At first she remembered it as a little sapling. Mother had got it from Uncle Tom and planted it in the garden with Swan.

Even after planting it, Swan waited eagerly each year for the plum to grow, craning her neck in anticipation. But when the sapling finally produced plums, they were sour and slightly sweet. When Swan pouted in disappointment, her mother explained that the tree was too young to produce proper plums.

“Let’s wait for the tree to grow up.”

Mother died before the tree did. But she promised to become a spirit so that the tree could grow and bear sweet plums. Even in her feverish state, coughing and weak, Swan never forgot the gentle touch of Mother’s hands soothing her.

When Mother died and closed her eyes for the last time, Swan and Tom cremated her. They buried her ashes under the tree. Mother’s soul had become a spirit.

“The women of the Ropennin family, with their green eyes, become ghosts when they die.”

Swan whispered, her eyes fixed on the Marquis, who couldn’t bring himself to touch the tree, tracing it with his eyes instead.

Maximilian watched his daughter intently. Seeing her now, she looked even more like Petunia. Or perhaps it was the smile she wore – a smile that reminded him of Petunia. The angle of her eyes when she smiled, the way she walked, her innocent laugh…

His daughter begged forgiveness from the man who had betrayed him. The man, who had lost his father to a knight as a child, thought of nobles as the Grim Reaper incarnate.

He had also covered up Petunia’s grave and hidden his daughter in the belief that the Ropennin family, as descendants of runaway serfs, might be hunted down.

When Maximilian stayed at the cottage, Tom was on military duty at the lord’s castle and didn’t know his face. He had mistakenly assumed that Maximilian was there to arrest Swan. It was foolish, but it was for Swan’s sake. That was why Swan couldn’t bring herself to hate Tom.

“Grandmother became the spirit of the herbs, and Mother became the spirit of the plum tree. So…”

Swan hesitated as she spoke. Maximilian watched his daughter in silence. She had become so strong and resilient. She had cultivated life as well as love.

He had found a man braver than himself, had a lovely child, and… she said it was all right. She believed it was because her mother, who had become a ghost, was watching over them. Maximilian couldn’t help but love his daughter.

“May I hug you?”

Maximilian asked, interrupting Swan as she searched for her next words. 

“Just once will do.”

“Ah…”

“Although Your Majesty the Empress is no longer a child, I have never held my own child…”

Swan looked at her father. Golden hair. A wrinkled forehead and a neatly trimmed moustache. Piercing blue eyes. A man who had never held a child of his own. Someone who had longed for a child, but had never been blessed with one. Swan was no different.

“Yes…”

She bit her lower lip quietly as her father took a step closer. His long arms wrapped around her in a hug. She closed her eyes as if to protect herself from an unbearable weight of emotion. She had decided not to cry anymore, but she felt the tears welling up again. Her father’s hand ran gently down her back.

“If it had been a boy, he would have been called Ian. If it was a girl, Swan. Those were the names.”

The soft whisper broke her composure and tears began to fall.

—

Rough fingertips traced around the n*pple before gently scratching at it. Swan’s eyebrows knitted together as her body responded to the sensation. Watching her furrowed brow, the man curled the corners of his lips into a low, satisfied chuckle.

His large hand gently massaged her darkened br*asts – evidence of having nursed two boys – before pinching her n*pple. Finally, Swan opened her eyes. Atillion’s broad frame towered over her slender body, covering her completely.

As Swan lay on her side, he leaned in to find her lips, tilting his head as if searching. Swan turned her head slightly to look at him. His dishevelled black hair fell across his forehead, but his face remained undeniably handsome. Below his dark, pronounced eyebrows, his blue eyes shone and caught her attention. Gently, Swan reached out and began to trace the bridge of his prominent nose with her fingertips.

Atlion felt her touch and leaned forward to kiss her. Her plump lips were as sweet and tender as ripe fruit. His pointed tongue slid into her mouth, scraping gently as if to collect her saliva. Swan gasped and let out a soft nasal whimper. His pale eyes gleamed with a flicker of desire.

Swan grasped the collar of the robe that covered his chest, her eyes dropping to the hard p*nis beneath. How long had it been since she had last taken it in her mouth? At least half a year, perhaps more. When he realised what her downcast eyes were fixed on, Atlion’s body stiffened with carnal tension.

Swan subtly swayed her hips so that the not-yet-*rect p*nis brushed against the cleft of her b*ttocks. She moved her waist in small, deliberate motions, letting him brush against her perineum, teasing him with her movements. A fierce curse spilled from Atlion’s handsome lips, laden with raw frustration and desire.

Swan listened as if she were savouring a melody, her face glowing with quiet delight as she watched Atlion lift her skirt. The delicate silk nightgown slid up under his large hands, revealing her pale, flawless curves. His expression became ravenous, like someone presented with an irresistible fruit.

“Are you sure it’s all right?”

She held his gaze steadily and nodded. It had been a difficult pregnancy – much more so than with Mirabella. As her term progressed, she often fell ill, leaving Atlion visibly shaken each time the royal physician was summoned. No matter how many times she reassured him that she was well, his fear remained evident.

