The breeding continues

The days that follow are a blur of primal indulgence and quiet domestic subversion. You treate the small cottage as a hidden palace, and Greta as your personal garden. Each night, and often in the stolen hours of the afternoon while the boy played in the dirt outside, you return to tend to garden. You plough her with a relentless hunger, driven by the knowledge that you are planting your seeds into her fertile womb, knowing that it would bloom. It's different than what you have with your wife. Your bastards wouldn't know their through lineage, and their conceptions were simply results of lusts and irresponsiblity. Even now, each time you found your release, you made sure to bury yourself deep, watering her fertile soil with an abundance of seed until she was slick and heavy with the evidence of your stay.

On the final morning, as your men wait with the horses at the edge of the village, you stand in the center of the humble room. You pull a heavy leather purse from your belt, the gold inside clinking with a weight that could buy the entire village several times over. You set it firmly on the wooden table.

"For the children," you stated, your voice low and undisputed. "For the one who bears my likeness, and for the one you will surely be carrying by the time the moon turns full again. See that they are fed, clothed, and educated. If your husband asks where the gold came from, tell him a traveler paid well for the finest hospitality in the kingdom."

Greta look at the purse, then up at you, her expression softening from wanton playfulness to genuine gratitude. She knows this gold ensured her security and the future of your bastards. She step forward, pressing her body against yours one last time, her hands resting on your chest. "They will know not know that their father is looking after them, but they will feel it. And, any time you're here, you can till my garden and sow it with fresh seeds."

As you mount your horse and look back, you see her standing in the doorway, the young boy at her side and her hand resting protectively over her stomach, a garden freshly planted and well-tended.