Chapter 8
LUKE
She's asleep in my arms, and I've never been more in love.
The candles have burned down to half their original height, wax pooling in rivulets down their sides. The ambient music has looped back to the beginning, soft and haunting in the quiet cellar. The balloons drift lazily overhead, catching the flickering light.
And Seraphina is curled against my chest. Because she does. She always has.
I trace my fingers through her hair, working out the tangles from her run through the vineyard. She stirs slightly at the touch but doesn't wake, just burrows deeper into my warmth. The blanket I wrapped around her has slipped, exposing one bare shoulder, and I pull it back up carefully.
I should let her rest. After everything I put her through tonight she deserves to sleep.
But I'm not done with her yet.
The night is still young by my standards. I have more planned—another scene, another game, another way to take her apart and put her back together. The property deed in my pants pocket is burning a hole through the fabric, waiting for the right moment to reveal.
I bought her a vineyard. Fifty acres of grapevines and rolling hills and this cellar. A place that will be ours—somewhere to escape, somewhere to play, somewhere to build a life together.
Happy Valentine's Day, my love.
She stirs again, and this time her eyes flutter open. They're hazy at first, unfocused, but slowly they find my face. A soft smile curves her wine-stained lips.
"Hey," she murmurs.
"Hey yourself." I press a kiss to her forehead. "How do you feel?"
"Destroyed." But she says it like it's a good thing. Like being destroyed by me is exactly what she wanted. "In the best possible way."
"Good." I shift slightly, pulling her more securely against me. "Because I'm not finished with you."
Her eyes widen, and I see a flash of excitement before it's replaced by that soft, surrendered look she's been wearing since I caught her in the vineyard.
"I don't know if I can take any more," she admits.
"You can." I roll her onto her back, settling my weight over her. "You can take everything I give you."
The words come out more possessive than I intended, but I don't take them back. They're true. She is mine—has been since the moment I first saw her, will be until the day I die. These games we play, these elaborate scenarios I build for her—they're just different ways of saying the same thing.
You belong to me. And I belong to you.
I kiss her slowly, deeply, tasting her and the alcohol that coats her tongue. She melts into me immediately, her body recognizing mine even in her exhausted state. Her hands come up to grip my shoulders, pulling me closer.
"I love you," she whispers against my mouth.
"I love you too." I pull back to look at her, and for a moment I forget about the mask, the game, the elaborate fantasy I've constructed. There's just her. Just us. "More than anything."
She reaches up and traces the edge of the mask, her fingers gentle against my cheek. "Are you going to take this off?"
"Not yet." I catch her hand and press a kiss to her palm. "The night's not over."
She accepts this with a small nod, and I love her even more for it. For trusting me, for playing along, for giving herself over to whatever I have planned without question.
I've done this twice before—the pumpkin patch where I proposed, the Christmas tree farm on our wedding night. Each time, she's surrendered completely, let me take her to the edge and beyond. Each time, it's strengthened the bond between us in ways I can't fully explain.
This time will be no different.
I make love to her slowly this time, none of the desperate urgency from before. Just long, deep strokes that make her gasp and arch beneath me. I watch her face as I move inside her, memorizing every expression, every flutter of her eyelashes.
She's so beautiful it hurts.
"Look at me," I command softly, and her eyes open to meet mine. "Stay with me."
"Always," she breathes, and the word wraps around my heart and squeezes.
Always. That's what I want. That's what I'm building toward with every scenario, every game, every elaborate gesture. A lifetime of this—of her, of us, of moments so intense they burn themselves into memory.
I bring her to the edge slowly, building her up with patient strokes until she's trembling beneath me. When she finally comes, it's with a soft cry that sounds almost like my name, her inner walls fluttering around me in waves.
I follow her over, burying myself deep as I spill inside her for the second time tonight. The orgasm is gentler than before, but no less powerful—a slow, rolling tide rather than a crashing wave.
We lie tangled together in the aftermath, both breathing hard. The candles have burned lower still, casting longer shadows across the stone walls. Time feels meaningless down here.
"Water," she rasps. "Please."
Right. Hydration. I should have thought of that before.
I reach for the water bottle I stashed beside the chaise, one of several I placed throughout the cellar during setup.
I crack the seal and hand it to her. "Drink. You need it."
She takes the bottle gratefully, tipping her head back to drink deeply. I watch her throat work as she swallows, transfixed by the simple motion. Even this feels intimate after everything we've shared.
She finishes about half the bottle and holds it out to me. "Here. You should drink too."
I take the bottle and drain the rest without thinking. The water is cool and clean, washing away the lingering taste of wine. I set the empty bottle aside and pull her back into my arms.
"Better?" I ask.
"Much." She settles against my chest with a contented sigh. "Thank you."
We lie there in comfortable silence, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. I'm thinking about the property deed, about when to reveal it, about how she'll react when she realizes I've bought her this entire vineyard—
Something's wrong.
The thought surfaces slowly, swimming up through a sudden fog in my brain. I blink, trying to focus, but my vision is starting to blur at the edges.
What the—
My limbs feel heavy. Too heavy. Like someone's filled my muscles with sand while I wasn't paying attention. I try to lift my arm, but it takes twice as much effort as it should.
"Seraphina?" My voice sounds strange. Distant. Like it's coming from somewhere far away.
She lifts her head from my chest, and the expression on her face makes my blood run cold.
She's smiling.
Not the soft, satisfied smile from before. This is something else entirely. Something sharp and knowing and deeply, deeply amused.
"How do you feel, husband?"
Husband. She called me husband. She—
The water. The fucking water.
"What did you—" I can't finish the sentence. My tongue feels thick, uncooperative. The fog in my brain is getting thicker, pulling me down toward darkness.
"The same thing you did to me." She sits up, and even through my rapidly dimming vision, I can see the triumph in her eyes. "Seemed only fair."
No. No, this isn't possible. I planned everything. Every detail, every contingency, every moment of this night was carefully orchestrated. She couldn't have—
"How?" It's the only word I can manage.
She leans down, her lips brushing my ear. "You're not the only one who can plan a surprise, my love."
My vision is tunneling now, darkness creeping in from the edges. I try to fight it, try to stay conscious, but whatever she gave me is too strong. My eyelids are so heavy. So impossibly heavy.
"Sleep now." Her voice is the last thing I hear, soft and sweet and utterly terrifying. "When you wake up, we're going to play a different game."
I try to respond. Try to say something—anything—but my mouth won't cooperate. My body has stopped obeying commands entirely, every muscle going slack as the drug pulls me under.
The last thing I see before darkness takes me is my wife's face.
She's grinning.