Chapter 39- Misery of an Old Lady

Hana’s thick body stumbled backward, her arms flailing uselessly for balance she couldn’t find.

She hit the mattress hard, her weight making the springs creak and groan beneath her. She bounced once, twice, her heavy breasts jiggling under her dress with the impact as she landed in a sprawled, undignified heap.

The bed was ’soft’.

So much softer than the thin, worn mattress in her own home that had lost its padding years ago and left her back aching every morning.

And that realization—that even a ’stranger’s’ bed was more comfortable than her own—made something twist painfully in her chest.

Made her feel even more pathetic than she already did.

Hana pushed herself up on her elbows, her breathing coming in short, panicked gasps that made her chest heave.

Her eyes darted around the room again, unable to stop themselves from landing on the drawings.

So many sex positions. So many different ways bodies could connect and join and ’fuck’.

Women bent over with their thick asses in the air. Women on their backs with legs spread wide. Women on their knees with mouths open and eager.

Heat continued to flood Hana’s face as she stared at them, something hot and confusing churning in her stomach.

’Why am I looking at these?’ she thought desperately. ’Why can’t I look away?’

Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, eyes widening in shock and... something else.

Something warm and shameful that made her pussy clench involuntarily, made her thighs press together harder as if she could squeeze away the unwanted arousal.

"Is this... is this your room?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, almost hoping the answer would be yes because at least that would make some kind of sense.

Raven was across the room now, standing at a cluttered desk covered in scattered art supplies—pencils, erasers, half-finished sketches, crumpled balls of paper that had been thrown and missed the trash can.

He picked up an envelope from the desk, turning it over in his hands with a knowing smile that made Hana’s stomach drop.

"No," he said simply, his voice carrying easily across the small space. "It’s not mine."

Hana’s entire body went cold despite the heat still burning in her core.

"It’s not...?"

"Belongs to a woman I know."

The words hit her like a physical blow.

Understanding crashed over her in a wave of ice-cold realization.

This wasn’t his apartment. This was ’someone else’s’ home. Another woman’s private space.

Someone who clearly wouldn’t be happy to find strangers here—especially a strange woman in her bed.

"I—I should leave," Hana stammered, already starting to push herself off the mattress with trembling arms. "I shouldn’t be here. This is wrong. If she comes back and finds me—finds ’us’—"

"Where will you go?"

Raven’s voice cut through her rising panic like a knife through silk.

Sharp. Clean. Absolute.

He turned to face her fully, and the dim lamplight cast shadows across his features that made him look older somehow. Darker. More dangerous than the beautiful boy who’d saved her.

"Back to that husband?"

The word hung in the air between them.

’Husband.’

Heavy. Suffocating. Impossible.

Images flashed through Hana’s mind like a slideshow she couldn’t stop—

Her husband’s face, twisted and purple with rage and pain.

The unnatural angle of his shattered leg, bone visible through torn flesh.

The way his eyes had bulged as his face turned from purple to blue.

The terrible stillness when he’d finally stopped twitching.

Dead.

He was ’dead’.

And she was here. In a stranger’s apartment. With a man—a ’boy’—who’d killed for her without a moment’s hesitation, who’d kicked down a door like it was made of paper and shattered a human leg like it was nothing.

Hana’s hands trembled violently as she looked at Raven, fresh tears welling up in her already-swollen eyes.

In the dim light of the room, his face looked almost ethereal. Beautiful and terrible all at once, like some fallen angel who’d decided to take an interest in her pathetic life.

She shook her head slowly, the movement jerky and uncertain.

"I... I can’t go back," she whispered, the words tasting like ash and blood. "There’s nothing to go back to. He’s... he’s..."

She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t form the word ’dead’ on her lips.

The shock, the adrenaline, the surreal impossibility of ’teleporting’ across the city in an instant—all of it faded into background noise as the ’reality’ of her situation crashed down on her like a collapsing building.

She was homeless. Widowed. Drowning in eighty thousand koruna of debt to loan sharks who wouldn’t care that her husband was dead.

She had ’nothing’.

No home. No family. No future.

Just this moment, in this strange room, with this impossibly beautiful man who looked at her like she was something worth saving.

Raven’s expression didn’t change. No sympathy. No pity. Just that same calm, assessing look.

"Then strip."

Hana’s breath caught in her throat. "What?"

"Remove your clothes," he said, his tone as casual as if he were asking her to pass the salt. "Let me see your body."

"I—I can’t—" Hana’s hands flew to clutch at the fabric of her cardigan, pulling it tighter around herself protectively. "It’s ’embarrassing’—I can’t—how can I—"

"Strip. Now, Hana."

The use of her name made her entire body flinch.

Made it ’real’.

"I want to fuck you."

The words were blunt. Crude. Delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone someone might use to say they wanted coffee.

And they made Hana’s entire body ’tremble’.

Not from fear—though there was fear there, coiled tight in her chest.

But from something else.

Something that made heat pool low in her belly despite everything. Despite the horror of the night, despite her confusion and grief and shock and the knowledge that her husband’s corpse was cooling on their living room floor.

Because Raven was ’handsome’.

Not just attractive. Not just good-looking.

’Beautiful’.

The most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life, like something out of a movie or a dream or one of those romance novels her daughter used to read.

Sharp jawline. Dark, intense eyes. That lean, powerful body that moved with predatory grace.

But she was ’old’. Forty-six years old with a body that showed every year of it.

Thick. Soft. Her belly marked with stretch marks from pregnancy. Her breasts sagging from gravity and breastfeeding and time.

Her thighs were heavy, rubbing together when she walked. Her ass was too big, jiggling with every step.

How could he possibly want to—

Her hands moved anyway.

Slowly. Hesitantly. Trembling so badly she could barely grip the fabric.

She pulled the cream cardigan off first, her movements mechanical and jerky. It slipped off her shoulders and fell to the floor in a crumpled heap.

Then her floral dress.

Her fingers fumbled with the side zipper, struggling with the mechanism because her hands were shaking too badly to get a proper grip.

Finally it gave way. She pushed the dress down over her wide hips, letting it pool around her feet before stepping out of it.

She stood there in her underwear.

Plain white cotton panties that had gone slightly gray from too many washes in cheap detergent. A simple beige bra that was more functional than attractive, the kind sold in discount stores in multipacks.

Her thick thighs pressed together, soft flesh bulging slightly. Her soft stomach was visible now, the gentle pouch of maternal weight she’d never lost.

Her arms crossed over her chest instinctively, trying desperately to hide herself.

"I—I’m not—" Her voice cracked, tears streaming faster now. "I’m not beautiful. My body is—I’m old and fat and—"

"Keep going."