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

Chapter 580: Chapter 579- Best Cook in Town

The maid behind him—Helviana—gave a small, correct dip of her skirt. Her eyes were warm, but they moved to Dara with a particular, knowing softness.

Naro looked at the maid.

Then at Dara.

Then at Helviana.

”I saw you,” Naro said slowly. Her gaze fixed on Helviana. ”This morning. Talking with my girl. My Dara.”

Helviana did not flinch.

But something in her eyes—something brief, a flicker of acknowledgment—told Naro that the observation had landed.

”Yes,” Helviana said. Her voice was warm, steady, the voice of a woman who had decided to be honest. ”I had become a good friend with her. That is why I told my lord to save her.”

Naro absorbed this.

Her broad chest rose and fell under her blouse. The rage that had been building—the murderous, protective, maternal rage—met something else. Gratitude. The uncomfortable, reluctant, still-warm gratitude of a woman who had been ready to kill and had instead been given a reason not to.

She looked at Viktor.

At the violet eyes.

At the slender, unassuming frame that did not look like it had stopped three men behind a stable.

”You saved her,” Naro said. Not a question.

”I was passing,” Viktor said. The mild, unremarkable tone of a man describing the weather. ”It seemed like the right moment to intervene.”

Naro’s jaw worked.

She stepped back from the door, pulling Dara with her.

”Come inside,” she said. ”All of you.”

### The Common Room — Firelight

The common room was dark except for the embers in the hearth.

Naro moved through it with the practiced efficiency of a woman who knew her own space blindfolded. She pulled a chair from a table, set it upright, and gestured toward it with a broad hand.

”Sit,” she said to Viktor. Then, to Dara and Helviana: ”You two. The bench by the fire.”

Dara went, still shaking. Helviana followed, her hand finding Dara’s shoulder—a light, reassuring touch.

Naro stood in the center of the room, her heavy hips squared, her arms crossed under her substantial breasts. She looked at Viktor.

”I can’t offer much,” she said. ”The kitchen’s closed. The rooms are full. But there’s food left. Stew. Bread. If you want it, it’s yours. As a gesture.”

Viktor sat.

He looked at her with the patient, assessing gaze of a man who was taking inventory.

”That would be more than enough,” he said. ”If I were to eat food cooked by you, Madam.”

Naro’s eyes narrowed slightly.

The sentence was ordinary. The delivery was ordinary. But something in the way he said ’cooked by you’—something in the slight pause, the particular weight on the second half—made the simple offer feel like it had been turned over and examined.

”Don’t flatter me, boy,” she said, but her voice had lost its edge. ”I cook because I have to. Not because I’m some artist.”

”Of course,” Viktor said. ”But every woman says the tongue is good.”

The words landed.

Naro blinked.

Behind her, near the fire, Dara made a small sound—a caught breath, a half-gasp. Helviana’s cheeks flushed, a warm, visible pink rising from her neck to her hairline. And the other servant—the kitchen girl who had appeared from the back stairs, drawn by the voices—stood frozen in the doorway, her face going red as she stared at Viktor.

Naro looked at the three women.

At the flush on their faces.

At the particular, shared, unmistakable quality of a reaction that came from memory rather than imagination.

She looked back at Viktor.

He was smiling.

The same small, polite smile. But something lived behind it now—something that knew exactly what it had said and exactly how it had been heard.

”You got a very good tongue, young man,” Naro said. Her voice was dry, rough, carrying the reluctant acknowledgment of a woman who had been outmaneuvered by charm and knew it.

”Of course,” Viktor said. ”This every woman says.”

The kitchen girl in the doorway made a strangled noise and fled back upstairs.

Naro shook her head.

”Stay here,” she said to the room at large. ”I’ll bring the food.”

### The Kitchen — Alone

Naro bent over the pot.

The stew was cold, but the fire was still warm. She set the iron back on the hook over the embers and stirred it with the long wooden spoon, her body leaning forward, her hips pressing back.

She did not know she was being watched.

Viktor sat at the dining table in the next room, his chair positioned at an angle that gave him a clear view through the kitchen doorway. He watched her with the unhurried, patient attention of a man who had decided to enjoy a show and had no intention of hiding it.

Her skirt had ridden up.

Not dramatically. The subtle, functional, working-woman’s ride of a skirt that had been washed too many times and had lost its stiffness, the fabric bunching at the small of her back and dipping into the deep, warm cleft of her ass. The linen was thin, worn almost translucent in places, and it clung to the heavy, rounded, completely mature flesh of her cheeks like a second skin.

Her ass was enormous.

The full, dense, shelf-like weight of a woman who had carried heavy pots and kneaded dough and stood for twenty years, the muscle thick and strong beneath the soft layer that time had deposited. The skirt had tucked itself into her crack, the fabric disappearing between the heavy globes, and the outline of her was visible—tight, unbreached, the seam of her body sealed like a woman who had never permitted entry.

Victor’s eyes tracked the twitch of her muscles.

As she stirred, her glutes flexed and released—unconscious, automatic, the small, rhythmic clenching of a woman using her legs. The motion made her cheeks tighten, the fabric pulling deeper, and then relax, the flesh settling with a soft, heavy, utterly hypnotic weight.

Sweat gleamed at the base of her spine.

A single drop, running from the dark hair at her nape, down the broad, strong plane of her back, into the valley where her skirt had disappeared. The candlelight caught it, making a warm, wet trail down her skin.

Her tits hung heavy as she leaned.

The front of her blouse—already strained—gaped slightly at the neckline, revealing the deep, warm, shadowed valley between them. The fabric was damp with the heat of the kitchen and the exertion of bending, and her nipples—large, dark, the stiffened peaks of a woman whose body still responded to warmth and movement—pressed against the cloth like fingers pointing.

Victor’s cock stirred under his trousers.

He did not touch it.

He simply watched.

Naro straightened.

She turned with the pot in her hands—heavy iron, full of stew—and carried it to the table. She set it down with a solid ’thunk’, the ladle resting across the rim. The steam rose, carrying the scent of meat and herbs and long-simmered fat.

She looked at him.

”Eat,” she said.

Victor picked up the spoon.

He took a bite.

The flavor was honest—rich, heavy, the taste of a woman who had learned to cook by feeding laborers and had never bothered with refinement. It was good in the way that a warm bed is good, the way that a strong drink is good. Uncomplicated. Satisfying.

He swallowed.

”It’s delicious,” he said.

Naro’s mouth twitched.

”Of course,” she said. ”I cook better than most in this district.”