Mothers Warmth Chapter 2 Novels & Stories

The wound looked angry, red and wet and torn, the stitches pulled apart like they’d given up. My stomach turned. My mother inhaled sharply. Then she placed her hand over it. I expected pressure. Pain. Maybe another scolding. Instead, Warmth bloomed beneath her palm. Not the warmth of skin. Something deeper. Something impossible. I sucked in a breath as a soft light flickered from between her fingers. Faint at first. Then brighter. A pale glow poured over my wound like moonlight turned liquid. My eyes widened. My whole body went rigid. “Mum…” I whispered, voice trembling. “What, what is that?”

I held her cold hands and began to rub mine against hers, while blowing hot air at it. "Bring woods and warm water!" I ordered Chloe who stood in shock at the sight before us, without blinking, without moving. She just stood still, gazing at my mum's face, almost as still as a statue if her hands were shaking. It was as if her eyes were trying to say something when she stared at me, and I did get the message. Warm water and burning woods will not return warmth to her skin. This realization tore something within me.

The confrontation caused my face to turn three shades paler. “You should be thanking me, shouldn’t you? After all, if it weren’t for me, my mother wouldn’t have saved you and your mother. Then, your mother wouldn’t have lived another eight years.” As soon as she finished speaking, I plopped down into a chair. The child was placed back in my arms again. Belinay stroked my face with satisfaction. Her voice was tinged with amusement. “As long as you behave yourself, you’ll always be the master of this house.”

Not of me, but of her. “Luna, we…” “I said give her to me!” The woman obeyed, placing me into her arms, and the moment I touched her chest, I stopped screaming. Her skin was warm. Her scent was the first thing that calmed me. I could feel her heartbeat. I could feel... love, it was real, warm and cozy. I wanted to stay there forever. “She’s not cursed,” my mother said softly, staring at me like I was a puzzle she’d already solved.

I spoke in a happy tone, “Mother! We had saved her from the torments of her father. Can we please have her stay in the chambers by my side? She can learn with me how to protect me without a soul to learn of such things!” My mother looked at a timid Camila, who was holding her skirt firmly; she kissed my head and commanded me, “Sit,” I walked to the sofa and then took my seat where I could see them both. Mother had walked to Camila with careful steps. I saw how much Camila was shivering; as my mother let her aura flow towards Camila, the room felt warm; a motherly feeling of some sort was felt. I felt safer, in a way. It was then that I heard my Mother speak again in a motherly way, “Camila,

Third Person POV The grand doors of the mansion swung open, and the entire house seemed to fill with instant warmth and life. Elena’s mother stepped inside first, her arms already reaching out as she pulled Elena into a tight, loving embrace. The familiar scent of home — spices, care, and unconditional love — wrapped around Elena like a comforting blanket. Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes as she held her daughter close. “My sweet girl,” Elena’s mother whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Look at you… carrying my grandchild. You’re glowing, even through all the tiredness.”

A melting sigh escaped my lips as she resumed her warm caressing, stimulating breasts and nipples until sparks erupted again. For the next half hour, my mother gave my breasts the most thorough massage they had ever known. It was startling how relaxing it was while at the same time, so stimulating. It was like my heart couldn't decide whether to settle down or speed up. My breathing was shallow and my entire body was ablaze. It was a slow heat, though. A gradual increase in temperature that brought me from tepid to boiling at a leisurely rate. It wasn't the instant conflagration of passion I had experienced in the past.

Her thumb brushed my knuckles in a soothing motion. “You deserve happiness in this phase of your life. And so does the little one growing inside you.” She offered me a soft, hopeful smile, the kind only a mother could manage even in the face of her child’s pain. “Let yourself breathe again,” she added quietly. “Let yourself live.” “I know it won’t be easy to move on,” Mamma said softly, her eyes filled with hope, “but you have to try. For yourself.” Then, after a brief pause, she added, almost eagerly, “Now tell me where do you want to go?”

Every person who comes to the garden and finds their way to the centre and puts their hand on what is there. Every one of them rearranges. My mother rearranges. Slowly. The way she does things — with the composure that is not armour, that is simply how she holds herself, which I have stopped trying to remove and have started receiving as what it is. The composure rearranges around something that does not have a word in the language of composure. Something that is simply: warmth. Received. She stands at the warm stone for a long time. I stand beside her. We do not speak.

At least it causes her eyes to flicker open, slightly. “What is it baby?” “You need to wake up, Momma, you have to eat.” “No eat.” “Yes, come on, please.” She tries to move me away but she’s too weak. My mother must way nothing more than a feather. It’s shocking to see her hip bones protrude through her jean clad legs, and how her rib cage shows through her halter top. Damn she must be cold; I mean it’s fall right now and we don’t exactly have the cash for round the clock heating.