/Baby, I wanna to touch you
I wanna breathe into your well
See, I gotta to hunt you
I gotta to bring you to my hell
Baby, I wanna fuck you,
I wanna feel you in my bones
Boy, I'm gonna love you
I'm gonna tear you into soul/
Cielle squited towards the window as the crude light from the outside assaulted her eyes.
"Good morning, my Lady," said Sebastian, walking towards the tea-cart.
"Define good," she grumbled, pushing herself up on the bed with a sigh.
Yawning and glaring, she rubbed the last remnants of sleep out of her eyes. She'd told him—countless times, in fact—to give her vision a few minutes to adjust before wrenching open the curtains like they personally offended him.
Yet here they were, again. Was he doing it on purpose? She wouldn't put it past him.
"Good: a subjective term often used to describe mornings for everyone except you, apparently." Sebastian poured the hot water into the teapot, and the soft, floral scent began to unfurl in the air like a balm. "For you, my Lady, it's less a 'good morning' and more a... morning suggestion."
"A suggestion I'd rather ignore until caffeine reinforcement arrives," she shot back, narrowing her eyes.
His lips quirked in that irritatingly knowing smile. "But of course, my Lady. Today's tea is—"
"Darjeeling, I know."
The first sip worked its magic. The liquid spread its warmth in her chest and then pooled in her stomach comfortably.
For a moment, the day ahead felt less daunting. But only for a moment.
Today was the day she would give her report on the circus case—an audience with the Queen. It was her least favourite part of any investigation and today it applied twice as much.
Her chest tightened. She didn't regret any of the decisions she'd made, but she wondered… What would the Queen do with the information Cielle was about to deliver? That "kind old woman" façade wasn't fooling anyone—not her, at least.
She craned her neck to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror; the pale reflection staring back at her seemed far more suited for a morgue than the Queen's court. Dark circles clung to her eyes as evidence of the latest nightmare streak.
The circus case may have been solved, but the memories it left behind hadn't loosened their grip.
Night after night, the nightmares came. The vacant stares of those children, their faces hollow and wrong in a way that made her stomach twist.
That man's lecherous eye, drab and wrinkly, still crawled under her skin. No! Don't kill him! Whatever else he may be, he's our saviour! The acrid stench of burning flesh imprinted in her nostrils. You will pay for that, you will pay for that, you will pay for that!
No. There was no way the Queen would let it slide.
Cursing under her breath, Cielle set the empty cup down on the nightstand.
Weariness clung to her like a second skin as she rose from the bed and stepped behind the ornate oriental dressing screen.
"Was the tea to your liking, my Lady?" Sebastian's voice drifted from the other side of the partition, along with the clinking of porcelain.
"You've been serving me this tea for years," she replied, shrugging out of her nightdress. "Jacksons, huh?"
"Yes," he said, the room fell into an abrupt hush as his movements ceased. "But was it to your liking, my Lady?"
She rolled her eyes, fastening the buttons on her drawers before reaching for the chemise he'd laid out for her. Linen, simple and practical for the morning. She'd need to switch to silk later for the afternoon's formalities.
"It's Darjeeling. It tastes the same because it is the same," she scoffed, tugging the garment into place and freeing her hair from beneath its folds. "Tea leaves don't magically change flavour overnight."
"I'm done," she called out.
Sebastian joined her behind the dressing screen, a neat pile of fabric draped over his arms.
"No tea is ever truly the same. The ingredients may remain so, but every cup has its own little story—how it was grown, how it was brewed."
"I see," she said, watching the white-clad fingers as they placed a beige corset around her waist and chest. "You're angling for a compliment."
"Is it a crime to desire one? Your tastes are as mercurial as British weather, and I strive only to meet them."
"I would tell you immediately if I disliked your tea, Sebastian. I fail to see why I should mollycoddle your ego for meeting basic expectations."
"A fair point," he conceded with a quiet snicker. "Naïve of me to hope otherwise."
For a moment, she felt his hands stop as they tightened the laces of her corset. They didn't pick up where they left off, though. Instead, they brushed lightly against her sides.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I cannot tighten it properly."
She frowned. "What do you mean that you cannot?"
"It does not fit," said Sebastian, and a chill slithered down her spine as he leaned in and his breath warmed her ear. "You've grown."
Her muscles tensed in an attempt to suppress any outward sign of shiver. She wasn't sure if she succeeded.
