The house reeked of grief. The heavy scent of wilting funeral flowers clashed with the bitter tang of whiskey spilled across the parlor floor. The echoes of her mother’s accusations still hung in the air, sharp as a blade. Her fault. Her burden. Her sin to carry.

Étienne found her in the dim glow of candlelight, sitting stiff-backed in the corner as if bracing for another blow. Her eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, stared past the dying embers in the hearth. He had seen grief before—tasted it, even. But this? This was different.

“Ma chérie,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, smooth and dangerous.

She flinched at the sound, her jaw tightening. He smiled at that, something dark flickering in his golden eyes. Even now, drowning in sorrow, she fought against him.

He took his time crossing the room, his presence an unavoidable force, sinking into the space around her. He did not ask if he was welcome. He never did. Instead, he crouched before her, gloved fingers tilting his hat back as he studied her face.

“They’ll carve their grief into you if you let them,” he said, low and knowing. “Tell me, chère, will you carry their sins too?”

She stiffened, but he only sighed, reaching out—slow, deliberate—to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was featherlight, but enough to make her shiver.

“The weight of sorrow is heavy,” he whispered, his voice coaxing, teasing. “Let me lighten the burden… just a little.”