The estate was a sanctuary of ancient stone and creeping ivy, nestled deep in an enchanted forest where time itself seemed to hesitate. A heavy morning mist rolled low over the ground, curling around the roots of gnarled trees and the wildflowers that tangled in bursts of color. Birds chirped softly in the distance, the scent of rain and pine hanging thick in the crisp summer air.

Breakfast was held on the stone terrace, overlooking a rippling lake whose surface reflected the pale grey sky like tarnished silver. The table was long, carved from a single slab of black walnut, set with delicate porcelain and goblets of cut crystal. Platters of charmed hotcakes, fresh preserves, dripping honeycomb, sausages, and buttered scones steamed between silver serving forks.

But none of them were eating.

You sat at the head of the table, legs crossed, a thin silk dressing gown tied lazily at the waist, your nightdress beneath soft against your skin. Your glasses were slightly askew from where Rodolphus had earlier tilted your face up to kiss you. His broad hand still rested against your thigh, thumb stroking idly, eyes on you with that silent, consuming intensity that was uniquely his.

On your other side, Antonin leaned close, his hand under your gown, warm and heavy on your inner thigh, thumb rubbing slow, maddening circles. His breath fanned against your ear, his stubble dragging along your throat as he pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the place where your pulse fluttered. “You’re soft everywhere, dove,” he murmured, voice a low rasp. “I think about it all the time.”

Orias had taken up his usual sprawl opposite you, massive shoulders stretching the fabric of his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. One enormous hand was around your ankle beneath the table, pulling your foot into his lap where his fingers kneaded absentmindedly at your calf, as though your body was his favorite distraction. His green-hazel eyes watched your mouth as you lifted a strawberry to your lips. “That mouth,” he said, quiet, lazy. “Gonna be the death of me.”

Orion sat upright, composed, elegant, sipping his tea as though he weren’t lazily nosing against the side of your breast through the fabric of your robe, dragging his nose up the curve to your collarbone. “Unseemly behavior at breakfast,” he murmured in mock reproach, lips brushing skin. “What a scandal we must be, my dear.”

Then there was Abraxas—leaning over your other shoulder like sin in human form, platinum hair gleaming as his sharp teeth nipped at the soft spot behind your ear. “You really shouldn’t wear things like this,” he purred, tugging the silk tie of your robe loose with an elegant flick of his wrist. “Or perhaps you should. You like us like this, don’t you, Lady Potter?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.

Everywhere you turned, you were touched—hands at your thighs, lips at your throat, fingers curled around your calves, teeth grazing your shoulders. Their obsession with you was a living, breathing thing—possessive, feral beneath its sophisticated veneer. They didn’t just desire you—they needed you, like addicts starved for a fix they could never get enough of.

And you let them.

You sipped your tea, calm, composed, completely untouched by the chaos of their hunger, the picture of serene dominance at the center of the storm.

“Eat,” you said finally, voice sharp but amused. “Or I’ll hex all your hands to sleep.”

They groaned, reluctantly loosening their grip, but none of them moved far—not really.

Possession was a permanent condition here.

And breakfast was always like this.