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

Chapter 557: Chapter 556- A Pervert in the Inn

The inn’s common room was the kind of room that had been full every night for forty years and knew it.

The ceiling was low and smoke-dark from decades of hearth fires. The beams were original — old hardwood, the kind cut from forests that no longer existed, the grain visible under the soot.

Long tables ran the length of the room, occupied by the particular cross-section of humanity that the last waystation before a capital city always produced: minor nobles in traveling clothes with their crests half-covered, merchant families with their good clothes slightly wrong in the way good clothes are always slightly wrong when they are new, road guards drinking efficiently rather than pleasurably, and the various category of traveler who occupied the middle distance between all of these and defied easy classification.

The fireplace at the far end was working.

The kitchen smells were genuine — roasted meat, bread, the particular warm-fat smell of something that had been cooking since afternoon.

It was the kind of room that felt good to enter after a long road.

Viktor entered it.

And the room noticed.

Not loudly. Not with the theatrical attention of a man making an entrance. The quieter, more involuntary kind of noticing — the slight pause in nearby conversations, the glance from the table to the left, the serving woman near the fireplace looking up from her tray and then holding the look a half-second longer than her job required.

He was wearing travel clothes.

Nothing noble about them. Nothing that announced anything.

Except him. Except the particular, settled quality of a man who occupied space the way a stone occupies water — not aggressively, simply completely, the way something that belongs where it is simply belongs. The black hair. The violet eyes moving across the room with the patient, unhurried assessment of a man who had walked into many rooms and had long since stopped being impressed by rooms.

Helviana followed him.

Three steps behind. Her maid dress correct — dark fabric, white collar, the appropriate, invisible distance of a woman in service. Her hair pinned. Her face carrying the warm, luminous glow that the incubus seed produced and that inn common rooms would attribute to the blush of a woman in service of an attractive employer.

Her walk was slightly careful.

The very small, barely-visible care of a woman whose lower body had been through a sustained educational experience and was managing the ordinary act of walking with the conscious attention it hadn’t required before yesterday.

No one noticed this.

Everyone noticed her face.

The serving boy near the door stared at her for two full seconds before remembering his tray.

The merchant at the second table said something to his wife that his wife replied to by elbowing him.

”—traveling nobility, you think—”

”—no crest on the carriage—”

”—the woman with him, is that his—”

Viktor was not listening to any of it.

He was looking at the room.

The left wall. The right wall. The tables. The fireplace. The staircase in the back corner. The second serving woman near the bar. The card game in the far corner producing its low, continuous commentary.

His eyes moved.

And stopped.

Corner table. Left side. Set slightly apart from the main tables by virtue of being a corner table — the kind of placement a man chooses when he wants his back to the wall and his eyes on the door and doesn’t want neighbors.

The man sitting there.

Big. Not in the merchant way or the road-guard way. Big in the way that a man is big when the size of him has been earned over years of things that were not comfortable to earn — the broad, dense, economy-of-movement bulk of a man whose body had learned that unnecessary size was unnecessary weight and had shed everything that didn’t serve a purpose.

A scar.

Running from the left side of his jaw down below the collar of his shirt, the upper portion visible, the lower portion a matter of inference. Old enough to have settled fully, turned from angry red to the flat, pale, unremarkable white of a wound that had stopped being interesting to the skin around it years ago.

His aura.

This was the thing.

The thing that the other travelers in the room were responding to without being able to name what they were responding to — the empty radius around his table that no one had consciously created, the way the serving woman had refilled his cup and retreated quickly and was not keen to approach again, the way the men at the nearest table had adjusted their conversation to face slightly away from him.

Not fear exactly.

The thing that lives slightly before fear, in the place where an animal registers that something else in the same space is larger in a way that scales matter.

Viktor recognized him.

The recognition arrived without fanfare — the simple, immediate identification of someone he had categorized from a previous life and had not forgotten because the category was useful.

Remus Santora.

Guild master of Santora’s guild. Currently diminished — the guild operating at roughly a third of its natural influence because of the illness that was consuming his wife, the resources redirected, the alliances weakened by a man spending political capital on physicians and healers rather than on the things that maintained power. Currently manageable.

Not permanently manageable.

When his wife died — and she would, the illness was the kind that moved in one direction — Remus Santora would grieve for exactly as long as grief required and then redirect every compressed, restrained, accumulated energy of that diminished period into rebuilding what he had let slip. Viktor knew this the way he knew the road they had come from: he had been here before, in a different skin, and had watched it happen.

He was worth knowing.

He was worth managing.

Viktor moved toward the corner.

The glass.

It came from the left — the sound of it, the particular pitch of a glass striking a hard surface, not breaking, being knocked or dropped or fumbled. Viktor’s eyes moved toward it automatically, the trained, reflex response of a man whose guard instincts had spent a previous lifetime at full employment.

The source:

A serving woman.

Young. Not a girl — a woman, early twenties, the strong-handed, round-figured kind that inn work produced, her dress the inn uniform and her expression the expression of a woman managing an inconvenient situation with rapidly depleting patience.

The man who had created the inconvenient situation:

A traveler. Seated at the third table from the left. The prosperous middle kind — good boots, decent coat, the flush of a man who had been drinking since before Viktor entered and had arrived at the stage where his hands were making decisions his head hadn’t fully approved.

Both hands.

One on the glass he’d knocked.

One on the serving woman’s chest.

The full, committed, open-palm grip of a man who had decided that the roundness of her was a relevant consideration and was acting on that decision in public with the cheerful confidence of someone who had done this before and had received no meaningful consequences.

”Ahh, shit—” He grinned at her. The unself-conscious grin of a drunk who had found something funny about his own behavior.

”You really got big tits, girl. Big, proper—” He squeezed. ”I want to drink from them.”