He carried her through the dim hallway, her legs locked around his hips, her breath warm against his neck. The floorboards groaned under their combined weight, and somewhere above them, the house held its silence—Victor's silence, waiting. The master bedroom door was ajar, a sliver of moonlight cutting across the worn hardwood. He pushed it open with his shoulder.
The room smelled of cedar and rain and something colder—Victor's cologne, the ghost of his presence in the heavy oak bedframe. The sheets were rumpled, still damp from a body that had only recently risen. Moonlight pooled on the floor, catching the carvings in the headboard: intricate vines, thorns, a pattern that felt like a cage. Claire's fingers tightened on his neck as he crossed the threshold.
"His room," she breathed, the word half thrill, half venom.
He lowered her onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against her back, the cedar sharp in her lungs. Her pinned hair came loose, fanning across the pillow Victor's head had pressed into not hours ago. She stared up at the ceiling—the same ceiling she'd stared at for years—and then her grey eyes found his.
A perverse heat bloomed in her chest. This bed had held her prison. Now it would hold her rebellion.
Ethan's weight settled over her, his forearms braced on either side of her head. His flannel brushed her bare arms, sawdust caught in the fabric, and she could feel the tremble in his hands—not fear, but the effort of restraint. His hazel eyes searched hers, asking without asking.
She answered by sliding her hands under his flannel.
Her fingers found the ridges of his back—muscle and bone, warm and alive. She traced them slowly, memorizing each dip, each scar she couldn't see. The small of his back curved under her palm, and she pressed him closer, feeling the hard length of him against her thigh. He sucked in a breath, his forehead dropping to hers.
The rain hammered the window. The house creaked. Somewhere, a floorboard groaned—Victor's weight, or just the settling bones of the lake house. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the man above her, his chest rising and falling against hers, the way his callused hand slid from her wrist to her hip, gripping like she was something real.
She pulled his mouth to her ear. Her voice came out raw, cracked, a confession and a dare.
"Make me forget he ever touched me."
His hand stilled on her hip.
The creak came from the hallway—not above, not below, but just outside the door. Wood straining under weight. A pause, then another step, deliberate and unhurried. Victor's rhythm. The way he walked when he wanted you to know he was coming.
Claire's breath caught, her fingers freezing against the ridges of Ethan's back. Her grey eyes, soft and open a moment ago, shuttered behind a mask he'd seen her wear in the kitchen—practiced, careful, the wife who knew her place. She didn't move. Didn't push him off. But her body went still beneath him, a rabbit sensing the hawk's shadow.
The creak stopped. Silence stretched, thick as the rain drumming against the window.
Ethan's jaw tightened. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, her thighs trembling where they cradled his hips. His hand stayed on her hip, fingers pressing into the soft skin above her jeans, but he didn't move it. Didn't pull away. He held her gaze instead, willing her to stay with him, not retreat into the woman who shrank in Victor's presence.
Another creak—farther now. Moving away. Down the hall toward the stairs.
Claire exhaled, a shaky sound that was half relief, half something rawer. Her fingers resumed their slow tracing of his spine, but slower now, deliberate, as if grounding herself in the feel of him. She pulled his mouth back to hers, not urgent, but claiming—a kiss that said I'm still here, I'm still choosing this.
Ethan answered her with pressure, with the weight of his body pressing her deeper into the damp sheets. Her hands slid from his back to his chest, pushing the flannel aside, finding the bare skin beneath. She spread her palms over his heart, felt its wild rhythm, and smiled against his lips—a small, dangerous thing.
"He's gone," she whispered, though they both knew Victor never truly left. "Stay."
Her hands left his back, sliding up over his shoulders, past his jaw, until her fingers found the carved headboard behind her. The thorns pressed into her palms—cold, intricate, deliberate. Victor had chosen this bed, had run his hands over these same carvings, had lain here night after night claiming this space as his. She gripped the wood harder, feeling the ridges bite into her skin, and the pain grounded her. She was here. She was choosing this.
Ethan's weight shifted above her. He rose onto his knees, straddling her hips, and the moonlight caught the sawdust still clinging to his flannel. His chest rose and fell faster now, his jaw tight, his hazel eyes dark as they traced the length of her body. He reached for the hem of her shirt, fingers brushing her ribs, and she felt the contact like a brand—callused, warm, hers. She held her breath as he pulled the fabric up, slow, inch by inch, her skin bared to the cool air, to his gaze.
The shirt bunched under her arms. She lifted her back, letting him take it, and for a moment she lay half-naked on Victor's damp sheets, the thorns still biting her palms. Ethan's eyes went to her breasts, her ribs, the soft curve of her waist, and something in his expression cracked—want and reverence tangled together. He didn't move to touch her. He just looked, like she was something he'd been starving for.
She let go of the headboard. Her hands found his jaw, pulling him down, and he came willingly, his mouth meeting hers with the same hunger she felt in her own chest. His hand slid from her waist to her hip, fingers pressing into the denim of her jeans, and she arched into him, wanting more, wanting everything. He answered by rolling his hips against hers, the hard length of him pressing through both their clothes, and she bit his lower lip, the pain mixing with the thorns still imprinted on her palms.
"Ethan," she breathed, and the sound broke in her throat—his name like a prayer, a plea, a claim.
His hand moved lower, fingertips tracing the button of her jeans. He paused, his forehead against hers, waiting for permission. She didn't answer with words. She reached between them, her fingers finding his belt, working the buckle loose with trembling hands. The metal clinked in the silence. His breath hitched, his cock straining against his jeans as her knuckles brushed him accidentally, and she made a sound—low, wanting—that she'd never made in this room.
Rain hammered the window. The house groaned. Somewhere, a floorboard settled, but neither of them flinched.
He pulled back, just enough to look at her, and his hand found the wet warmth between her legs through the denim. Her hips bucked, a gasp escaping her. He pressed harder, his thumb circling, and she saw the triumph in his eyes—not at her, but for her. He's not here, that look said. It's just us.
Her hand found the headboard again, thorns pressing into her palm as she held on. He moved lower, his mouth trailing down her throat, her collarbone, the space between her breasts. His tongue flicked across her nipple, and she bucked again, her fingers white around the carved wood. She heard herself make a sound—not a word, just need—and he answered by taking her fully into his mouth, his hand still pressed against her, rubbing through the damp denim.
The thorns dug deeper. The rain fell harder. And somewhere in the house, Victor's silence stretched like a held breath. But Claire didn't look toward the door. She looked down at the dark head moving against her chest, and she felt, for the first time in years, like she was being saved.