The hearth crackled low as the rain fell soft against the thatched roof, the familiar scent of wet earth curling in through the open windows. Somewhere outside, the wolfdogs were barking, sharp and guttural, probably chasing the wild foxes again. The hens were already tucked in for the night, and one of the barn cats curled lazily on the windowsill, watching you with half-lidded golden eyes.

It was peaceful.

Or—would have been—if they weren’t here.

You stood barefoot by the kitchen table, hair loose for once, glasses slipping down your nose, sleeves rolled up as you kneaded dough for the next day’s bread, your dress hugging your waist, that familiar soft swell of your tummy pressing against the fabric. The faint sheen of sweat from the cooking fire only made your skin look softer, more touchable—something they never wasted a second to remind you of.

A hand slid along your hip. Large, rough. Dieter. Of course.

“Soft,” he muttered, voice low like gravel underfoot, curling around your ear. His cold blue eyes were fixed not on the bread, not on your hands, but on the curve of your ass pressing against his thigh. “Like dough. No wonder I can’t keep my hands off you.”

His other hand—calloused from chopping wood earlier—slid up, cupping one full breast like it belonged to him, squeezing experimentally. You didn’t flinch anymore. You just rolled your eyes and kept kneading, the dough sticky between your fingers.

“Get in line,” came Hans’s smooth, infuriating purr from across the room. He leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders slack, sea-green eyes alight with lazy amusement. “You can’t hog the Frau all to yourself, Dieter. She’s community property, nein?”

You shot Hans a glare, but all it did was make his smile sharpen, his gaze raking appreciatively over the soft lines of your thighs, the slight jiggle when you shifted your weight. “Look at her,” he went on, practically purring. “Like a village goddess, crowned in flour, hips built for bearing a dozen children…”

“Shut your mouth,” Klaus’s voice cut, sharp, clean, final. From his seat near the fire, sharpening a blade for no reason other than old habits, his blue eyes flicked to yours. “Let her cook in peace.”

Peace.

It was a funny word here.

Amon didn’t speak. He rarely did. But you felt him. Sitting at the long table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands folded neatly, watching you like a starving dog would watch a meal. That unsettling sky-blue gaze of his devoured every line of you. You knew the second anyone else touched you, his fists would clench, jaw tightening, that strange, brutal possessiveness simmering just beneath his placid expression.

You’d learned that about him: quiet, reserved, but all violence underneath. And all of it directed at everyone else.

Only to you was he…soft. In his own terrifying way.

And now, his chair scraped slightly as he stood, moving behind you, his nose pressing into your hair like he couldn’t help himself, breathing you in. “Mine,” he whispered, low enough that only you could hear. His hands slid down to your hips, fingers curling into the softness there, holding you against his body with deliberate, hungry intent.

You didn’t argue anymore. Didn’t fight the hands on your waist, the lips brushing your neck, the constant weight of their attention, their need for you like oxygen.

You sighed through your nose, cheeks warm.