The village was dying in the afternoon heat.

Dust clung to the cobblestones. The well at the square was dry. The thatched roofs sagged under the sun. And in the middle of the market, a thick woman stood behind a wooden cart, arranging roses.

She was heavy.

Not fat. Thick. Her hips were wide. Her thighs strained against the coarse fabric of her common dress. The neckline was low, cut by her own hand to let the village heat escape, and her heavy tits pressed against the worn cotton. Sweat ran down her cleavage. It pooled in the hollow between her flesh. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, dark strands sticking to her neck. Her hands were rough. Village hands. Hands that had buried a child and stolen another.

She sold the flowers cheap.

A copper for three roses. A silver for a bundle. The young men of the village bought them. They blushed. They stammered. They handed her coins with trembling fingers, their eyes dropping to her sweat-damp chest before fleeing toward their sweethearts.

"Thank you," she said. Her voice was warm. Tired. "Give them to your girl. Make her happy."

By evening, the cart was empty.

She counted the coins in her palm. Twelve coppers. Three silvers. Enough for bread. Enough for the boy’s shoes. Enough to keep the loan men from the door for another week.

She sighed.

She walked to the old oak at the edge of the market. She sat against the trunk. The bark was rough against her back. She held the last rose in her hand. Its petals were red. Dark. Like blood. Like the child she had lost.

"Just enough," she whispered.

Then she heard voices.

Three men. They walked past the tree. One of them wore a leather vest with a silver clasp. She knew that clasp. She knew that face. The loan shark. The man who had lent her so-called husband money before the bastard had run off into the mountains, leaving her with the debt and the boy.

"Boss," the man said. His voice was low. Nervous. "That guy killed everyone. The leech. The undead. All of it. We shouldn’t be going there. We shouldn’t be collecting."

The larger man grunted. "Fine then. We are not going there. But don’t you think we need to recover the money?"

"How are we going to recover it?" the first man asked. "Should we kidnap that boy and threaten his mother?"

"Ah," the boss said. "That guy would come and kill us. The demon. The one in the black coat."

The woman flinched.

Her fingers dug into the tree bark. Splinters bit her skin.

’No. No. My son.’

She bent forward. Her thick ass pressed outward, rounding against the fabric of her dress. She hid behind the trunk. Her heart hammered. Her tits heaved. She pressed her face against the rough wood and prayed they would pass.

Then she felt it.

A hand. Resting on her ass.

Her thick, bent-outward ass. The fingers sank into the flesh. The palm was warm. Hard. Familiar. The hand squeezed, and then a finger found her ass crack. It pressed inward. Clamping. Pushing against the scar that curled inward there. A mark left by a previous roughness. A previous claiming.

She flinched.

She turned.

Raven stood behind her.

His black coat was gone. He wore simple traveler clothes. Linen. Leather. But his eyes were the same. Dark. Warm. Demonic. He smiled, and his finger was still clamped in her ass crack, pressing against the old scar, making her pussy clench from the sudden intrusion.

"Oh," he said. His voice was soft. Intimate. "Your ass really got better."

He pulled his finger out slowly. The scar twitched. Her anal ring fluttered. She gasped. A wet sound escaped her cunt. She was already leaking.

"You’re here," she whispered.

The rose fell from her hand.

She lunged. She hugged him. Her thick body slammed against his chest. Her heavy tits mashed against his ribs. Her arms wrapped around his neck. She buried her face in his shoulder. She smelled him. Musk. Power. The smell of the man who had promised her revenge.

"Oh my," she sobbed. "Oh my. You came. I thought— I thought you would not come."

He held her.

His hands went to her ass. He gripped both cheeks. He pulled her against his groin. She felt the bulge. Twelve inches. Hard. Thick. Even through the cloth, she felt it. She trembled.

"I thought I would not come," he said. "But here I am."

He pulled back. He looked at her. His eyes dropped to her chest. The neckline was damp with sweat. Her nipples were stiff against the cotton.

"Your boobs got bigger," he said. He reached up. He cupped one. His fingers sank into the heavy flesh. He squeezed. "Were you masturbating yourself, remembering me?"

She trembled.

Her face went red. She had. Every night. After the boy slept. Her fingers in her hairy cunt, rubbing her clit, thinking of his cock. Thinking of the way he had fucked her last time. The way he had ruined her. She had cum screaming into her pillow.

"So," he said. His hand was still on her tit. He pinched the nipple through the fabric. Hard. "Should we go to the capital? Should we fuck the queen? Don’t you want revenge?"

She trembled.

Her unborn child. The one the first queen had killed. The queen’s mistake. The poison meant for a rival that had struck her instead. The miscarriage. The blood. The boy she had stolen in return—the queen’s firstborn, raised as her own village son.

She had doubted him. When he had whispered revenge in her ear, she had thought it was a lie. A trick. A way to get between her thighs.

But he was here.

He was giving her hope. Real hope. The capital. The queen. Revenge.

"I’m slightly worried," she whispered. Her hand found his chest. "The capital is dangerous. The queen is powerful. And I am just—"

"Come on," he said. He cut her off. His hands moved to her ass again. Both hands. He pulled her cheeks apart through the coarse dress. The fabric strained. She gasped. Her ass cheeks trembled. She felt the air hit her ass crack. She felt his fingers digging in, pulling, spreading. "You shouldn’t be worried. I am here."

He leaned in. His lips brushed her ear.

"Let’s go to your home," he whispered.

She trembled.

He walked. His hand held her wrist. She held the last rose in her other hand. He took it from her. He twirled it.

"Flowers," he said. "Good for cute moments."

She trembled. "No. I was just selling them. For coin. For bread."

"You can sell them to me," he said. He smiled. Cruel. Warm. "You can even sell your body to me. I have coin. I have power. I have everything you need."

She flinched.

She remembered the last time. He had fucked her so hard. So long. Her whole body had tingled for days. Her cunt had been raw. Her ass had been marked. She had walked bow-legged through the village market, smiling at the other women while his seed leaked into her underclothes.

His arm went around her. He pulled her against his side. She was limp. Her thick body leaned into him. He walked through the village square. The villagers stared. A handsome man. A thick, flushed woman. His hand on her ass. Groping. Squeezing. Uncaring.

They arrived at her door.

It was small. Wood. The paint was peeling. A single candle burned in the window.

Suddenly, the door opened.

A boy ran out. Young. Seven, maybe eight. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. The queen’s eyes, though no one knew it but her.

"Mother!" he cried. "You have arrived!"