Seraphine couldn't sleep anymore.
Nights had become a series of flickering shadows, each one whispering his name—Augustus. Not Elias, not the boy who had torn her apart and stitched her with fire. But the man whose ashes still rested on the mantel, housed in an urn carved with violets and bloodwood.
It was nearly 3:00 a.m.
The witching hour.
She sat in the drawing room wrapped in a black shawl, rocking slowly in the old chair Augustus used to read in. The oil lamp beside her hissed with a dying flame. On the end table, her rosary beads twisted like a serpent, untouched since his funeral.
She didn't dare touch them now.
Because she didn't feel holy anymore.
She felt possessed.
By Elias's hands.
By Augustus's memory.
By something far darker than grief.
She stared at the wall across the room where an old portrait of Augustus had once hung. It was gone now—Elias had shattered it days ago in a fit of silence. But in her mind, the image remained.
And tonight, it bled.
The outline of Augustus's face shimmered faintly in the empty frame. Eyes that once looked stern now looked… disappointed.
Traitor, they seemed to say.
Seraphine closed her eyes tight. She'd been hallucinating too often. It had started with whispers—his voice in the corners of the room. Then came the scent of his cologne in the middle of the night. Then the handprints on the mirror that no one could explain.
And now, she saw him.
Everywhere.
Dead.
Watching.
"You're not here," she whispered into her trembling hands. "You're gone."
But the air grew colder.
The fire in the hearth crackled, then snuffed out completely.
She stood, quickly. Too quickly. Her knees shook, and the shawl slid from her shoulders like a skin being shed.
Something moved behind her.
She turned—
Nothing.
Only shadows. And the urn.
She approached the mantel slowly, drawn to it by something she didn't understand. Her reflection stared back from the brass lid—eyes wide, cheeks hollow, lips bruised from too many silenced moans.
She touched the urn.
It was warm.
"No," she murmured, stepping back. "You're dead. He killed you—"
"I killed myself."
The voice.
It came from behind her.
And when she turned, Augustus was there.
Not as a ghost. Not as a rotting corpse. But as he was—dressed in his black waistcoat, collar perfectly folded, face calm and unreadable.
Her breath caught. Her knees buckled.
"I mourned you," she choked. "I wore the veil. I prayed for your soul."
"And yet you let him touch you where I never did," he said, voice cold as stone. "You let him defile this house."
Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I didn't—he forced—"
"No," Augustus said, taking a slow step forward. "You begged."
"I didn't want him—"
"Then why do you ache when he's not inside you?"
The words were a blade. She gasped and stepped back—only to collide with the chair.
"Augustus, please," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was doing."
"Yes, you did," he hissed. "You liked the way he made you scream. You liked the pain. You liked pretending it wasn't you, while you let him use your body like a coffin."
She collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.
And when she looked up again—
He was gone.
Just the urn. The shadows. Her own shallow breathing.
But the shame remained.
And so did the arousal.
Because deep in her core, something wet pulsed.
God forgive me, she thought. I want him again.
---
Later That Morning
St. Lysander's Chapel
The chapel pews were empty. Only the sound of distant bells and the murmured prayers of two nuns echoed through the arches.
Seraphine sat in the confessional, veil pulled low, eyes bloodshot. Her hands clutched the hem of her dress like a sinner clinging to the edge of purgatory.
Father Remiel sat on the other side, unseen but patient.
"Speak, child," he said.
She hesitated.
Then:
"I've sinned."
"In what way?"
"I let someone… touch me."
"Was he not your husband?"
"No."
"Then it is a grave sin. Have you repented?"
Her voice cracked. "I can't."
"Why?"
"Because I still want him."
Silence.
Then, gently:
"You must pray for strength."
She shook her head, tears streaming.
"You don't understand, Father," she whispered. "He's… he's my husband's son."
The silence stretched so long she thought the priest had fainted.
"Are you saying—?"
"I let him use me," she confessed in a strangled sob. "I let him defile me. I let him leave marks I didn't want to hide. I… I came with his fingers still inside me while my husband's ashes sat above the fireplace."
The priest said nothing.
So she kept going.
"I wore the veil," she whispered. "And then I let him take it off. I let him use it. I let him finish on it. I kept it. I wear it even now."
More silence.
Then, finally:
"…Do you believe he seduced you through wickedness?"
She hesitated.
"No," she breathed. "I think I seduced myself through grief."
She rose.
She didn't wait for penance. She didn't say goodbye.
She left the chapel as quietly as she came, veil fluttering behind her like a torn prayer.
---
At Home
When she returned to the manor, Elias was in her bedroom.
Naked.
Waiting.
The veil was in his hands.
"I heard you went to confess," he said, smiling without warmth. "Did God forgive you?"
She said nothing.
He stood and walked to her, pressing the lace between her fingers.
"Did you confess everything?"
Her eyes met his.
"I told him I'd wear it again."
And then she dropped to her knees.