Kelly reached out, her fingers brushing my sleeve. "I want to know that when the time comes, you’ll be there. That we won’t have to be afraid."
A jolt ran through me—unexpected, sharp. My body reacted before my mind could catch up, heat flaring where it shouldn’t. No, no—this isn’t right.
My thoughts scrambled. It felt like she was asking for something else, something forbidden, but I knew she wasn’t. This was about survival, about trust, about the fragile line between life and death that every woman in this clan had to walk alone—until now.
I cleared my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Don’t worry, sister. I’ll make sure you and your child are safe."
Kelly’s laughter rang out again, bright and unburdened, as if she’d been holding her breath and could finally exhale. "Yeah, I know you will," she said, nudging me again.
"You’re the best, Welheim. Even if you are a terrible liar when it comes to hiding your skills." She leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Just promise me one thing—when I’m screaming at you during the birth, you won’t hold it against me later."
I couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in my chest melting away. "I’ll try not to take it personally," I said, shaking my head.
Irene and Grom chuckled beside us, their laughter warm and understanding. Grom gave my back a firm, friendly clap and said to Kelly, "Then you’ve got to take good care of Welheim, Kelly—it’s your duty as his sister."
Kelly grinned, falling into step beside me again, her shoulder brushing lightly against mine. "Obviously. I’m his sister. It’s literally my job."
Around us, the clan settled into the quiet of the night. Shadows shifted as people slipped into their huts, their voices fading from murmurs to whispers, then to silence.
The clearing emptied, leaving only the soft hum of the night—crickets weaving their endless song, leaves rustling in the dark, and the occasional crackle of a dying ember in the firepit.
I noticed one more thing: no one drank after eating. No one rinsed their hands or mouths.
They simply ate, then slept, as if the act of eating was enough to sustain them until the next meal. It was primitive, but it made sense in a way. Out here, every drop of water was precious, every resource carefully conserved.
And then there were the utensils—or rather, the lack of them. No plates, no cups, no bowls. Just hands, teeth, and the raw, unfiltered act of eating. It was efficient, but it also meant no barriers, no safety nets. Just survival in its purest form.
The absence of oil for cooking, of lanterns to push back the crushing dark inside the huts—it wasn’t just a lack of comfort. It was a silent, ever-present threat. Even if they had them, I thought it would be dangerous.
The huts were fragile things, stitched together from dried grass and straw, their walls nothing more than brittle reeds lashed with animal hides. A single flame, a stray spark from a careless hand, and the whole structure would ignite like tinder.
There would be no time to run, no way to stop it. The fire would spread faster than a scream, swallowing everything—mats, tools, the few precious belongings tucked into the corners—leaving behind only ash and the ghost of heat.
One spark, one ember rolling free, and the entire hut would go up in flames. They weren’t foolish. They knew the risks. The fire stayed outside—always. The huts stayed dark—safe, but blind.
I glanced at Irene, then at the huts—small, cramped, thick with the scent of damp earth and sweat. No light. No comfort. Just survival.
The moment Kelly and Krag disappeared into their huts, the night seemed to press in closer, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and smoldering embers.
Irene, Grom, and I were left standing in front of ours, the flickering glow from the firepit casting long, wavering shadows across the ground.
My pulse thrummed in my throat, my mind still replaying the way Irene’s body had moved earlier—how her breath had hitched when I’d touched her, how her lips had parted when I’d spilled myself into her mouth.
I shouldn’t have been thinking about it. Not now. Not with Grom right beside us.
But the hunger was still there, gnawing at me.
We stepped inside, and the darkness swallowed us whole. For a heartbeat, I was blind, my fingers twitching at my sides as my eyes struggled to adjust.
Then, slowly, the faint silver glow of moonlight seeped through the gaps in the door flap, painting the interior in ghostly hues. The air was warm, thick with the musk of bodies and the earthy scent of the stone bed carved into the ground.
I stole a glance at Irene. Even in the dim light, I could make out the curve of her hips, the way her leaf skirt clung to her thighs. My manhood twitched, already hard just from the memory of her—her leaking slit, her swollen nipples, the way she’d moaned when I’d—
"Aunt Irene," I murmured, my voice rough, "Let me check if I can heal your hard nipples... and your slit."
The words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate.
Grom’s head whipped toward us, his voice sharp with concern—and something darker. "Irene? Are you sick? Is your slit leaking? Did it get rubbed against something?"
His suspicion was clear, though not for the reasons I might have expected. He didn’t seem to suspect me of taking advantage of his wife—just worried. I chuckled to myself, imagining how much more interesting things could get.
Irene didn’t flinch. She didn’t mention how I’d grabbed her breasts earlier, how I’d forced her to her knees and filled her mouth with my seed. Instead, she exhaled, slow and controlled, as if she’d been expecting this. "Well... they must have accidentally gotten rubbed."
Grom turned to me, his expression unreadable in the dark. "Welheim. Can you heal her?"
I nodded, my throat dry. "Yeah, Uncle Grom. But I’ll need to take a closer look at Aunt’s slit... and her nipples."
A beat of silence.
Irene shifted, her bare feet rustling against the stone. "Welheim, it’s dark now. Let’s wait until morning so you can see clearly in daylight."
Grom grunted in agreement. "Yeah. No point straining your eyes."