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

Chapter 496: Chapter 495- The Breaking of Mental Fortitude

Young. That was the thing that hit hardest — ’young,’ the twenty-something version of the face Sofia knew, the version before the small lines at the eyes and the silver threading the black of her hair. The face before everything that had come after.

She was blinking.

Her mother was blinking in the torchlight, her eyes adjusting — those , pale, silver-blue mermaid eyes that Sofia had inherited in diluted form, wide now with the startled, overwhelmed focus of someone who has been brought into a space that their body and mind are both refusing to accept as real.

Her hand came up.

Found the glass.

Palm flat against it.

From the inside, looking out at the masked rows of men who were looking back.

The bidding started before the platform had fully settled.

”Five hundred!”

”Six hundred!”

”Eight!”

The voices coming from everywhere simultaneously — the , overlapping, competitive chaos of money talking at volume, every bid slightly more urgent than the last, the room running on the , ugly energy of men who have been waiting and are now expressing that wait with numbers.

Sofia stood in the middle of it.

A ghost. Untouchable. The immersion spell keeping her present without making her real to any of them.

She watched her mother’s face.

Watched those pale eyes moving across the room — from masked face to masked face to masked face, the , desperate inventory of a woman looking for something recognizable, something human, something that would tell her how this ends.

Finding nothing.

Her hand still on the glass.

Her lips moving.

Sofia could read them.

’Please.’

Just that. Over and over. The silent, terrible word of someone speaking to a room that cannot hear them.

”One thousand!”

”Fifteen hundred!”

”Two thousand!”

Sofia’s hands were fists at her sides.

She could feel them — the physical reality of her own clenched fingers, her nails in her palms, the grounding sensation of pain when everything else had gone unreal.

’This is the past,’ she told herself. ’This already happened. This already ended. She’s fine. She married Father. She’s home. She’s—’

”Three thousand!”

A pause.

The room breathing.

That moment in an auction when the bidding has thinned and the remaining competitors are looking at each other across the crowd, taking stock.

Sofia looked at her mother’s face.

She was shaking.

Small, visible tremors in the hands pressed against the glass — the involuntary, full-body trembling of someone standing in cold water in a room full of strangers being priced.

’She’s fine,’ Sofia thought. ’Father comes. Father buys her. He was gentle, she always said. Unlike the others. He was the only decent one in the room. He saw her and he—’

”Five thousand gold coins.”

The voice.

Sofia turned.

The man in the fifth row, left side.

Standing now. The , statement-making posture of someone who has decided they’re ending this.

She knew the silhouette.

She had grown up in proximity to that silhouette — had seen it at the head of the dinner table, at the window of his study, coming up the front path after a long ride, the broad, straight-shouldered shape of a man who had built his body with the deliberate intent of a person who knows that a body is an instrument of authority.

Her father.

Count Ravenon.

Older in the present than this memory — the gray at his temples was less here, the lines at his face fewer, the body carrying less of the weight that decades of governing put on a person. But it was him. Unmistakably, completely, ’him.’

The room went quiet.

That , recognition-loaded quiet that falls when someone important has spoken.

”The Count,” someone said.

Sofia exhaled.

The long, shaking, ’finally’ exhale of a body that has been holding its breath.

’There.’

’There he was.’

’Father. Coming to save her. Just like she always said. He saw her and he knew and he paid five thousand gold coins because that was what he understood she was worth and he brought her home and—’

She turned toward Elena.

Opened her mouth.

’Enough,’ she was going to say. ’I’ve seen enough. I understand the point. This is where he rescues her and you’ve made your point about the circumstances of their meeting and I’d like to go now—’

Elena was smiling.

Not the warm, manufactured smile from the garden.

The other one.

The one beneath that one — the cold, , ’I have been waiting for this moment’ smile of a woman who has set a trap and is watching the thing she set it for walk into it.

”Do you know,” Elena said,

Her voice coming through the immersion spell with the , slightly-adjacent quality of sound arriving from outside the memory while Sofia stood inside it —

”Count Ravenon.”

A pause.

”At the time.”

Another pause.

”Was renowned.”

The smile widening.

”As one of the kingdom’s most accomplished sex slave trainers.”

The words arrived in Sofia’s chest like something physical.

Not a blow. The , worse thing — the slow, comprehensive, ’cellular’ arrival of information that the body knows is true before the mind has finished receiving it.

She turned back to the auction floor.

Her father was walking.

The crowd parting for him — the , deferential body-language of a room that recognizes authority — the masked men on either side leaning back slightly as he passed, the murmurs following him.

And she heard them now.

The murmurs she hadn’t registered before, too busy watching her mother, too busy building the story she’d been told.

”Ravenon’s here.”

”Haven’t seen him at one of these since the northern haul two years ago.”

”He takes his time with them. Months, apparently.”

”The Mermaid Queen. He’ll have his work cut out—”

”He likes that.”

Laughter.

Low, private, ’knowing’ laughter running through the rows like something spreading.

Sofia’s fists were shaking.

’No.’

’No, that’s not—’

’He was gentle. She said he was gentle. She said unlike the others, he was—’

Her father reached the platform.

He stood in front of the glass.

In front of her mother, who was looking at him with the , searching expression of a woman looking at a face for information — ’what are you, what do you want, what happens now’ — her pale eyes running over his features with the desperate inventory of someone who needs to know if this is rescue or continuation.

The auctioneer: ”Congratulations to Count Ravenon. The Mermaid Queen—”

Her father picked up the auction hammer from the side table.

The heavy, ceremonial thing — the brass head of it, the long handle.

He held it.

Looked at the glass.

At her mother inside it.

At her mother’s hand still pressed against it.

At her mother’s face, which was doing the , terrible thing that faces do when they’re trying to decide whether to hope.

And he swung.

The glass came apart.

Not a clean break. The full, cascading, ’spectacular’ destruction of the container — the shards spraying outward with the water, the cascade of it hitting the platform floor, the massive, immediate, ’violent’ sound of the impact echoing in the chamber.

Her mother screamed.

The short, high, startled scream of someone who did not expect this — who had maybe expected the container to be opened, a door, a latch, not ’this’ — and fell forward with the water, her hands catching the platform edge, her knees finding the wet wood, the glass around her.

She looked up.

Blood on her hand. A cut from a shard, small but immediate, the red running thin through the water still dripping from her dress.

She looked at the Count above her.

”Father—”

Sofia’s voice.

Barely audible.

”What are you—”

The Count reached down.

Grabbed her mother by the hair.

”Kyaaaahh~~!!!?!”