The afternoon sun hung low and weak, filtering through bare branches as he followed the narrow deer path into the woods bordering Miller's Ford. Snow crunched under his boots, the air sharp with pine resin and frozen earth. Mira had pressed a small pouch of silver into his hand—payment Old Marta had sent for "the stranger who bloodied Greyson noses"—and insisted he seek the hedge witch.
"Elara knows poisons and cures better than any priest," Mira had said, her hazel eyes still soft from the morning's lazy worship. She'd ridden him slow by the fire one last time—round ten, her plush ass grinding in his lap while he sucked her heavy breasts until she came with a muffled sob against his shoulder. Cum still leaked from her when she kissed him goodbye at the door. "She sells to both sides, plays no favorites. If anyone can brew something to counter the nightshade in Marta's well… or learn what Red Willem plans next… it's her."
He'd agreed, though the pulse drawing him deeper into the woods wasn't Mira's anymore. It was new—stronger, wilder. A mature woman's arousal, banked low like embers under ash, but flaring brighter the closer he got.
The Sin thrummed in response, warm and hungry. The black veins at his temples had faded since yesterday's fight, but he felt the Sin rooting deeper, whispering promises of power if he'd just draw a little more.
Restraint.
The hut appeared suddenly: a low, moss-covered structure half-buried in a clearing, smoke curling from a stone chimney. Drying herbs hung from the eaves—lavender, wolfsbane, feverfew—their scents mingling with woodsmoke and something earthier. Feminine.
He knocked on the warped oak door.
It opened before his knuckles landed twice.
Elara stood there, and his cock twitched hard.
Early forties, with the ripe, unapologetic curves of a woman who lived close to the earth. Long raven hair loose and wild, streaked with silver that caught the light. Green eyes sharp and knowing, framed by faint laugh lines. Her skin was sun-kissed, cheeks flushed from the fire inside. She wore a loose wool dress dyed deep green, belted low on wide hips, the neckline generous enough to reveal the upper swells of heavy, pendulous breasts that shifted freely with each breath. No shift beneath—he could see the dark shadows of nipples pressing against fabric. Her ass was a masterpiece: full, round, straining the dress when she turned. Thick thighs rubbed together as she shifted weight, and he already imagined parting them, burying his face in the damp heat between.
She smelled of crushed herbs, smoke, and warm skin. And beneath it all, unmistakable: the faint, rich musk of arousal. Her pulse hit him like a physical caress—steady, deep, a woman who took her pleasure when she wanted but hadn't in far too long.
"Well," she said, voice low and smoky, lips curving in amusement. "The village sends me a pretty stranger instead of coin. Bold."
He smiled, letting his gaze linger openly—down the column of her throat, across her breasts, to the flare of her hips. "Mira sends coin. I'm just the delivery."
Elara's eyes darkened. She stepped aside, gesturing him in. "Then come warm yourself. Storm's brewing again."
The hut was one large room: bundles of herbs everywhere, a cauldron simmering over the fire, shelves of jars and mortars. A wide bed piled with furs dominated one corner. The heat wrapped around him, thick with scents that made his mouth water.
She took the pouch, weighing it, then set it aside. "Blackwater silver for Greyson secrets? Or antidote for the well?" Her gaze flicked over him—shoulders, chest, the growing bulge he made no effort to hide. "You've the look of trouble. Fought off Willem's dogs yesterday, they say. With no blade."
"Hands and luck," he said, stepping closer. The Sin hummed. He could nudge—just a thread—and watch her nipples harden further, her thighs clench with sudden need.
He held back. Worship first.
Elara turned to stir the cauldron, the motion pulling her dress tight across her ass. It jiggled softly, inviting. "Luck doesn't leave men clutching their cocks and running," she murmured. "Sorcery, then. Dark gift."
He moved behind her, close enough to feel her heat. "Not so dark. Helps lonely women remember they're desired."
She stilled. The pulse of her arousal flared—wetness gathering, folds swelling. She inhaled sharply.
"Bold words." She faced him, green eyes searching. Up close, her breasts were magnificent—heavy, soft, nipples now visibly erect. "And if the woman isn't lonely?"
"Your body says otherwise." He reached out slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her neck. She didn't pull away. Her skin was fever-warm. "I can feel it, Elara. The ache you ignore. The wetness between your thighs when you touch yourself at night, wishing for more than fingers."
Her breath hitched. Thighs pressed together—he sensed the slick slide. "Witchcraft."
"Truth." He leaned in, lips near her ear. "Let me worship you. Slow. Proper. Until you're dripping down my chin, begging for my cock."
She shuddered, a soft moan escaping. But she stepped back, cheeks flushed deep. "Not yet, stranger. Power like yours has a price. I've seen men burned for less."
The Sin coiled, tempted. He could amplify—make her cunt gush, drop to her knees needy and desperate.
Restraint. A faint red flicker crossed his vision, gone instantly.
Instead, he nodded. "Then earn it. Tell me what you know of the feud's endgame."
Elara studied him, then gestured to a low bench by the fire. They sat—close, her thick thigh brushing his. She poured herb tea that tasted of mint and something sharper.
"Red Willem's sent riders north," she said quietly. "Twenty sellswords from the Baron, due in days. Writ to seize the mill for the crown if blood doesn't stop. Marta's hired her own shadow—a northern warlock, they whisper. Devil-faced."
He nodded. The feud teetered on massacre.
"And you?" he asked. "Selling poison to both?"
She smirked. "A woman eats. But I tire of burying fools." Her hand settled on his thigh—deliberate, testing. Heat surged through him. "End it without more graves, and perhaps I'll let you taste what's under this dress."
Her pulse roared now—dripping, clit throbbing. He could smell her arousal, rich and heady.
Outside, a twig snapped. Then voices—rough, male. Greysons, three at least, tracking him.
Elara tensed. "My wards should've warned me."
He stood, the Sin rising. "Stay inside."
"No." She grabbed a curved knife and a vial of something dark. "My woods."
They stepped out together.
Three Greyson scouts froze at the sight—clubs raised, eyes widening at Elara.
"Witch! You're harboring the Blackwater devil!"
They charged.
He drew deeper on the Sin this time—more than before, a hot rush flooding his veins. He focused it sharp: not confusion, but raw lust turned weapon. The men staggered, cocks hardening painfully, minds flooded with visions of Elara's curves, Mira's moans, every forbidden fantasy.
One dropped his club, clawing at his trousers. Another vomited desire. The third swung wild—he ducked, disarming him with a twist, then cracked the man's head against a tree. Non-lethal.
Elara moved like smoke—vial shattered at one's feet, acrid smoke rising. The man choked, collapsing asleep. The last fled screaming into the trees.
Silence returned, broken only by their breathing.
Elara stared at him, chest heaving, nipples straining visibly. Her arousal crashed over him—cunt soaked, thighs slick.
"Gods," she whispered. "What are you?"
He stepped close, cupping her face. Red tinged his vision longer this time. The Sin dug claws.
"Your worshipper," he said roughly. "Starting tonight."
She didn't resist when he kissed her—fierce, claiming. Her tongue met his hungrily, hands gripping his shirt. He palmed her heavy breast, thumbing the hard nipple. She moaned into his mouth, grinding against his thigh.
But he pulled back. Slow.
"Back to Mira first," he said. "Then… you."
Her eyes promised everything—dripping pink folds, thick thighs spread wide, multiple rounds until dawn.
As he left the clearing, black veins pulsed faintly at his neck.
The Sin grew.
And the sellswords were coming.
The feast was just beginning.