The halls of the Dusk estate were too quiet.
The kind of silence that felt alive—pressing against the walls, echoing through the chandeliered corridors, waiting to inhale every footstep and breath. The staff had long been dismissed. No more silver trays. No more empty condolences. Just Seraphine and her mourning, wrapped in shadow.
And now, Elias Morran.
He didn't belong in this house, not by blood nor name. He belonged to the cracks of her husband's past, to the whispers behind closed doors—the bastard son, born of a woman Augustus Dusk had cast aside like waste. But as he stood in the center of the study now, dripping water onto antique rugs, Elias looked as though he owned the place.
His presence was all teeth and heat.
"I waited at the funeral," he said, back to her, voice low, choked. "You didn't acknowledge me. Not even a glance."
Seraphine's hands curled at her sides. The veil was still drawn over her face, casting her world in the faintest black hue. Her lips barely moved. "I didn't know who you were."
"Liar." He turned slowly. "You knew. You felt me. Just like you do now."
She looked away.
The study still smelled like Augustus. Cedarwood cologne. Old tobacco. Pages that had been turned by a dead man's hands. She hated how the scent clung to her, how grief refused to leave even when she begged it to.
"I came to say goodbye," Elias continued, stepping closer. "But that isn't why I stayed."
"And why did you?" she asked, voice as cold as the wind pressing against the glass panes.
"Because you look like sin wrapped in mourning." His gaze roamed her, slow and unkind. "Because every time you breathe in that black dress, I think about tearing it open and seeing what kind of widow moans."
Her slap came fast. She didn't think—her gloved palm met his cheek with a sharp crack that echoed across the room like a pistol shot.
Elias didn't flinch.
He turned back to her, eyes dark, cheek stinging red.
Seraphine took a breath, shallow and trembling. "You will not speak to me like that."
He leaned in, so close she could smell the rain on his skin. "You think wearing that veil makes you untouchable?" he whispered. "You think grief makes you holy? I see through it, Seraphine. I see the woman underneath—the one who's tired of being alone. The one who's aching to feel something."
Her throat tightened.
"Get out," she said, but it was a whisper now, not a command.
"No."
He stepped forward again, and this time, when his hand touched the edge of her veil, she didn't stop him.
"I dreamt about this," Elias murmured, voice like silk dragging across a blade. "About what you look like when you take it off. About kissing you through it if you didn't."
Her pulse raced. She hated that he could hear it. Hated more that she wanted him to.
"Do you know what grief does to desire?" he asked. "It twists it. Makes it hungry. Makes it cruel."
His fingers slid down her side, slow, careful—tracing the curves that hadn't been touched since the coffin was closed.
"Elias…" Her voice faltered.
"Let me see," he breathed. "Just once."
She shook her head.
So he stepped behind her, lips ghosting over the nape of her neck—his breath warm through the thin veil.
"Then I'll worship the widow beneath the black," he said. "Veil on. Eyes closed. But open your body to me."
Her knees weakened.
He turned her toward the desk—Augustus's desk—and pressed her palms down on the polished wood. The cold surface stung through the gloves. Her reflection looked back at her in the glass frame of a photograph: her late husband's face, smiling, proud.
She didn't look away.
He lifted the mourning veil just high enough to expose her lips. Then he kissed her—not gently, not kindly—but like a man starving. Their mouths clashed, desperate, furious. He tasted of rain, of salt, of something wrong and unrelenting.
She moaned against him before she could stop it.
"You hate me," he whispered against her mouth.
"Yes," she gasped.
"You want me?"
"Yes."
He smiled like a man tasting madness.
The mourning gown was heavy, layered with lace and grief. He undid it slowly—unzipping the back as if peeling apart a wound. His hands slid beneath the silk, touching her skin like a prayer. And when his fingers found the heat between her thighs, Seraphine whimpered.
"You're soaked," he whispered. "God, look at you."
Her legs trembled.
Elias knelt behind her, lifting the dress up around her waist. She felt the cool air hit her thighs, then his mouth—hot, possessive, dragging across her folds as though feeding from her. She bit her glove to keep from crying out, but he pulled it from her teeth.
"I want to hear you," he growled.
And then he devoured her.
Tongue working her with precision and vengeance. She was shame and grief and wet velvet against his face. He held her hips down as she writhed, murmuring filth between every kiss.
"Your husband's dead," he said into her. "Say it."
She gasped, "He's dead."
"Who's touching you now?"
"You are," she cried, eyes wide with agony.
"Who makes you feel alive?"
"You."
He stood abruptly, undoing his belt. Her heart pounded. Her body screamed.
He entered her without warning, without pause.
And it was blissful ruin.
The desk creaked beneath her as he thrust, hard and relentless. Her cries filled the study, echoing off old books and dusty windows. Elias gripped her veil like a leash, wrapping it around his fist as he drove deeper.
"You'll never wear this again," he growled, breath hot at her ear. "You'll never mourn anyone but me."
And Seraphine, broken open under the weight of grief and desire, whispered:
"Then ruin me, Elias."
And he did.