The fire had long since died in the hearth, but the scent of burnt wood lingered. So did the echo of moans, and the feel of Elias's breath at her throat. Seraphine lay on the couch in the parlor, still in half of her mourning gown, veil torn and hanging from one side like wilted wings.
Her thighs ached.
So did her pride.
And yet—
She hadn't stopped trembling since.
The clock struck three.
Outside, wind scratched at the windowpanes like something wanting in. Inside, it was quieter than death.
She thought he'd left.
She prayed he had.
But then, like a ghost reborn from her own sin, Elias stepped through the parlor doorway holding a crystal glass of brandy, shirt half-buttoned, lips red from biting.
"I lit a fire in the east wing," he said casually, setting the glass on the table beside her. "Figured you'd want heat after being bent over your dead husband's desk."
She flinched. "Don't."
"Don't what?" he said softly, walking around the couch. "Remind you of what you begged me for?" He crouched beside her. "Or what you let me take?"
Seraphine sat up, clutching the remnants of her dignity around her.
"That shouldn't have happened."
"It did."
"You're—" Her voice cracked. "You're his son."
"I was his secret," Elias said coldly. "Now I'm your truth."
She slapped him again—but this time, he smiled when her palm landed.
"You like hitting me," he whispered. "Does it make you feel less guilty, Seraphine? That you let your husband's bloodline come inside you while his ashes are still warm?"
Her stomach twisted, heat rising to her throat like bile. She shoved him back. He caught her wrist in midair.
And this time, he didn't let go.
"You think this ends with shame?" he growled, dragging her toward him. "You don't get to run from this. You don't get to bury it beneath candlelight and prayer."
"Let me go."
"Why?" He yanked her closer, breathing her in. "Because I'm too much like him? Or because I'm nothing like him at all?"
Seraphine struggled, but her resistance cracked when his mouth brushed her jaw.
"Tell me you don't want it again," he said. "Lie to me."
She opened her mouth—then froze as his fingers slid between her thighs once more.
Still wet.
Still open.
Still aching.
"You're mourning through me," Elias whispered against her throat. "And you'll keep doing it until you forget what his name tasted like."
She gasped, choking on the heat that rose from her gut. Her hand gripped the edge of the velvet cushion. She wanted to scream—but the sound caught in her throat when his fingers sank into her, slow and deep.
"No," she whispered.
"But your body says yes."
And it did.
He pushed her down onto the couch, crawling over her like a wolf scenting blood. Her dress was pulled down. Her breasts exposed. Her veil, still clinging to one ear, was yanked taut across her mouth.
A gag.
Her breath caught.
"Let me show you what mourning really is," Elias hissed, and then he bit down on her collarbone—not gently, not lovingly, but with possession.
He thrust into her, this time with no preparation. No seduction. Just hunger, and punishment, and something like grief sharpened into hate.
The couch creaked under them. Her moans were muffled by the veil he'd wrapped around her lips. Her eyes rolled back as he ground against the spot he knew would ruin her.
"Is this what he did to you?" Elias rasped. "Or did he just kiss your hand and call it love?"
Tears stung her eyes—not from pain, but from the sick truth she hadn't spoken aloud in years.
"No," she whispered, when he paused to hear her.
"No what?" he said, panting against her throat.
"He never touched me like this."
Elias smiled like a devil granted permission.
"Then I'll do what he never dared."
And with that, he grabbed her throat—not to choke, but to hold. A command. A tether.
She came on his cock seconds later.
It hit her like a wave crashing through every bone. Her scream was raw behind the veil. Her fingers clawed the couch cushion. And he didn't stop—kept thrusting until her body went limp, twitching beneath him.
He pulled out before he came. But he didn't spill on the floor.
He spilled on her veil.
Seraphine's breath caught as he wiped the head of his cock with the black lace.
"You wear this like armor," he said, his voice low, brutal. "But now it's mine."
She stared at him, dazed, soaked in sweat and shame.
And Elias, calm again, tucked himself in and stood.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Seraphine."
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
He walked to the door, turned slightly, and added:
"You'll have the veil waiting for me."
Then he vanished into the corridor like smoke.