The scent of spiced coffee hit me before I opened my eyes.
When I did, the room was bathed in golden morning light. Sheer curtains floated in the breeze. A tray sat on the table near the window — coffee, pastries, something that looked like fruit but glowed like it belonged in a richer country.
And her.
Seraphine stood in front of the mirror, tying the belt of a robe that did a poor job of looking casual. Blood-red silk, loose around her thighs, the curve of her collarbone catching the light. Her hair was still pinned up, but barely. A few tendrils curled like lazy question marks down her neck.
She saw me in the reflection and smiled — slow and easy.
"You're awake."
"Is that breakfast for me or is this part of the illusion?"
She turned, walked over, and handed me the coffee first. "You think I'm an illusion?"
"I think you're... not real in the ways I'm used to." I took a sip. Dark roast, warm, expensive. "That's not a complaint."
She sat on the edge of the bed, one knee tucked beneath her. "You regret staying?"
I looked at her.
At the light in her eyes that always looked like wine held up to flame.
At the calm, poised way she sat — like she'd never been rushed a day in her life.
"No," I said. "But we need to talk about Tiffany."
Her gaze sharpened. "She'll be safe here."
"I know that," I said. "It's not just that. It's... what this is. You and me. Or what it looks like."
She tilted her head. "You mean, how it's going to look to her when she sees her big brother shacked up in a silk palace with a wealthy older woman who feeds him croissants in bed?"
I gave a dry laugh. "Exactly that."
Seraphine leaned in slightly. "So? What do you want her to believe?"
I ran a hand through my hair. "Something that makes sense. Something that doesn't freak her out. She's seventeen, not stupid. She'll pick up on everything."
"Then maybe the truth," Seraphine said. "Or at least a version of it."
I raised an eyebrow.
"You and I," she continued, "are... involved. Intimately. We've made an arrangement — one that benefits both of us. You get stability, protection. She gets safety, schooling, distance from whatever danger was breathing down your neck. And I..." her mouth curved slightly, "...get you."
"That's not exactly Tiff-friendly language."
"Fine," she said, thoughtful now. "We'll be dating."
"Dating?"
"You dislike the label?"
"No, I just didn't think you... dated."
She smiled like I'd said something amusing. "I don't. But I can pretend."
I stared at her. "You're not even going to try to sound less ominous, are you?"
She only lifted her cup.
I sighed. "Okay. So we're together. To Tiff, you're my—?"
"Girlfriend. Partner. Sugar mama. Whatever makes her roll her eyes the least."
"She's going to have questions."
"Let her ask," Seraphine said. "We'll give her answers. Not all of them. Just enough."
I hesitated. "And we'll live in the same wing? Same room?"
"That's up to you," she said. "She can have the east corridor. It's sunlit, has a private library, a balcony. You can stay here with me. Or split your time. Whatever makes you feel grounded."
I nodded, slowly. "Okay. Ground rules, then."
Seraphine arched a brow. "More rules?"
"I mean for the act," I said. "In front of her. Affection is fine, but no... moaning against doorways or biting my shirt off in the hallway."
Her smile turned wicked. "You didn't seem to mind that last night."
"That wasn't in front of my sister."
She laughed — a rich, warm sound. Then she leaned in, her voice softer. "So. Holding hands?"
"Yes."
"Small kisses?"
"Yes."
"Lingering stares that suggest I own you?"
I gave her a look. "We'll call those optional."
She leaned in more. "And what about when she's asleep?"
I swallowed. "That's between us."
She kissed the edge of my jaw once, briefly, like a promise. "Then it's settled. You're my boyfriend."
I blinked. "You actually said it."
"I did."
"And you're not combusting?"
"Not yet."
I shook my head, sipping my coffee. "This is going to be so weird."
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I needed to get up.
Like—actually get up. Get dressed. Start figuring out how this whole ridiculous new life was supposed to work. Maybe walk the halls, find the kitchen, remind myself I still had legs and purpose and a name.
Instead, I was sitting at the edge of the bed in my jeans with my shirt was crumpled on the floor, somewhere under one of her robes, and I was 80% sure I'd left my belt hanging off the headboard. Of course I had and the vague, hopeless intention of putting it on.
Behind me, I heard the sheets shift.
"I can feel your struggle from here," Seraphine said, voice like warm syrup. "It's kind of adorable."
"I'm trying to be decent," I muttered, reaching for my shirt.
"Why?" Her voice was closer now. "She's your sister. Not the Pope. You say that like you mean it," Seraphine said, voice warm and velvet-soft.
I didn't turn. Turning would be a mistake. Turning was how men got trapped.
"I do mean it," I muttered. "We just had a whole conversation about boundaries."
"Mmm. And none of them said you had to leave this bed."
"I'm trying to have a productive morning."
She made a low, amused sound. "How noble."
I sighed and tugged the shirt over my head but didn't pull it down. "You're not making this easy."
"I'm not trying to."
The bed dipped.
Shit.
I could feel her getting closer without even looking. I could feel her — all that heat, that scent, the way the air around her bent like she carried gravity in her bones.
I looked.
Mistake number one.
