100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 489: Chapter 488- Ktorian Family Meeting

The dining hall of House Ktorian did not echo.

Other great houses had dining halls that echoed — the , hollow grandeur of rooms built to impress, where every footstep and fork-click returned from the ceiling as a reminder of the ceiling’s height.

The Ktorian hall absorbed sound.

The stone walls, the thick tapestries, the , dense weight of a room that had been holding family meetings for two hundred years and had developed the , architectural personality of something that knows how to keep secrets.

Eight people at the table.

The head of the family at its northern end — Vareth Ktorian, sixty-three, the gray-haired, silver-eyed patriarch of the kingdom’s third most powerful noble house, which had maintained its position for three consecutive generations by the combination of intelligence, patience, and the willingness to wait longer than anyone else.

Around him — the inner ring.

Two sons. Three nephews. One niece from the branch family — Aldric, who was twenty-six and had the , coiled frustration of a young powerful man who has been kept at the secondary table his entire life and has not yet made peace with it.

And the empty chair.

The one that had been empty since this morning when the rider arrived with the message that Celestia was returning from Millbrook.

The food was already half-eaten.

No one had waited.

The door opened.

She entered without announcement — the , unhesitating entry of a woman who has been walking through this door since she was eleven years old and has never once waited for permission.

Celestia Ktorian.

Forty years old. Gray beginning at the temples — the distinguished gray, the silver-thread gray that arrived in their family early and meant something about bloodline rather than age. Her bearing: military-straight, the posture of a woman who had trained her body as rigorously as her mind for twenty-five consecutive years and carried it with the comfortable, unconscious ease of something that had become architecture rather than effort.

She gave a bow at the door.

”I have returned, Father.”

Vareth did not look up from his plate.

She took her chair.

The empty one, which happened to be at his right hand — the branch family member seated at the main family table, the , loaded position that said something about how Vareth regarded her relative to the people she was seated among.

She reached for her fork.

Began eating.

The silence lasted approximately forty seconds.

”I heard you went to Millbrook.”

Aldric.

The branch-family nephew. His voice carrying the , carefully-calibrated provocation of someone who has been preparing a sentence for several hours and is now delivering it with the studied casualness of a man pretending he hasn’t.

His eyes on Celestia.

Not concerned. Hungry for something — the , watching hunger of someone looking for a reaction they can use.

Celestia’s fork stopped.

Halfway to her mouth.

She set it down.

Turned to look at him.

Her eyes — the same silver-gray as the head of family, but colder in the way that things forged under pressure are colder than the original material — found his face and held it with the , complete, unblinking attention of a woman who has been in combat situations and finds this considerably less threatening.

”You are,” she said, ”from the branch family.”

Her voice was even.

”You are seated at this table because my father permits it.”

She picked up her fork again.

”Shouldn’t you,” she said, taking a bite, ”shut your mouth.”

Aldric’s fist hit the table.

Not the full impact — the controlled, half-committed impact of a man who knows he’s in a room with people who can end him and is expressing his anger at the exact volume that communicates ’fury’ without triggering ’consequences.’

”I am a full member of this house—”

”You are a mock,” Celestia said.

The word. The , double-edged nobility-language word — ’mock,’ meaning ’replica, imitation, the thing that resembles the original without being it’ — landing with the precise, surgical intention of a woman who knows exactly what she’s said and means every layer of it.

Aldric went still.

His jaw tight. His knuckles white on the edge of the table.

Around them, the other six members of the table watching the exchange with the , expressionless attention of people who have seen this dynamic before and know better than to participate.

Celestia ate.

Aldric glared.

She did not look at him.

”How is he.”

Vareth.

The two words fell into the room with the weight of something that had been waiting — the , patient precision of a man who had let the argument run exactly as long as he found it useful and had now moved past it.

His eyes were on Celestia.

Silver-gray. The full, burning, ’seeing’ eyes of a man who had been reading people for sixty-three years and had long since stopped needing them to speak.

The question landed on her.

Celestia.

Who had been eating with the practiced, composed efficiency of a woman conducting a performance of normalcy and was now receiving a question that required her to access the thing she had been very carefully not accessing since she rode back through the capital gates this morning.

The memories arrived anyway.

They arrived the way they had been arriving all day — without invitation, without warning, in the , comprehensive, ’physical’ way of memories that are not only in the brain.

’Millbrook.’

She had gone to observe. That was the word she had used in her report to herself, in the internal language she used to catalog her movements and their purposes: ’observe.’ The dead child — the nephew who had been pronounced gone and had returned with something in his eyes that her father’s intelligence network had flagged as ’worth investigating’ — the one whose predictions about the eastern trade crisis had been accurate to the hour, whose reading of the northern border situation had preceded the actual northern border situation by three weeks.

She had gone to see.

She had seen.

And then —

’His hands.’

She pressed her thighs together under the table.

The , involuntary, humiliating press of a woman whose body is replaying something her mind is trying to file away.

Forty years old. She had been forty years old for approximately six months. She had, through those forty years, made a set of decisions about her body and its use that had involved considerable discipline and considerable sacrifice and had been, until four days ago, entirely intact.

His cock.

She felt it still. Not as memory — as ’sensation.’ The , interior, all-the-way-deep sensation of something that had been in a place no one had been and had ’stayed there’ for long enough that her body had finished revising its entire cellular understanding of what ’full’ meant.

She had screamed into a pillow.

She had said things she would not be writing in any report.

Her pussy had done things she had not known it could do, had not known she was ’built’ to do, had not known were available to her body as options.

She pressed her thighs together harder.

Her face.

She felt the flush rising from her collarbone.

She looked at her plate.

Vareth’s gaze narrowed.

The , millimeter-shift of silver-gray eyes that see everything and have learned to say very little about what they’ve seen.

He watched his niece — the most disciplined woman in three generations of a disciplined family, the woman who had never flushed, never fumbled, never given him a single involuntary signal in thirty years of closely watching her — sitting at his right hand with her eyes down and her thighs pressed together and a color in her neck he had never once seen before.

”What happened,” he said.