika’s voice changed completely. The fury drained. Something else replaced it. Something warm and flustered. "You are— when did you—"
Raven looked past both of them.
Through the doorway, the hut’s interior was warm and busy. A fire in the hearth. The smell of roasted meat. Multiple women moving. Nara was at the stove, stirring something, her thick hips swaying. Celia was at the table, cutting bread, her strong arms working. Marla and Fatima were seated on the bench near the window, their heavy bodies pressed close together, talking quietly. Gia was on the floor near the fire, her knee bandaged, watching the pot.
And at the far end of the room, in the large chair that had been dragged from the corner, sat Edda Williams.
The old dragon slayer was seated with her forearm on her knee and her hand pressed against her forehead, her white hair pulled back, her eyes closed. Her other hand was rubbing slow circles against her temple. She looked like a woman who had spent the night being systematically destroyed and was now spending the afternoon wondering if fifty years of warrior discipline had prepared her for anything.
It had not.
Then Nara turned from the stove.
Her eyes found him in the doorway. They went wide. Her mouth opened. She dropped the spoon.
"He is here—!" she said.
The room erupted.
Celia’s head snapped up. Marla grabbed Fatima’s arm. Gia scrambled to her feet from the floor, her bandaged knee forgotten. The sound was immediate and overlapping — multiple women recognizing their man and reacting with the particular chaos of bodies that had been claimed and were now asserting the claim.
Edda’s eyes opened.
She looked at him across the room.
She stood.
The movement was slow. Stiff. Her body ached. He had seen to that personally. She straightened. She placed her right fist against her left palm. She bowed. Ninety degrees. The bow of a warrior acknowledging an absolute superior.
"Welcome," she said. Her voice was steady. "Sir Lord. Lord Dragon."
The other women were already moving.
They hit him like a warm, soft, overwhelming wave. Nara reached him first, her arms going around his waist, her thick tits mashing against his chest. Celia came from the side, her strong arms reaching around both of them, pressing in. Marla and Fatima arrived together, the two heavy-bodied women sandwiching him from the other side. Gia grabbed his arm and pressed herself against his shoulder. The combined weight of them pushed him half a step backward.
He was buried in tits.
Multiple sets. Heavy ones. Full ones. Firm ones. The smell of the women — the particular warm, intimate smell of women who had been fucked thoroughly and who had slept in the same space and who had woken with his seed still in their bodies — surrounded him completely.
He could not lift his arms.
He chuckled.
"Ladies," he said, his voice muffled by Nara’s hair. "May I take some rest now?"
The mass of women paused.
They looked at each other across his chest.
"We cooked," Nara said, pulling back slightly. Her eyes were bright. "We have been cooking since morning. We thought— we wanted—"
"We cooked chicken," Celia said, with the focused pride of someone who had accomplished something. "I caught them. From the field behind the river. Four of them. Nara roasted two and made a stew with the other two."
"Gia cut her finger," Marla offered.
"I did not," Gia said immediately. "I trimmed my finger. There is a difference."
"You cried."
"The onions were strong."
Raven looked over the top of the women’s heads at the dining table. It was laid with food. Actual, carefully prepared food. A platter of roasted chicken, golden-brown, the skin crackling. A pot of thick stew. Bread, sliced unevenly but with clear effort. A small bowl of root vegetables. A pot of something that smelled of herbs.
He looked at all of it.
"I already ate," he said.
The silence was instant.
It was the particular silence of women who had worked all morning on something and had just been told their work was unnecessary. Every face fell simultaneously. Nara looked at the pot. Celia looked at the bread she had sliced. Gia looked at her bandaged finger. Marla and Fatima looked at each other with the shared expression of women who had expected this outcome but had hoped anyway.
The pouts were not planned. They were simultaneous. A natural, collective, helpless expression of disappointment.
Raven looked at the faces.
He looked at the table.
He looked at the faces again.
He sighed. He walked to the table. He pulled out the chair. He sat down.
"Fine," he said. "Small portion."
The room came alive again.
Nara was at the pot before he had finished speaking. Celia pushed the chicken platter toward him. Gia limped to the bread. Marla and Fatima went for the vegetable bowl and the herb pot respectively, arriving at his sides simultaneously and placing the dishes with the solemn ceremony of women presenting tribute.
Rika appeared at his elbow.