100x Rebate Sharing System: Retired Incubus Wants to Marry & Have Kids

Chapter 739: Chapter 738- Viktor’s Mansion and Dwarven Woman

The walls, stone and once-fine, were stained. The gate, iron and once-ornate, was rusted. The garden, visible through the bars, was overgrown. The windows, tall and arched, were dirty. The roof, slate and once-solid, had missing tiles.

Viktor chuckled. The sound, low and amused, was genuine. The ’they-really-did-not-fund-this-place’ amusement that was also recognition.

He recalled the reports. The funding, the allowance that was supposed to maintain the capital mansion, was minimal. The Count, his father, had allocated barely enough to keep the roof on. And even that minimal funding, routed through the Heartfield administration, was stolen. Siphoned. The bureaucrats, the nobles, the people who were supposed to oversee the maintenance, had pocketed the difference.

The proof was before him. The mansion, which should have been a jewel in the capital’s crown, was a tarnished brass button.

The carriage halted. The driver, a hired man who knew nothing of his passenger’s identity, opened the door. Viktor stepped out. His boots, black leather, hit the cobblestone. His bag, slung over his shoulder, was the only luggage. The ’traveling-light’ practicality of a man who did not need much.

The gate, unlocked, creaked when he pushed it. The hinge, rusted, protested. The sound, the metallic groan, echoed in the quiet street.

He walked. Up the path. Through the overgrown garden. Past the dead fountain. To the front door. The wood, once-polished, was weathered. The handle, brass and once-shiny, was dull.

The door opened before he could reach for it.

A woman burst through. Short. Four feet. Maybe less. A dwarf. Her body, disproportionate in the way of her race, was thick. Her hips, wide and round, strained the fabric of her maid’s uniform. Her breasts, massive on her small frame, threatened the buttons of her blouse with each movement. Her ass, the kind that belonged on a fertility statue, swayed behind her as she ran.

She was running. Toward him. Her pink hair, bright and incongruous, streamed behind her. Her face, round and flushed, was eager. Her feet, bare on the stone, slapped the path.

Behind her, emerging more sedately, a butler. Also a dwarf. His height, barely taller than the woman, was stocky. His suit, formal but worn, was clean. His beard, braided and grey, was neat. His one eye, the other covered by a patch, was sharp.

Behind him, emerging from the garden, a third figure. A gardener. Human. Old. His face, weathered and scarred, bore the evidence of a hard life. His eye, the one that remained, was milky. His hands, calloused and dirty, held pruning shears.

Three servants. Three people to maintain a Count’s mansion.

Viktor knew the truth. The official report listed twelve. Twelve servants, twelve salaries, twelve positions funded by the Redwood allowance. Nine were ghosts. Phantoms on a payroll. The money, the salaries of the nine nonexistent servants, was going somewhere.

The pink-haired dwarf maid, skidding to a halt before him, dropped into a bow. The motion, deep and formal, made her massive chest sway forward. The uniform, straining, held. Barely.

"Welcome, young master!" she said. Her voice was high. Bright. The kind of voice that was designed to please. "Young lord. We have heard about everything. And it is good that the family had still offered you a mansion."

The butler, arriving behind her, bowed. Deeper. More formal. His single eye, looking up at Viktor, held something. Not respect. Not deference. Something else. A glint. The ’we-know-how-this-works’ glint of a servant who had been running his own operation for years.

"Indeed," the butler said. His voice was deep. Gravelly. The dwarven resonance that came from a chest cavity designed for underground acoustics. "Welcome home, young lord."

The tone. The ’welcome-home’ that was not a welcome. The ’we-have-heard-about-everything’ that was not congratulations. The ’it-is-good-that-the-family-had-still-offered-you-a-mansion’ that was a taunt wrapped in politeness.

Viktor heard it. The subtext. The ’you-are-a-disinherited-son-and-this-is-what-you-get’ mockery that these slaves, these purchased people who had been given freedom by his kind father, were directing at the son of their master.

The ’they-are-going-on-my-nerve’ recognition that was also the ’I-know-exactly-what-you-are’ assessment.

In the capital city, races other than human were sold as slaves. A practice that the kingdom had maintained for centuries. Some noble houses purchased them. Assigned them to work. Treated them as property. His father, Count Redwood, had been kind. Had given them freedom. Had treated them as employees, not slaves.

That kindness, theoretical on paper, had not produced grateful servants. It had produced this. Three servants, out of twelve, living in a rundown mansion, embezzling the difference. The proof was in the maid’s clean uniform. The butler’s well-fed belly. The garden’s overgrown state, the maintenance neglected while the money disappeared.

Viktor smiled. The expression was small. Knowing. The ’I-see-exactly-what-you-are’ smile that was not warm.

"Where are the others?" he asked. The question was rhetorical. He knew the answer.

The maid, straightening from her bow, tilted her head. The pink hair, catching the morning light, was almost pretty. "Others, young lord? It is only us three. The gardener, the butler, and myself."

"Three," Viktor repeated. The word was flat. "Out of twelve."

The maid’s smile, bright and practiced, did not waver. The ’I-do-not-know-what-you-mean’ performance that was so transparent it was almost insulting.

"Please, young lord," she said, gesturing. "This way. Let me show you to your room."

She turned. The movement, the pivot on her small feet, made her ass sway. The uniform, tight across her hips, rode up slightly. The motion was not intentional. It was the natural movement of a dwarf woman with a body that was built for proportion, not for human clothing.

She gestured to the butler. A flick of her wrist. The ’handle-the-luggage’ signal that was also the ’I-am-in-charge-here’ assertion.

Viktor, his bag still on his shoulder, smiled wider. The ’she-is-giving-orders-to-the-butler-in-front-of-the-new-master’ audacity that was both bold and foolish.

"By the way," he said, walking behind her, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the swaying hips ahead of him, "what is your name?"

The maid glanced back. Her green eyes, bright and intelligent, found his. "Meg, young lord. And the butler is my husband. Dorin."

Viktor blinked. The ’husband-and-wife’ information made him pause. Not surprised. Pleased. The ’a-couple’ fact that was useful. A couple was easier to control than two individuals. Leverage on one was leverage on both.

"By the way," he said, his voice casual, "what is your age?"

Meg’s round face softened. The question, the ’a-woman-never-reveals-her-age’ question, was answered without hesitation. "Thirty-three, young lord."

"You look young for that," Viktor said.

Meg’s smile, genuine for the first time, was small. The ’yes-it-is-like-that’ acceptance of a dwarf woman who knew she looked younger than her years. "Yes, it is like that."

They arrived at the room. The master bedroom. The bed, large and four-postered, was dusty but intact. The sheets, clean but worn, were thin. The furniture, old but solid, was scarred. The window, facing the overgrown garden, let in afternoon light.

Viktor sat. On the bed. The mattress, old and soft, sagged. He looked at the maid. At the butler, who had deposited a small case by the door.

"I will take a nap," he said. His voice was flat. Commanding. The ’I-am-done-talking’ dismissal. "Prepare bath after I wake up. Go now."