"Have I? I feel the same," she muttered after a beat. "Can't you just pull harder?"
"If I did, you wouldn't be able to breathe, Young Mistress," he chuckled. "It would cut off your circulation, leave marks on your skin. No, no, a lady's corset must fit perfectly. For her comfort and grace."
She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. "You're making a mountain out of a molehill, Sebastian. I haven't grown that much in such a short time. That's ridiculous. Just pull it tighter, or I'll fall behind schedule—"
Her words were cut off by a sudden jolt.
His long fingers slipped beneath the corset, and a sharp pinch followed as the fabric dug into her skin.
"What the deuce?" she yelped.
"See how tight it is?" he muttered, his voice lower, rougher now. His fingers curled, pressing deeper, and she winced. "Not even room to move, is there?"
She slapped the offending hand away and spun around to face him. His maroon irises had transformed, now a vivid carmine red that almost seemed to glow.
Cielle clenched her fists.
"I told you to stop doing these things!" she hissed, every word tight with anger. "If you insist on playing games, get Nina to take my measurements, Sebastian."
"I apologise, my Lady," he said, and there was nothing apologetic in his tone. His gaze dropped, his lips curling just so at the corners. "It will be done."
"Then hurry up and dress me," she snapped. "My hair's still a mess, and I don't have all day."
"…used as raw materials for the doctor's experiments. During our attempt to apprehend Baron Kelvin, his violent actions forced our hand, and we were left with no choice but to neutralise the threat he posed. As for the rest of the Noah's Ark Circus troupe… they were eliminated when they attacked my manor on his behalf."
The Queen sat upon her ornate chair, rigid as if carved from stone. Her gaze fixed upon Cielle Phantomhive as she delivered her report.
"And the children?" asked the Queen.
Cielle lifted her eyes.
The back of her neck prickled under the invisible burn of another gaze. She could almost hear him say in that tone dripping with malice, 'I told you so.'
"They could not be saved," replied Cielle. The words felt heavy in her throat.
Through the Queen's black veil, Cielle couldn't read her expression, but the silence that followed spoke volumes. It was clear the outcome had not met the Queen's expectations—not in the slightest.
As Cielle replayed the events of that night in her mind, she couldn't help but wrestle with the gnawing truth that her decision had been rash. Driven by a manic urge to burn that cellar—the replica of that cellar—into nothing but ash.
But still, the more she revisited it, the more logic emerged.
What kind of life could possibly await those children, so utterly brainwashed, so irreparably broken? In the best-case scenario, they would be locked away in Bethlem Royal Hospital, drugged into a stupor with laudanum—if they were lucky. But they wouldn't be. Not really.
She didn't regret it… she couldn't.
The Queen's lips curved into a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. Cielle knew that smile far too well.
"I am pleased with your efforts on this case, my dear girl," said the Queen, her tone drenched with treacle and with something sinister. "You may leave now."
Cielle could only imagine what that truly meant. With a curt nod, she curtsied and turned around to take her leave.
Sebastian stood by the door. She did not meet his gaze and he followed her as she passed him.
"This fucking travesty of a dress," cursed the girl again, tugging at her bodice and Sebastian had to try his best to suppress a sigh. "Her Majesty and her bloody, piss-poor excuse for a dress code…"
The second they had stepped out of the Buckingham Palace she launched into this tirade of curses as though she were a sailor who'd just been denied a pint.
How could one exhibit such impeccable poise and grace so effortlessly, and then revert to language that would befit the drunken lot of dockside ruffians just moments later?
"…feel like a bloomin' stuffed sausage. And to make matters worse, I'm sweating like a pig in a butcher's shop, and it's still winter! Ugh," she groaned, fanning herself excessively as he assisted her into the carriage.
Her face was scrunched up, cheeks flushed a charming shade of rose; and as much as he found her endearing in this vexed state, he could not shake the nagging sense of disapproval.
"Young Mistress," he ventured, his voice soft but firm. "Such language is hardly befitting of a lady of your station."
She raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in that blue eye of hers. "You no longer get to teach me about proper etiquette now, do you, demon?"
This time he sighed.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether this particular trait had been inherited from her late aunt though their choices of profanity were distinctly different. Madame Red had favoured lewd jests, while his Mistress preferred sarcasm, dry wit, and—he sighed once more—this.
At least when in the company of others, she knew how to behave.
