Mansion temptation

Seraphina's POV

The car rolled beneath the stone awning and stopped. My heart beat so hard I felt it in my throat.

He got out, came around, and opened my door. I stepped down to the wet stone. The air smelled like rain and money and old secrets.

A woman in a purple uniform waited just inside the doorway, clutching a tote and a folder. She looked relieved and nervous at once.

“Mr. Veyron,” she said to Cassian. Her eyes flicked to me. “Mrs. Veyron.”

“Thank you, Mara,” Cassian said. “We’ll take it from here.”

She nodded quickly. “He’s settled. Meds are in this bag. The notes are on top.” She lowered her voice. “He is… difficult.”

“I know,” Cassian said.

“I’m right here,” another voice cut through, sharp as glass.

We both turned.

Lucian sat in a sleek black wheelchair at the base of the stairs. His posture was perfect; his eyes were cruel.

He didn’t look fragile. He looked like a king who’d decided he was above bleeding.

My lips parted. “Lucian-”

“Save it,” he snapped. “The nurse may leave.”

Mara flinched. “Of course, sir.” She stretched the tote toward Cassian and the folder toward me, then gave me a sympathetic glance that felt like a bandage I hadn’t earned. “I’ll, um, see myself out.”

“Thank you,” I said, and the words felt small.

She slipped past us, the door closing with a slow gasp. The house swallowed us whole.

Lucian’s gaze raked over me. He smiled without warmth. “Even broken,” he said, “I’m still better than you.”

The words landed like a slap. I gripped the folder until the cardboard bent.

Cassian stepped forward one half-step, voice calm. “That’s enough.”

Lucian turned his head, eyes narrowing. “You talk to me?” he said. “In my house?”

Cassian didn’t blink. “I talk to you anywhere.”

My chest tightened. “Please,” I said. “We just got home.”

Lucian’s mouth curled. “You call this home?” He cut his eyes back to me. “Go put the meds in the cabinet. Do not mix the bottles. You barely manage a dress zipper; I don’t trust you with labels.”

“I can read,” I said softly.

“Prove it,” he said. “Move.”

Cassian’s hand brushed the small of my back - barely a touch, a warning and a comfort.

I walked to the cabinet in the butler’s pantry, opened the door, and set the bag down on the shelf. My fingers shook as I sorted the bottles. I read each label twice.

Behind me, Lucian’s chair whirred. “I want water,” he said. “Cold.”

“I’ll get it,” I said.

“No,” he said. “I want to see if my brother really wants to care for me.”

Cassian didn’t rise to it. “You want water,” he said. “You ask like a person.”

“Fine,” Lucian said, eyes glittering. “Get me water. Please.”

Cassian took a bottle from the fridge, twisted the cap, and handed it over. “There.”

Lucian stared at the bottle like it had insulted him. “You think you’re noble,” he said. “You’re a shadow playing man.”

“Drink,” Cassian said.

Lucian did, never breaking eye contact. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at me. “Where’s my schedule?”

“In the study,” I said. “Mara left it on your desk.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked. “You think staring is a task?”

“I’m standing,” I said.

“Go stand somewhere useful,” he said. “Cassian, push me.”

“No,” I said, too quickly. “I’ll-”

“I don’t want you to,” Lucian said. “I don’t want your hands on anything that matters.”

Cassian spoke before I could swallow the hurt. “I’ll take you,” he said, already moving behind the chair.

Lucian tilted his head back, his voice a knife. “Look at you. Obedient. Finally learned your role.”

“My role,” Cassian said, “is whatever I decide.”

They moved away down the hall and I released a breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding.

I stayed busy. I took my bag upstairs, set it in my closet, smoothed a dress that did not need smoothing. I straightened a stack of books in the sitting room.

I washed a perfectly clean glass. Doing nothing felt like drowning; doing something at least looked like swimming.

Time slid by. At some point I stood alone in the kitchen, sleeves pushed to my elbows, wiping the counter with unnecessary focus.

From the doorway came a low chuckle, familiar in the most dangerous way.

“If you want tea,” I said without turning. “Say please.”

“I want you,” Cassian murmured, his voice rough and soft at the same time. “Please.”

My grip tightened on the cloth. “Don’t start.”

He stepped into the kitchen, “I’m not starting. I’m continuing.”

“Don’t be clever,” I snapped, though my voice wavered. “Not here.”

He came up behind me, close enough that his breath warmed the back of my neck. “You keep cleaning a clean counter,” he said softly. “You nervous?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Because of him?”

“Yes,” I admitted, then my voice broke quieter. “And because of you.”

A low, pleased sound rumbled in his throat. “Good.”

“Don’t be happy about it,” I said, finally turning.

He leaned on the counter, tattoos slipping from his sleeves, eyes dark and steady on me. “I am,” he said. “Your pulse says my name.”

“It says danger,” I whispered.

“Same thing,” he said, smiling in that way that made my knees weak.

I tried to deflect. “That nurse left. It’s just us and him upstairs.”

“Good,” he said.

“Good?” I whispered. “How is that good?”

“Less noise,” he murmured, pushing off the counter, closing the distance between us. “More truth.”

“Truth?” I laughed once, brittle. “You lied to me.”

“I told you the truth,” he said. “Just later than I should have.”

“Later than you should is a lie,” I whispered.

His jaw flexed, then softened. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

The word landed in me like rain on fire. I blinked. Lucian never said that to me. “You’re… what?”

“Sorry,” he said again. His gaze didn’t waver. “I say it when I mean it.”

My throat burned. “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now.

I closed my eyes, broken. “Don’t do that,” I whispered.

“Do what?”

“Make it easy,” I breathed. “Nothing here is easy.”

He reached across the island, brushed his knuckles along my hand still clutching the cloth. “We can make one thing easy,” he said. “We can tell the truth in this room.”

“What truth?” I whispered.

“You want me,” he said, his voice low and certain.

I shook my head, but the denial fell apart on my tongue.

“Don’t say it like that,” I whispered.

“How should I say it?” He leaned in, his breath hot against my lips. “Should I whisper it? Should I carve it into your skin? Should I show you until you can’t breathe without me?”