The ancient manor pulsed with restless hunger that night, its stone walls breathing like a living thing. Elara moved through the candlelit corridors, her silk gown clinging to the damp heat between her thighs. Every step sent a slick reminder of her shame sliding against her swollen folds. She was soaked—had been since Kaelen’s fingers had claimed her in the hidden alcove hours earlier, pumping deep while Lyra slept just down the hall. His seed still leaked from her well-f****d cunt, warm and thick, marking her as his w***e even as guilt clawed at her chest.
The house knew. It always knew.
In the library, dusk bled through stained-glass windows, painting her skin in sinful reds and golds. Elara trailed trembling fingers along the leather spines, trying to steady her racing pulse. Her n**
