Chapter 798 - 797- Finally Got the Prey

Chapter 798: Chapter 797- Finally Got the Prey

I looked at her. At her thick body — the wide hips, the heavy breasts straining against her green dress, the soft belly visible beneath the fabric. At her flushed face. At her trembling hands.

"Mother-in-law," I said. My voice dropped. Low. Warm. The voice I’d used on Vespera last night. The voice that had made a thirty-two-year-old academic prodigy beg for formulas and cock in the same breath. "Please. I just want to try anal once with you."

She trembled. Her hand on the wall tightened. Her knuckles went white.

"No — what are you saying—" She swallowed. The sound was audible. "That is — I am your mother-in-law — you cannot—"

She ran.

Her thick body moved down the hallway — her hips swinging, her dress pulling, her footsteps rapid and unsteady. She disappeared around the corner. A door slammed. The sound of a lock clicking.

I laughed. Inwardly. The sound didn’t escape my lips, but the amusement filled my chest like smoke.

’Emotional manipulation.’

The technique was simple. Ancient. Effective. You didn’t force. You didn’t demand. You planted the seed. You watered it with proximity, with pheromones, with casual comments that burrowed into the subconscious and germinated. You let the target’s own mind do the work.

I’d told her I wanted it. She’d heard me say I would do it. The words were in her head now. Every time she looked at me, she’d remember. Every time her husband wasn’t around, she’d think about it. Every time she felt the phantom sensation of something she’d never experienced — because I was willing to bet that the count, for all his military bearing, had never once touched that particular hole — she’d wonder.

The seed was planted. Now I watered it.

I spent the next four hours being exhausting.

I drank tea with her. At the dining table. Across from her. I maintained eye contact while I sipped. I sighed. Loudly. Repeatedly. The sigh of a man who was deeply, profoundly unsatisfied. The sigh that said, without words, ’I am thinking about something I want and cannot have.’

I ate food. Slowly. Deliberately. I licked my fingers. I closed my eyes when I tasted something good. I made sounds — low, satisfied, the kind of sounds that a man makes in bed, translated to the dining table.

I helped with chores. Reaching for things on high shelves — my shirt riding up, my body stretching, the muscles visible. Bending to pick up things she dropped — because she kept dropping things, her hands shaking every time I moved. I moved through the house like a predator in a cage, always present, always close, always radiating the pheromones that my incubus body produced constantly.

And I sighed. Again. And again. And again.

By midafternoon, the mother-in-law’s composure was a memory. She spilled tea on herself twice. She walked into a doorframe. She forgot what she was saying mid-sentence, three times. Her face had not returned to its normal color since morning. The flush was permanent — a constant, rosy tint that darkened every time I looked at her.

By late afternoon, she stopped trying to avoid me. She stopped leaving rooms when I entered. She stopped averting her eyes. She started — slowly, unconsciously — leaning toward me. Sitting closer. Finding reasons to be in the same room.

The seed was growing.

In the evening, we walked in the garden.

The mansion’s garden was modest — a walled space behind the house, filled with enchanted flowers that glowed softly in the twilight. The scent of jasmine and moonrose filled the air. Stone paths wound between beds of magical flora — plants that shifted color, that hummed faintly, that turned their petals to follow the people walking past.

The mother-in-law walked beside me. Her pace was slow. Deliberate. The pace of a woman stalling. Her hands were clasped in front of her — fingers intertwined, knuckles white, the grip of someone holding themselves together. Her thick body moved through the garden, her hips swaying with each step, the green dress catching the last light of the setting sun.

I walked beside her. Hands in pockets. Silent. Letting the silence do the work.

We stopped at a bench. Sat. The enchanted flowers nearest to us — a cluster of moonroses — turned their petals toward me. Even the plants responded to incubus pheromones.

She stared at the flowers. I stared at her.

"Those are beautiful," I said. Indicating the moonroses.

"Yes," she said. "Vespera planted them. When she was twelve. She said the garden needed nocturnal bloomers for the mana cycle." A pause. A sad smile. "She was always like that. Even as a child. Everything had to have a purpose. A function. She never did anything just because it was beautiful."

"Unlike her mother."

She looked at me. Her eyes — brown, warm, the eyes of a woman who had been beautiful in her youth and had aged into handsomeness — widened. The flush returned.

"I — son-in-law—"

"The flowers are beautiful," I said. "Like you."

She looked away. Her hand went to her face. Covering her mouth. The gesture of a woman trying to hide her expression. But her eyes — visible above her fingers — were bright. Wet.

The silence stretched. The twilight deepened. The moonroses glowed brighter, their petals open, their scent thickening. Somewhere in the house, a servant’s footsteps echoed. Distant. Irrelevant.

"Do you really want it?"

Her voice was barely audible. A whisper. The words spoken to the flowers, not to me. The question of a woman who had been thinking about nothing else for four hours.

I looked at her. At her profile — the round cheek, the soft jaw, the silver-streaked hair catching the moonrose light. At her body — the thick thighs pressed together on the bench, the heavy breasts rising and falling with each rapid breath, the soft belly visible beneath the green fabric.

"Yeah," I said. "Just once."

She trembled. Her hand dropped from her face. She looked at me. Her eyes searched mine — looking for jest, for cruelty, for deception. Finding none. Finding only the honest, burning, unapologetic want of a man who had decided what he wanted and was not going to pretend otherwise.

She gestured. A small motion — her hand waving toward the maids who stood at the garden’s edge, waiting. The dismissal was clear. The maids bowed. Withdrew. Disappeared through the garden gate.

The click of the gate latch was the loudest sound in the world.

She stood. Her thick body rose from the bench — the motion slow, deliberate, the movement of a woman crossing a threshold she knew she couldn’t uncross.

"Follow me," she said.

She walked through the garden. Through the back entrance. Through the servants’ hallway — avoiding the main corridor, avoiding the staff quarters, avoiding any possibility of being seen. Her hips swayed with each step. The dress pulled across her ass. The fabric stretched over her thighs.

She climbed the stairs. I followed. One step behind. Close enough to smell her — lavender soap, jasmine perfume, and underneath, the sharp, unmistakable scent of a woman whose body was responding to an incubus’s proximity.

She stopped at a door. Her bedroom. The master bedroom — hers and the count’s. Her hand found the handle. Hesitated. Trembled.

She opened it. Walked inside. I followed. The door closed behind us.