He closed the door behind him and settled in his seat across his Mistress.
Her gaze was fixed on the passing scenery outside, the thin fingers fidgeted with her rings. The earlier exchange with the Queen had touched a nerve, hadn't it?
She had always been a touch prickly, especially in the first year of their contract. Her grumpiness had been almost worn as a badge of honour.
But that had changed. Over time, the anger had dulled, buried deep underneath her well-crafted guise of composure. The flare-ups came less often now, only creeping through when she couldn't keep them in check.
Oddly, as much as those moments frustrated him, Sebastian found himself looking for them. They gave him an unfiltered look at what lay under the cold, controlled exterior—that she was barely holding it together.
It was exactly what had lured him in at the start—this anguish masked as fury, this schism within the brilliant mind of someone hanging on to sanity by a thread.
More than that, he had come to witness a side of her that few others ever would, and that fact alone made the pursuit strangely addictive. And so, he found himself pressing, probing—eager to elicit those raw emotions once more.
Even now, as he watched her slip into herself again, her eye losing focus as she stared blankly out the window, he felt this urge.
"Do you regret it, my Lady?" he asked.
For a few seconds, it seemed his question had not gone through as she sat there, not showing any signs of registering that she had been being talked to. Then she sighed, like a parent fed up with their child's incessant questioning.
"We've already had this conversation, haven't we?"
"Yes," he conceded, unperturbed. "But do you regret it now, my Lady?"
Her jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before she answered, voice colder. "Because she was dissatisfied? I knew what her response would be when I gave you that order."
Did you though? he wanted to ask.
Had she truly considered that when she'd screamed at him, all trembling and delirious, after witnessing that little girl's blood spilt on the altar?
'Shut up, shut up! Burn everything here down to ash! Do you understand me? Am I making myself clear?! This is an order!'
The memory still sent a pleasant frisson down his spine.
"You're skating on thin ice, my Lady," he said, his tone sharp. "Your title, your inheritance, our resources—all of it granted by the Queen's favour, though Lord Midford is the one who should've had it. One wrong move, and it'll be taken from you. Your disgrace will follow in its wake."
She turned then, slowly, her eye blue and sharp as it met his. The flicker of sunlight caught the soft angles of her face, casting her cheekbones in a light that made it almost unbearable to look away.
"I'm well aware of the risks, Sebastian," she replied; flat, impassive. "But I'm far too valuable for her to simply discard. I'm the one who reduced crime rates in just three years. London is safer now than under any ruler before her. What monarch can claim the same? And that's what she cares about—her image."
His lips twitched. Truly, what an arrogance.
"I don't question your accomplishments, Young Mistress. I'm merely offering advice. Even the most valuable assets can be disposed of when they become liabilities."
She let out a scoff, a bitter sound. "Your wisdom, as always, knows no bounds. Rest assured, I understand the consequences of my actions. But what's done is done. Regret serves no purpose, and I have none."
With a nod, he hummed in acknowledgement. "Very well, my Lady."
"Young Mistress," said Sebastian as he eased the door open with his back, the tea-cart wheeling behind him, "I've prepared your evening tea. Next, I'll draw a bath for you, to help you unwind after the—"
His words faltered and trailed off as he took in the scene before him.
The girl had fallen asleep in her chair.
Amid the scattered piles of unopened letters and the untouched Funtom financial reports strewn across the desk. She had likely been buried in work, pushing herself through the never-ending backlog, and in her fatigue, had allowed her eyes to close for a moment too long.
Her head tilted slightly to one side, a soft rise and fall of her chest in a slow rhythm. Stray wisps of slate hair hung loose around her face, framing the delicate features that were unusually softened by slumber.
Serene in the middle of her chaos.
Sebastian's eyes lingered for a moment longer, then he clicked his tongue. "Ah, my my… All the tea will go to waste after all."
With a small shake of his head, walked over to the sleeping girl.
This was her first peaceful sleep, since their return from the circus, and it would leave her with neck pain. He could almost hear the complaints that she would grouse the first thing in the morning.
He lifted her from the chair, slowly and carefully, as if she were something fragile, something that might shatter.
She mumbled something incoherent and nuzzled up against his shoulder, as he carried her out of the office and stepped into the shadowy corridor.
She always did this when he held her.
