Chapter 783 - 782- In the Capital’s Count House

Chapter 783: Chapter 782- In the Capital’s Count House

Sunlight hit my face like a slap.

Not the gentle, filtered light of enchanted sconces or the ambient glow of a magic circle. Real sunlight — raw, unfiltered, morning sunlight — cutting through a window I didn’t recognize and landing directly on my eyelids with the precision of a targeted spell.

I groaned. My body stretched — involuntarily, the muscles lengthening, the spine popping in three places, my tail extending to its full length and then curling back. The sheets beneath me were soft. Softer than the rooftop I’d passed out on. The mattress was decent — not the silk-covered luxury of the mansion, but comfortable. Clean. The scent of lavender and starched cotton filled the air.

My eyes opened. Ceiling. White plaster, with a faint crack running from the corner to the center. Not my ceiling. Not the mansion’s vaulted, enchanted, rune-inscribed ceiling. This was... ordinary.

I tilted my head. Slowly. The motion brought the room into focus — a modest bedroom, well-furnished but not lavish. A writing desk against the far wall, stacked with papers. A wardrobe, dark wood, brass handles. A mirror — oval, framed in iron — hanging near the window. Through the window, the skyline of the capital was visible: towers, spires, the distant glitter of the royal palace’s enchanted barriers.

I was in the capital. Right. I’d teleported here last night. Fled from six women who were trying to sexually devour me like a pack of wolves on a deer carcass. The memory surfaced — Mira riding me, Helena’s tits in my face, Elara’s wings fluttering, Olivia tied to a chair, the sounds, the—

I stretched again. Peaceful. Quiet. Alone.

Then I tilted my head the other way.

And froze.

Two figures stood at the foot of my bed.

The first was a man. Older — maybe mid-fifties — with a distinguished bearing that screamed military background. Silver-streaked hair, combed back with precision. A trimmed beard, going gray at the chin. He wore a house coat — dark blue, belted at the waist — but beneath it, the outline of a muscular frame was visible. His posture was ramrod straight. His left hand rested on the pommel of a sword that hung at his hip — a real sword, not a ceremonial one, the blade well-worn, the hilt wrapped in stained leather. His face was composed. Serious. The face of a man who had killed people and would kill again if the situation required.

His eyes were on me. Evaluating.

The second figure was a woman. Also older — mid-fifties, matching the man. She was thick. That was the immediate, undeniable descriptor. Not fat — thick in the way that certain noblewomen were thick: wide hips, heavy breasts, a full figure that spoke of good food, good genetics, and a life of comfort. Her hair was dark brown, streaked with silver, pinned up in an elaborate arrangement that must have taken a maid thirty minutes to achieve. Her face was round, soft, pretty — the kind of face that aged into handsomeness rather than away from beauty. She wore a morning dress — deep green, low-cut, the fabric straining over her chest. Her smile was warm. Maternal. The smile of a woman who had raised children and was now looking at one more.

Behind them — flanking the doorway — two maids held folded clothes. Fresh clothes. Pressed, neat, arranged by type. The maids were young, neat-uniformed, their eyes carefully averted from the bed.

My mouth twitched.

"Who are you people?"

The question came out flat. Direct. The voice of a man who had woken up in a stranger’s house, naked, with a sword-bearing nobleman standing at his bed.

The woman’s smile widened. She stepped forward — her thick body moving with the practiced grace of a noblewoman — and placed her hand on her husband’s arm.

"It’s fine, son-in-law," she said. Her voice was warm. Gentle. The voice of a mother welcoming a child into the family. "We understand."

Son-in-law.

The word hit me like a bucket of cold water. My eyes went from the woman to the man to the maids to the clothes to the sword to the woman’s smile. My brain — usually sharp, usually fast, usually three steps ahead — stuttered.

"I — what?"

"Son-in-law," the man repeated. His voice was deep. Measured. The voice of a military officer confirming a tactical assessment. "We understand. Our daughter — she has always been... private. Secretive. We did not know she had found someone. But last night, when she brought you home—"

"I brought myself home," I said. The correction was automatic. "I teleported here. I was—"

"She brought you," the mother insisted, her tone brooking no argument. "Our staff saw her carry you through the back entrance. She was very careful — very discreet — but our head maid noticed. She told us this morning."

I stared. My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

My hand — moving on instinct, on the pure animal reflex of a man who has just realized he is naked in front of strangers — grabbed the sheet and pulled it over my lap. Over my cock. Which was, naturally, in its morning state — half-erect, heavy, the head peeking from the foreskin like it was curious about the conversation.

The mother-in-law gasped. Her hand went to her face, covering her mouth. But her eyes — I could see them — darted down. Widened. Then crinkled with something that was absolutely, unmistakably amusement.

"Oh my," she said, her voice muffled by her hand. "Son-in-law has too much vigor."

The father-in-law’s eyebrow rose. He looked at me — at the sheet, at what the sheet was trying and failing to conceal — and his expression shifted. The military assessment became something else. Approval. The approval of a man who understood, on a primal level, what that particular morning condition implied.

"Keep it safer for my daughter," the uncle — wait, was there an uncle? I looked. Yes. A third figure, standing behind the maids. An older man, thinner, with a scholar’s robe and a knowing smirk. "Mr. Young man, you’ve got to teach her how to fall in love first."

My mouth twitched again. This was — this was absurd. I was an incubus. A lord. A man who had fucked six women into unconsciousness on a rooftop six hours ago. I had a tail. I had horns — retracted now, but still. I had a cock that was ten inches long and currently trying to greet the morning through a bedsheet.

And I was embarrassed.

Not because of the nudity. I’d walked through my mansion naked, fucked maids in hallways, bent women over dustbins in alleys. Shamelessness was my default setting. But this — this was different. These people were strangers. Nobility, by the look of them. They were looking at me with the warm, welcoming, slightly-too-eager expressions of parents who had been waiting years for their daughter to bring a man home. And I had no idea who their daughter was.

Well. That wasn’t entirely true.

I’d teleported to the capital. I’d chosen this house — not randomly, but because my regression memories told me it was safe. Unoccupied by anyone hostile.

A household that owed allegiance to a minor count — Count Aldric Thorne, if memory served — whose territory was far from the capital but whose family maintained a residence here for political purposes.

’What a strange luck...’