Milf Hunter: Seducing And Taming Beauties

Chapter 930: Julie Watches the New Bride Serve

Yuko shook her head so violently that strands of hair whipped against her wet cheeks.

"No—no, I swear. I would never. Never again. I—" Her hands clenched on her thighs. "Please. I’ll do anything. Anything to prove it?"

I let the silence stretch a heartbeat longer, then spoke—voice deliberately thin, fragile, cracked at the edges from supposed exhaustion.

"Aunt Julie... please don’t blame Sister Yuko." I let my eyelids flutter, as though even speaking cost me. "It wasn’t... all her fault. I should have told her sooner. I should have explained everything from the beginning. I let her believe—I let her think—" I exhaled, shaky. "I’m at fault too."

Julie’s gaze flicked to me.

For the briefest instant—less than a second—her right eye closed in a deliberate, conspiratorial wink. Then the mask snapped back into place: protective fury, maternal outrage.

"Jack." She made my name sound like both a caress and a reprimand.

"You’re too kind. Far too kind for your own good. She’s standing here playing the victim card, batting her lashes, and you’re already making excuses for her. After what she did. After the names she called you. After she walked away and left you bleeding—literally bleeding."

She turned back to Yuko, voice dropping to something dangerously soft.

"She’s taking advantage of your heart, Jack. And you’re letting her."

I shook my head weakly against the pillow.

"Aunt Julie... please. I’ve already forgiven her."

Julie exhaled through her nose—a sharp, impatient sound.

"Hmph." She studied Yuko for a long, measuring moment. "Jack may have forgiven you, Yuko. That’s his choice. But forgiveness is not mine to give. Not yet."

She stepped closer—close enough that Yuko had to tilt her head back to meet her eyes.

"I’m allowing you to stay. You can take care of him. You can bring him water, adjust pillows, and hold his hand if he wants it. You can atone, if that’s really what this is." Julie’s voice hardened.

"But understand this very clearly: I will be watching. Every second. One hint—one single hint—that you’re anything less than gentle with him, that you raise your voice, that you make him feel small again... and I will have security here in under ninety seconds. After that, the police. And I promise you, sweetheart, I know exactly which officers to call."

Yuko’s lips trembled, but her voice came out steady—small, but fierce.

"I’ll never hurt him again. Never. Ever. I swear on everything I have left."

Julie held her gaze for another long beat.

Then, finally, she gave one curt nod.

"Fine. You stay."

Marina—who had remained silent until now—shifted her weight and crossed her arms tighter across her chest.

"Julie," she said quietly, almost under her breath, "we shouldn’t trust her. Not even a little. Look at what she already did to him."

Julie didn’t turn.

"I don’t trust her, Marina." Her eyes stayed locked on Yuko. "Not even a little. But I trust Jack. If he says he forgives her—if he wants her here—then I’ll give her enough rope." A

pause. "Not much. Just enough to see whether she hangs herself with it or actually uses it to climb back into his good graces."

She finally looked at Marina.

"Words are cheap. Tears are cheaper. Let’s see what her hands do over the next twenty-four hours."

The room fell quiet.

Not peaceful and quiet. Watchful. Electric. Four people breathing the same recycled hospital air, bound together by half-truths, guilt that may or may not be sincere, forgiveness that might be a strategy, and the unspoken agreement that—right now, in this room—power did not belong to the person wearing the hospital gown.

Yuko stayed on her knees a moment longer, head bowed. Then, very slowly, she rose. Her movements were careful, almost reverent, as though any sudden motion might shatter the fragile permission she’d just been granted.

Yuko reached for the water pitcher on the side table. The plastic handle creaked faintly under her grip. Her fingers—still unsteady from everything that had happened in the last hour—tilted the jug.

Water glugged into the glass, a few drops spilling over the rim and sliding down the outside to pool on the scratched laminate tabletop. She wiped the base absently with her thumb before holding the glass out to me.

Our eyes didn’t quite meet. Hers stayed lowered, fixed somewhere on my collarbone.

I took the glass. Deliberately slow.

Our fingertips brushed—hers cool and damp from the condensation, mine warmer. She flinched. Just barely. A tiny, involuntary twitch of her wrist, gone in half a second. But she didn’t pull away. She let the contact linger until I had a secure hold, then only then did her hand retreat.

Julie watched every millisecond of it from her perch on the edge of the visitor’s chair. Her expression was calm, almost serene, but her eyes were sharp as scalpels.

So were mine.

Julie broke the silence first. She glanced sideways at Marina, voice casual but edged with command.

"Marina, go start preparing for tomorrow. Luggage, flight confirmation, and call the driver for pickup at the airstrip. I’ll stay here."

Marina hesitated—only for a heartbeat—then gave a short nod. She shot one last narrow-eyed look at Yuko before turning on her heel and slipping out. The door sighed shut behind her.

I took a slow sip of water. The liquid was lukewarm, faintly metallic from the hospital pipes, but I let it sit on my tongue anyway.

When I lowered the glass, Yuko was already there—reaching without being asked. Her fingers closed around mine again as she took it back.

This time, there was no flinch. Just quiet acceptance. She set the glass down with care, then scanned the side table until she spotted a small folded towel among the unopened supplies.

She dampened it under the tap at the tiny sink in the corner. The water hissed briefly; the towel darkened. When she returned, she knelt again—this time beside the bed rail rather than at my feet—and began to wipe my face.

Gentle. Methodical. Like someone who had done this a thousand times in daydreams.

The cool cloth moved across my forehead first, smoothing away invisible sweat. Then my temples. My cheeks. Down the line of my jaw.

She was careful around the fading bruise under my left eye, dabbing instead of wiping.

When she reached my hands, she turned them palm-up one at a time, cleaning between my fingers with the same soft focus a wife might use after a long day. Or a penitent trying to erase sins she could never quite reach.

I let her.

Julie watched from the couch now, legs crossed, one elbow resting on the armrest, chin propped on her knuckles. She looked like she was enjoying a private performance.

After a minute, she rose—slow, graceful—and came to the bedside. She didn’t sit. She simply leaned in, close enough that I could smell the faint citrus of her perfume cutting through the antiseptic air.

"Yuko," she said lightly, almost sweetly, "why don’t you cut some fruit for him? There’s a bowl of apples and oranges on the tray. He needs something fresh."