It had taken time for her to trust him enough to let him do so—so averse to physical contact, so guarded, his little Mistress. But once she had given him the smallest permission, it had become their normal. With his hands supporting her back and knees, or her slim legs wrapped around his waist, her arms would twine around his neck snugly, her body pressing into his as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
It was the only time he could bury his mouth and nose in her hair, close enough to inhale her scent, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin against his.
She had never said a word about it. And neither had he, lest she would put a stop to it altogether.
In the girl's bedchamber, he placed her gently on the bed. With a flick of his wrist, the candles on the nightstand flared to life. Though, of course, the demon had no need for the light. He could see perfectly in the dark.
First, he untied the thin strings of her eye patch in one smooth pull. The pins came next, one by one, and her hair spilt down over the pillow like ashen-blue silk. One layer at a time, he undressed her. He took his time so as not to wake her.
Because if she would wake—open her eyes; bottomless blue and venomous violet—she would smack his face and yell at him to get the hell out of her bedroom. She had done so in the past.
Layer by layer, sleeve by sleeve, was a mantra he repeated to himself, to keep himself grounded as his human form began feeling unbearably heated. Began malfunctioning.
He knew he was pushing too far, had been for some time now. Teetering on the brink of her patience and his own self-control, frail and flimsy. Like a muzzled hound straining against the chains that threatened to snap at any moment, all the while unable to look away from the morsel dangled just out of reach.
It had been simpler before. Back when the beast inside him clawed only for her soul. When it beheld how it shone bright and iridescent, the way her blue diamond caught the light.
That hunger, he understood. He had mastered it, and kept in check, no matter how much it pulled at him.
His body, his human form, had always been an anchor, a barrier to keep the demon within him from breaking free, from taking what it wanted.
Until his human body had begun to ache, to crave, too. This craving was different, though. It was hunger still, but of a kind he scarcely experienced during his long life and never so vehemently. Ardently. A compulsion to possess, to have—not just her soul, but her body.
And it had been this way for far too long.
With the last piece of her clothing shed, he exposed the creamy skin to the trembling candlelight. Such a rare sight it was. Even rarer now that he could afford more than a quick, furtive glance.
So pale she was, like porcelain. And breakable. More so than those dolls in Kelvin's manor. Her complexion was as pale as his, but different in its rosy undertone. Tinted with the blood that coursed beneath. How could a mere human look so uncanny?
It wasn't hard to see why men like Kelvin lost their minds over her—why they tumbled into madness, consumed by desire.
Even him.
Even the demon was tempted. The demon who should be the one to tempt, not the other way around. How perverse. How ridiculous.
His fingers curled against the urge to reach out, to let his touch follow where his eyes had wandered. He stayed rooted, but only just.
He knew better than to act on it now. No, he had to be patient. She was so fragile, so utterly damaged. He had seen her scars, not just the physical ones, but the ones deep inside her, the ones that would never heal. She had been used, abused, and taken by the hands of men far crueller than a demon.
To push her now—to force her—would ruin everything.
And so, for now, he would hold himself in check. For now, the only indulgence he would permit was the act of looking.
For now.
Sebastian slid open a drawer to retrieve her nightdress. He ran his fingers across its lace trim and tiny pearl buttons that glinted in the light.
It was rather plain in comparison to another nightdress, stored in another drawer. The one crafted from the finest silk, wrapped in tissue paper and sealed with a wax crest.
The one she would wear for her wedding night. But that would not happen until several years from now. If ever.
Perhaps…
He tore his gaze from the nightdress in his hands and looked over his shoulder to the naked girl, sprawled across the bed, hair fanned out against the pillow. Unmoving. Unaware.
When he was certain she was truly asleep, his hand moved. He lifted the nightdress to his face.
A long breath, sharp and silent, filled his lungs. The scent of lavender oil, interwoven with the natural warmth of her skin—the laundry soap dulled it, but it was still there. Still hers.
He exhaled, and a low, guttural growl clawed out of his throat.
It wasn't enough, of course. It never was. But it would have to suffice.
For now.
Once she was dressed and tucked in, Sebastian grasped the candelabra from the nightstand and turned to leave. But just as he reached the threshold a quiet voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Sebastian."
His breath hitched in his throat for a moment. How long had she been awake? How much had she seen?
When he spoke, his voice was calm. "Yes, my Lady?" He turned to face her, forcing himself to look at her face, where her eyes—thankfully—remained shut. "Is there anything else you require of me?"