She was on her knees now, crawling toward me with all the time in the world, the sheet barely clinging to her hips, curls tumbling over her shoulders like she'd just stepped out of a painting too old and too dangerous for museums. Her eyes glinted in the light, lazy and wicked.
"You're not playing fair," I said, voice rougher than I meant it to be.
She smiled, slow. "I never said I would."
Her hand brushed my shoulder — just that — and I was already folding. My resolve, my dignity, my plan for the morning. All of it.
I caught her wrist, lightly. "You are very distracting."
"I'm not even doing anything," she said innocently.
"That's the problem."
She leaned in, eyes on mine. "If you're this easily undone now, how are you going to survive once your sister moves in and we have to pretend?"
"That's why I need to practice restraint," I said. "Starting now."
"Starting now," she repeated, lips nearly touching mine. "Are you sure?"
I wasn't. At all.
But I nodded anyway. "Yes."
Her other hand slid up my chest, fingers slow and deliberate. "Even if I do this?"
My breath hitched.
"Or this?" she asked, shifting closer, mouth grazing the corner of mine.
I exhaled a curse under my breath. "You are evil."
She stood and walked to the bathroom.
Minutes later she returned, framed in the doorway of the bathroom, wrapped in steam and barely wrapped in anything else. One of my shirts hung off her shoulder, barely buttoned, hitting just high enough on the thigh to be legally dangerous. Her legs went on forever, her curls were wild and damp, and she looked like every poor decision I'd ever wanted to make twice.
"Is that mine?" I asked, throat dry.
She glanced down at the shirt like she hadn't noticed it and I-I kissed her.
Because rules could wait.
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The air hit different once I stepped outside Villa Dahlia.
Colder. Meaner. More real.
But I barely felt it.
Because my body still ached — not just sore, not just used — wrecked. I was wrecked in the best, filthiest, most soul-devouring way possible.
Every step felt like a betrayal. Every shift of my hips reminded me what she'd done. How many times. How deep she'd taken me. How sweetly she'd swallowed every last piece of my self-control until I was begging—begging—to give her more.
My legs didn't feel like mine. My brain wasn't back in one piece. I walked because I had to, not because I was ready. Because South London kept moving and I couldn't very well curl up on the curb to have an existential crisis over the fact that I'd just been spiritually, physically, and emotionally rearranged by the kind of woman who should not be legal.
Seraphine.
Even thinking her name made something in me pulse.
She wasn't just under my skin — she was in me. Underneath my nails, in the bruises on my hips, behind my eyelids. Every blink brought back flashes. Her mouth. Her hands. Her tits in my face, her thighs around my head, her laugh—God, that laugh. Like she already knew I'd be ruined, and enjoyed watching me come apart.
I'd lost count after round three. Somewhere between the couch and the floor, I stopped keeping track.
By the time I was on my knees with her riding me like I owed her penance for a sin I hadn't even committed yet, I knew. I wasn't getting over her. Not anytime soon. Maybe not ever.
I could still taste her on my tongue.
Feel her teeth at my throat, her nails in my back, her moans vibrating through my spine like some kind of pagan hymn. I'd drowned in her. And I liked it.
Fuck.
I palmed at my coat, adjusting.
I was walking through Brixton with a hard-on like some idiot teenager. My dick had no sense of survival. Just the memory of her soaked heat, her breathy curses, the way she whispered my name like it belonged in a spell.
Cassian, she'd said. Again.
And like a fool, I did.
I passed a bus stop — two teens glanced at me. One smirked. I kept walking, trying to think of anything that wasn't the sight of her spread across silk sheets, mouth parted, chest heaving, eyes molten.
Think of taxes. Rats. Brack's knife at my throat. Anything but—
Her arching under me, voice breaking. "Don't stop."
I groaned out loud.
Get a grip, Cass.
The streets were busy — just like always. South London in her rawest form. Bikes cutting between cabs. Chicken shop wrappers swirling in puddles. A bloke yelling outside a betting shop. Sirens two blocks away. A woman arguing with someone on FaceTime at full volume.
It was chaos.
And I'd just come from a cathedral of flesh and silk.
It didn't feel fair.
It didn't feel real.
The world kept moving, but I was still in that room. Still between her thighs. Still drowning in her scent — cloves and honey and something wild.
I turned down our block, and it hit me.
I was really doing this.
I was about to move my baby sister — sixteen, brilliant, mouthy, far too observant — into the orbit of a woman I barely understood, couldn't trust, and absolutely, pathetically wanted.
The fuck was I thinking?
I wasn't. That was the truth. My body made the decision while my head was still buried between her legs.
And now I had to live with it.
I reached the flat. The building looked like it always did — tired. Cracked brick. Peeling green paint on the door. Graffiti on the mail slot no one bothered to clean. But it was home. Our home.
I stared at the door for a full minute, key in hand.
Not because I didn't want to go in.
But because I still wasn't sure how the hell I was supposed to explain this.
How do you tell your sixteen-year-old sister you're moving her into a stranger's mansion? That the woman paying for everything is someone you barely know, can't define, and already want in ways that make your knees weak?
You don't.
You start small.