Part 3: The Legacy

The Ember's Claim - Part 3: The Legacy

Act 1: The Seed Takes Root

A year's passed since the cabin, and we're caged in this rotting house--paint peels like dead skin, floors sag, a fresh snare. My body's reshaped: breasts heavier, hips flared, a scar etched across my belly from birthing her--Anya, three months old, asleep in a crib by the stove, fists curled, my dark hair framing your blue eyes.

I'm in the kitchen, slicing carrots with a dull blade, cotton dress clinging--no bra, peaks pressing through, my form swaying despite my locked jaw. You're behind me--ever-present--shirtless, jeans low, your shaft stirring, drawn to my nearness. "She's quiet today," you growl, voice like gravel, stepping in close.

Your hands slip under my dress, tracing my thighs, finding bare flesh--no panties, just my core, taut despite her passage. I freeze, knife poised, breath snagging.

"Don't wake her," I snap, accent thick, eyes boring into the counter. You ignore me, fingers grazing my folds--dry, then yielding, a damp seep under your touch.

"Always ripe," you mutter, pressing your rigid length against my ass through denim. I slam the knife down, hands seizing the edge, a spark flaring low that I curse. "Get off," I hiss, twisting, elbow aimed at your ribs, but you clamp my hips, pinning me to the counter's lip.

"Keep squirming," you growl, unzipping fast, tip nudging my entrance--hot, unyielding. I shove back, nails raking your arm, but you thrust in--deep, sudden, splitting me open. My breasts jolt under the dress, brushing rough wood; I bite my lip, silencing a grunt. You pound hard, hands bruising my hips, the wet slap loud in stale air.

"Tikhiy!" I hiss--Russian for quiet, voice a blade--but you grunt, driving faster, your pulse swelling, my walls tightening against my will. Anya whimpers next door; I curse--"Blyad!"--but you don't relent, burying deep until you spill, hot and thick, flooding me. I quake, legs unsteady, your stain trailing down as you pull out, panting.

"Took it like you should," you mutter, zipping up, smirking. I grab a rag, wiping myself, glaring as Anya's cries cut sharper. I'll outlast you yet, I vow silently, hate a thick fog. You saunter to her, casually, while I stand--shaken, plotting, caged.

Act 2: The Years Burn By

Five years fade--Anya's six, a fierce wisp with my unyielding spark and your piercing blue stare, chasing a frayed doll across the dusty yard of this weathered shack, a cracked roof over dirt floor. I'm on the porch, shoulders slumped, tank top stretched tight over fuller breasts, faint outlines showing, shorts high and frayed.

Time's worn me--still pale, still defiant, but tempered by her, eroded by you. You're under the truck, shirtless, sweat glazing your broad back, muscles flexing as you turn a wrench. Your jeans cling, grimy, length half-hard; I look away, jaw set, a prickle crawling my skin.

"Mama!" Anya calls, bounding up, dirt-smudged, grinning--your grin. I pull her onto my lap, her warmth steadying me; you watch, eyes dark, hungry. "She's growing fast," you mutter, wiping oil on your thigh, closing in. I nod, stiff, as she slips free and dashes off.

Your hands seize my waist, hauling me against you--your shaft presses, stiff through denim. "Not here," I snap, venom lacing the words, shoving your chest, but you tug my shorts down just enough, bending me over the rail. My tank rides up, breasts spilling free, peaks hardening in warm air.

"Still perfect," you mutter, freeing yourself--thick, leaking, veins stark--easing into me slowly, relishing my taut core. I clutch the rail, ass raised, folds yielding despite my scowl; you thrust deep, rocking me forward. Anya's giggles echo from the yard, blind to us.

I loathe how my flesh bends--your hands lock my hips, stretching me raw. "Hurry," I hiss, a crack under strain, not want; you grin, slamming harder, my breasts swaying wild. You spill fast, grunting, flooding me; I tighten, choking a sound, your mess dripping onto cracked wood.

I straighten, yanking my shorts up, glaring. "She'll see one day," I mutter, pulse racing. You shrug, wiping yourself on your jeans. "Won't change a thing," you mutter, voice coarse; I turn away, chest constricting, the snare tightening around us all.

Act 3: The Reckoning

Anya's eighteen--a storm-carved lean, my pale skin stretched over your dark, searing intensity. She's in her room, music thumping, while I'm in ours, bare on the bed, legs spread, your head buried between my thighs. Time's softened me--breasts looser, hips wider--but you feast like I'm new, tongue slashing my clit, fingers diving into my wet core.

I moan loud, raw, dark hair fanning the pillow, hips grinding your face. "Don't you stop," I gasp, teeth clenched, hate a dull ember--I've bent, molded to you over years. The door creaks--I stiffen, eyes darting. Anya stands there, framed in dim light, gaze sharp, drinking us in.

"Mama?" she cuts, voice like steel; I shove you back, snatching the sheet. You lift your head, length stiff and slick, unruffled, wiping my dampness from your chin. "Vykhod!" I bark--Russian for get out, clutching fabric to my chest--but she holds ground, eyes flicking, bold, over your shaft, my flushed skin.

My gut twists, dread threading with a darker pulse. You smirk, leaning back; I slap your shoulder, fiercely. "Don't you dare," I hiss, low, but she steps closer, barefoot, tank taut against small breasts, shorts slipping low. "I see it now," she says, edged, no innocence, locking eyes with me a beat too long.

Your length twitches; I lunge, seizing her arm. "Go," I snap, voice a whip, but she pulls free, stare darting between us--defiant, unbowed--then turns, door slamming. You grab my hips, flipping me facedown, thrusting in deep--hard, claiming, punishing. "Ours by blood," you growl, slamming into me; I claw the sheets, rage and need clashing as my core tightens round you.

You spill, flooding me, relentless; I collapse, panting, her shadow etched in my skull. She's cracked the game--a rift widening.

Epilogue

Morning light seeps through cracked blinds, tracing faint lines across worn hallway planks. I'm barefoot, padding toward coffee, when I catch it--a sharp, hitched breath from Anya's room. The door's ajar, a sliver open; I halt, peering through.

She's sprawled on her bed, sheets knotted at her knees, hand thrust down unbuttoned shorts. Her fingers work fast, urgent, pale thighs quaking as she arches. Those blue eyes--yours--half-shut, lost, a low "Fuck" slipping from her lips.

My tank sticks, sweat beading my skin; I'm rooted--chest tight, watching her chase that brink. Her breath snags, a hissed "Yes," and she cums, hips jerking, fingers easing as she rides it out. I freeze, breath held, disgust and heat warring--a mirror I'll never break.

I step back, silent, heart thudding, then turn away, jaw locked, her fire searing my mind.