The rain taps softly against the stained glass windows, a lullaby for the damned.
Seraphine stood before the mirror, wrapped in shadow and silence. The black veil cascaded down her face like a spider's web spun of grief. Her hands trembled, gloved in satin, knuckles pale beneath. She hadn't taken the mourning dress off in days. Weeks, maybe. Time had folded in on itself since the coffin was lowered into the ground.
She hadn't cried.
Not when the priest spoke his final words.
Not when the will was read.
Not even when the house felt colder than a crypt.
But when she heard the front doors crash open—the sound of soaked boots on marble floors—that's when something deep inside her cracked.
She turned slowly as footsteps thundered down the corridor.
And then he appeared.
Elias.
A storm in the doorway. Raindrops clung to his hair, dark as spilled ink, plastered against a face carved in fury and want. His jacket was discarded. His shirt half unbuttoned, chest rising with breathless rage. But his eyes—his eyes burned through the veil.
"Where is he?" he growled, stepping closer. "Where's the great and mighty Augustus now, huh? Buried like the lies he told."
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
"You mourn him?" Elias sneered, voice raw. "You grieve for a man who hid me like dirt under his polished shoes?"
Still, silence.
Until he crossed the room in a single breath, fingers fisting the delicate lace over her face. He didn't pull it off.
He touched her through it.
Two gloved hands met his bare chest. She should have pushed. Screamed. But her fingers curled instead—touched the skin she wasn't meant to want.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"No," he said, "but you want me here. Don't you, Seraphine?"
She tried to step back. He didn't let her.
He raised one hand, fingers grazing her cheek through the veil. The fabric between them sparked something shameful. Erotic. Her lips parted, and that was enough. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the lace.
It wasn't lips she felt.
It was teeth.
A small bite.
And a growl.
"Take off the veil," he whispered.
"No," she breathed, throat tight.
His fingers slid to her waist, dragging her closer. His voice was low now, dangerous.
"Then I'll fuck you through it."
And she—God help her—didn't stop him.