Did she want him to stay in the room until she fell asleep, as she sometimes had? It had been some time since she'd asked him to remain by her bedside like that.
She stirred, moving her sleepy, dainty limbs as she rolled onto her stomach.
All she said was a muffled, "You're a sick fuck."
The candelabra's flames shuddered and, with a hiss, extinguished. Darkness enveloped the room like the closing of a coffin.
And the only source of light was the hellish glow of a demon's eyes.
Cielle squinted when the lights came on.
After several precious hours of darkness, it struck like a slap.
The metal bars of her cage gleamed under the glare like sharpened teeth. And the grimy floor—those few patches not covered by the tangled limbs of sleeping children—reflected the sudden surge of illumination in dull, greasy patches.
She wrapped her thin arms around herself, instinct, but it was no use. Nothing there to clutch. Only her bare skin stretched tight across bones. And the tattered scraps of what had once been her underwear. They offered no comfort, no dignity.
And then there were the faces.
No.
Not faces.
Masks.
At first, they were just shapes in the dark—blurry, distant, twisting like shadows—a writhing swarm. But as the light grew sharper and harsher, they seemed to multiply—black pits hollow as grave mouths.
Ornate and obscene, grotesque and grinning, their hollow eyes bored into her with a hunger she could taste. Eyes. So many eyes.
Hundreds of them.
No.
Thousands.
Millions of eyes.
They were everywhere. Watching. Waiting. She squeezed her own eyes shut, but the light—damn the light—pulled them open, forced her to see. The air was soured by sweat, rust, and something worse—her own fear.
And then there was him.
The only face uncovered by a moth-like mask, wrapped instead in stained bandages. His mouth was slack, wet, and leering, and a single, bloodshot eye gleamed beneath the folds.
He rolled towards her in the squeal of his wheelchair.
"My cold moon," he whispered.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. A tremor shook her chest.
His chair creaked again. Rolled closer, closer.
"No!" she cried.
She lurched back, hands scrambling against the bars, but her limbs felt like lead, moving with the sluggishness of a dying thing, despite the panic surging through her entire being.
"My cold moon…" His words were trembling now with reverence. Or madness. His lone, leaking eye brimmed with tears.
His hands—his filthy, nasty hands—reached out. The trembling, gnarled fingers stretched towards her as though to worship or ruin. They reached.
She had to move.
She had to—
"No! Shut up! Shut up! Don't touch me!" she screamed, everything about her screamed, tried to move, tried to do anything, anything at all, but her body was numb, slow, and sinking in invisible tar.
"Cruel…" he whispered, a sobbing whimper, but so full of hunger it made her stomach clench.
She gasped as his chair tipped—tipped and crashed. The body within it crumpled to the floor with a heavy, dead thud. But it didn't stay there. It began to crawl. He began slithering across the floor. Like a worm, crawling, inching closer, closer.
Fingers scrabbled against the bars. Seeking. Slipping. Searching.
"Cruel, so cruel," he wept, his sobs wet and bubbling. His hands fumbled, found the latch.
"No! No! No!" she wailed, her voice cracking like dry wood.
She needed to move.
She needed to run.
She couldn't move. Couldn't hide. She could only watch. And scream.
"You're dead!" she screamed, her throat sore, raw with the terror she couldn't stop. "You're no one! You're nothing!"
The door creaked open.
The light—so bright, so cruel, like the sun—continued its assault. It carved her open, peeled her raw. It exposed everything. Every detail. Every damn detail in the worst kind of clarity.
She saw it, fully and truly.
The twisted smile carved across his face, the sheen of rot between crooked teeth, the sores festering at the corners of his mouth. His hands—those filthy, nasty hands—stretched towards her, reaching for her.
The sight of them made her stomach turn, her teeth clench. The way they twitched. The way they flexed. The way they wanted.
Worthless. Yes. That's what they were. Useless, repulsive and worthless. That's all they were. They had no right to terrify her like this, to hold so much power over her.
But still, they came. Still, they reached closer, closer.
And all she could do was watch. And scream.
Those filthy, nasty hands.
"My Lady, please wake up. You're having a nightmare."
She woke up screaming.
Her eyes snapped open, wide, darting frantically across the pitch-dark room. Searching. Hunting for any signs of danger.
They stopped on the butler who stood by her bed. Silent. Still. Watching. The candelabra in his gloved hand cast long, jagged shadows that writhed across the walls like grasping claws.
