Chapter 47
After so long, Carlos’s shaft showed no signs of wilting as he moved inside his mother. She took his seed again and again, swallowed it down as she drowned in an abyss of pleasure.
She couldn’t have said how many peaks she reached. When Brunhilde, utterly spent, went limp and could only gasp for air, Carlos released once more into her c**t, his body trembling.
Letting out a languid, drawn-out sigh, he straightened his elbows. Trapping his mother’s head between his arms, his voice cut through his ragged breath.
“About Emily… once the child is born, I plan to send her away from the family.”
“Very well. Do as you wish.”
“And after that… since I’ll already have an heir, I don’t intend to take another wife.”
Holding her face gently in both hands, Carlos looked at her with pleading eyes, as though asking for permission.
She had always been weak to that look and this time was no different.
“Do as you wish.”
A faint, slow smile spread across his face. He lowered his head and kissed her lips, his expression filled with quiet happiness.
“My love belongs only to you, Mother.”
“…Yes.”
“Before, now, and always.”
She no longer had the right or the strength to push him away.
Watching her son as he spoke so fervently, she reached up and pulled him into an embrace.
If this is what you want… then so be it.
A dull, reddish glow flickered across the dark ceiling. Staring into the murky shadows, she slowly closed her eyes.
* * *
A few months later, Emily gave birth.
Like most children of House Brant, it was a healthy boy.
It should have been a joyous occasion that stirred the entire household, but a heavy gloom hung over the duke’s estate.
Emily had died after a grueling labor. Her funeral was held quietly.
As Brunhilde laid flowers at her daughter-in-law’s grave, a complicated expression crossed her face.
Emily, who had known the truth of her relationship with her son and resorted to such cruel schemes, was someone she resented deeply. And yet, now that she had died in childbirth, there was pity as well.
If she gathered all her feelings for Emily and weighed them, what remained was only a faint trace of sympathy.
In the end, raising the child became Brunhilde’s responsibility.
She cared for the baby with devotion, holding him close, nurturing him as though he were her own. In truth, she had already begun to think of him that way.
After all, her own pregnancy and Emily’s had differed by no more than two months. Had her own child lived, he would have been just slightly older than this one.
When she thought of that, his plump cheeks and bright olive eyes became unbearably precious to her. She cherished the child so much that, at times, Carlos even grew jealous.
“Sometimes it feels like you’ve been taken from me by the baby, Mother.”
“I love him this much because he’s your child.”
When she answered with a gentle smile, he would return it, resigned but affectionate.
It was a peaceful, warm stretch of time—as if no hardship had ever existed.
* * *
Two months passed after the child’s birth.
That late autumn, on the brink of winter, was unusually cold. The winds were harsh, and the wet nurse who cared for the child fell seriously ill.
Brunhilde ordered her to rest and had porridge prepared instead.
Meanwhile, the hungry baby smacked his lips, searching for milk. He babbled restlessly, then began to cry.
As she tried to soothe him, heart aching, his tiny hand wandered up to her chest and clutched at her clothing.
Her heart jolted. Brunhilde swallowed hard.
“Waaah… waaah!”
The baby cried again, pressing closer against her as if drawn by the scent of milk.
Something indescribable surged inside her. As if entranced, she loosened the front of her dress and bared her b****t.
“Mmm!”
The baby latched on eagerly, as though he had been waiting. The moment she supported his head, he opened his mouth and began to suckle.
A shiver ran down her spine. She stared down at him with trembling eyes.
A fullness beyond words swelled inside her chest. Each time his small, soft lips moved, her eyes grew wetter.
Ah… yes. The truth was, she had always wanted to nurse a baby. Something she had never been able to do for her own baby.
Overwhelmed, she held him closer.
And at that moment, the door opened.
Startled, she jerked her head up. Carlos stood there, his expression cold.
“…Carl? What brings you here at this hour…?”
Before she could even finish the question, his hand shot out and snatched the baby from her arms.
Holding the child carelessly, he stared at her.
“Why are you breastfeeding him, Mother?”
“The wet nurse is ill, so I—”
“Then he can be fed porridge. There’s no reason for him to take your milk.”
She didn’t understand why he was so angry.
Frowning slightly in confusion, she glanced at the baby, who had begun to cry again. His face crumpled in distress after being pulled away.
“Give him back to me for now. Just this once—I won’t do it again…”
“Mother.”
The son’s voice as he called was cold and flat. Without another word, he set the baby down roughly into the cradle.
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