His expression was often pained, as if he wished he could rip the child from her womb to end her suffering. She would reach up and stroke his face – which resembled that of a grieving child – and offer him a faint smile, trying to comfort him.

It was during one such visit from the doctor that they learned that Swan was carrying not one, but two children. Swan’s eyes widened in surprise before breaking into a beaming smile. Atlion, however, looked worried and overwhelmed, his face darkening as the reality sank in. Who could blame him? Swan was already pale and weak, struggling with just one child, and now she was carrying twins.

“Whether the child to be born is a boy or a girl, this will be the last time I allow you to become pregnant.”

Atlion had repeatedly sworn this. Swan, however, felt differently. Were it not for her health, she might have wanted more children. But Atlion remained resolute.

Perhaps he was haunted by the memory of Swan’s miscarriage during their time apart, followed by the illness that had weakened her for so long. He blamed himself for her pain, overwhelmed with guilt, as if it had all been his doing.

But she didn’t want to dwell on the past. In fact, she never wanted to dredge up those memories again. Who was to blame? Who should apologise? None of that mattered to her anymore. All she wanted was to feel happy, to feel complete.

“It itches,”

Atlion waited for Swan’s permission, like a dog obediently awaiting its master’s command before jumping at a treat. A well-trained dog… Had she tamed him? The once arrogant, unyielding man now looked at her, completely under her control.

“My… my hole. It itches, Your Majesty. So please…”

His lips devoured hers. Her mouth, already tingling from the thick tongue that had slid in and out earlier, welcomed the return of that part of him. Swan wrapped her arms around his neck, tilting her head back slightly as she parted her legs. The thick, veined p*nis was prominently displayed, like a long, sturdy pole.

The slick, sticky entrance, wet with her essence, enveloped him, drawing him in without greed. It was hard to remember how long it had been since their last union. Since she had conceived the twins, Atlion hadn’t even touched her. The woman before him seemed as delicate as a fragile glass figure, ready to shatter at any moment.

It was very different from when she was pregnant with Mirabella. Then, even with her swollen belly, she had accepted him. It had happened many times. Wanting to hold him that way, Swan had endured the discomfort of her rounded belly and somehow managed to take him. And now…

“Ahh!”

He wasn’t completely inside yet. Even without full penetration, he felt overwhelmingly full, as if he were. Perhaps it was because it had been so long since they had last made love.

There was a time when she played with it as if it were her toy. At that time, even Atlion had laughed and said about his p*nis: “It’s the Empress’s toy, isn’t it?” A toy only she could have. A possession only she could use. The affectionate expression had filled her with warmth and made her blush with joy.

The inability to share intimacy had, in truth, left her somewhat disappointed. It wasn’t the act itself that she missed, but the intertwined breaths, the playful exchange of jokes and the light-hearted bickering that went with it. 

Each time she clung to him in breathless anticipation, her gaze would inevitably fall upon Atlion’s strikingly beautiful eyes. Those sapphire-like orbs, crafted as if by a master craftsman, were breathtakingly mesmerising. As always, she clung to his neck, her eyes locked with his, basking in their beauty.

Her soft, rounded br*asts pressed against his broad, muscular chest, rising and falling with her rapid breaths. The full, tender mounds, swollen from nursing her two sons, leaked pale milk that trickled freely. 

Atlion cupped her br*ast in his palm, smearing the milk over her soft skin as he kneaded it. His firm grip teased the tender n*pple and he pushed the rest of himself deeper into her. 

Swan’s hips gave a slight, instinctive turn. 

“Ahh… Hnn…” 

“So sweet.”

He licked the milk that ran down her cleavage, whispering softly as her cheeks turned a deep crimson. Reflexively, Swan pressed against his head, her eyes locked with his. 

His towering, sturdy body resembled an unyielding mass of stone. Every time she looked at him, it was an awe-inspiring sight – a man who seemed sculpted for the sole purpose of embodying masculine beauty. As her fingers traced the seamless curves of his musculature, she felt as if she were holding a statue carved to perfection, its cold, immaculate surface refusing to fully warm to her touch. 

“Ahh-!” 

Atlion’s hands gripped her tight b*ttocks and spread them apart before he began his movements. Each thrust echoed with the sound of their bodies meeting, unrestrained and relentless. The force of his movements left her lips unable to close properly, parted with soft gasps and moans. 

His fingers pressed against her lips, parting them further as he leaned closer, his voice a low growl. 

“Don’t hold back. Let me hear you.”

A broken voice echoed in her ears as the fluid in the pulsating orifice began to churn audibly. Moisture and viscous liquid spurted out, and white fluid seeped into the strands of her p*bic hair. Overwhelmed by the intense, tingling sensation, Swan arched her back completely, her head falling back in response.

“Ah, ah haah!”

The hand that had spread her b*ttocks moved to pinch her n*pple, sending cloudy milk spurting in all directions. Atlion watched with satisfaction before leaning in to suckle the n*pple. Shocked by his bold action, Swan grabbed his hair. The gesture seemed to excite Atlion even more as his thrusts became even harder. She was overwhelmed, her mind spinning as he moved with the fervour of a dog in heat.