Her chest was heaving as though she'd been running for miles, and the rhythm of her heartbeat seemed to echo throughout the entire manor. Her senses hyperaware and hypersensitive to the slightest sound or movement.
She focused on her breathing, not taking her eyes from Sebastian. He didn't move. Didn't speak. He simply stood there as if carved from stone, like a monstrous effigy at her bedside.
With shifting shadows and lights from the candles his face appeared sharper and more angular. It made him look less human and more demonic. More beast.
Her beast. The hellish creature that watched over her. Day and night.
She looked at his hands, enclosed in white gloves. How pure they looked. Even though she knew there was nothing pure about them. She knew how easily they could unsheath their claws and turn into weapons.
Always prepared to kill.
For her.
The thought rooted her. Anchored her. Slowly, the vice of panic around her chest loosened. The tremors in her hands faded. Her pulse slowed, though it still throbbed in her temples. Her stiff muscles eased—apart from the soreness at the back of her neck.
Suddenly, she felt the cold. It seeped through her sweat-sodden nightdress, chilled her skin.
Her nightdress.
Her face twisted into a scowl, directed at no one but the butler standing next to her bed.
He didn't flinch. Not a single muscle in his face moved. He only stared back. That same stupid, impertinent glint in his eyes.
"Would you like me to prepare some hot milk with honey, my Lady?" he asked after the uncomfortable silence stretched between them.
She didn't even respond right away. Just glared, her body rigid beneath the covers.
"No," she said at last. "I'm going to sleep. You may take your leave."
He did not move an inch.
His eyes were now oddly intense, like those of a spider sensing a struggle in its web. "Are you certain? It might soothe your nerves, my Lady."
She raised her eyebrow, sceptical. "Didn't we agree I shouldn't drink that at night? Tanaka's rule, I believe it was."
"Well, that is a rule I'm willing to waive if it helps my Young Mistress fall asleep."
For a moment she was almost tempted to accept that offer, just to see whether he truly meant it. But the truth of it was she longed to be left alone.
"How very kind of you," she scoffed, voice dripping with disdain. "But no. I'm tired."
"I'll just heat it and be right back, my Lady," he said and made his way towards the door as if she hadn't spoken at all.
"No," she snapped. "What in blazes is wrong with you? I said no."
He halted his steps at the feet of her bed.
She studied his face. The tightness around his lips, the furrow in his brow, the flare of irritation in his expression. As if she were the one acting like an annoying fly and not the other way around. She had long stopped questioning some of her demon's antics, but this new thing was beyond bewildering.
"Is there anything else you'd like me to do for you, my Lady?" he asked, smooth and eerily polite.
"Except for finally letting me sleep? No," she grumbled, growing properly irked.
"Very well, my Lady," he responded, still standing there, making no move to leave. A thin, unsettling smile tugged at his mouth as he gave a small bow. "Should you require anything else, do let me know. Anything you desire, I shall provide."
At his words, a sudden surge of emotion coursed through her.
Rage swept through her first. That one was familiar—the scalding poison spreading through the nervous system that made her feel like she might combust at any moment. But then something else… Something foreign like a splinter. Hotter. It pooled in her abdomen and frightened her so much she wanted to bury herself under the blankets and never come out.
"Get out," she spat, her hands trembling violently at her sides.
"My Lady, I—"
"Get the fuck out of here!" she roared, not giving any damn if the other servants heard. "Get out, you filthy fucking beast!"
He spun on his heel and practically ran out of the room before she had a chance to reach for a vase on the nightstand and throw it at his head.
Once she was sure he was gone, she collapsed onto the mattress, burying her face in her arms, her breath ragged. She wouldn't think about it. No, she couldn't. She'd sleep, and by morning, it would be forgotten—like a bad dream.
She pulled the duvet closer, trying to block out the world, but the dampness on her skin stirred her again. Her nightdress was drenched with sweat, sticking to her like a second skin. Disgust curled in her stomach.
With an exasperated huff, Cielle rolled off the bed. She snatched a fresh nightdress from the drawer and laid it on the bed. Then she peeled off the sweaty garment and threw it on the floor.
Sebastian would have something to sniff at. Like the depraved mongrel he was.
She wrinkled her nose, staring at the crumpled, white heap on the floor.
In the morning, she would order him to burn it.
A/N Song: "Desire" by Meg Myers