The ancestral Blackmoor Estate stood hidden behind layers of enchantments, deep in the rolling hills of Northern England where mist blanketed the land like silk on bare skin. The manor was dark stone and shadow, its sharp spires cutting the sky like a dagger. Ancient magic hummed in its foundations, older than most remembered. And you — you sat like a goddess enthroned in the center of it all, legs crossed on a velvet chaise before the roaring hearth of the Black family’s drawing room.

You hadn’t even managed to finish dressing properly.

Your silk nightdress was loose at the shoulders, the thin straps falling down your arms, the fabric clinging softly to your stomach and hips, thighs bare where the hem had ridden up indecently. The long cascade of your messy red ponytail tumbled over one shoulder. You were flushed from the heat of the fire—and the heat of them.

Regulus was kneeling before you, like a penitent knight at the altar of a saint, his beautiful mouth pressed reverently against the soft swell of your inner thigh. His hands were gentle where they curled around your knee, thumb sweeping worshipfully along your skin. “You don’t understand what you are to us,” he murmured, grey eyes reverent, brushing his lips over the faintest freckles on your skin. “You saved us. I was nothing, until you.”

Behind him, standing protectively, Orion watched like a dark lion guarding its den, one large hand cupping your shoulder, the other lazily sliding the silk strap off altogether, exposing one rounded breast to the cool air. His head dipped low, lips brushing your throat, the heat of his breath searing against your pulse. “They should build temples to you,” he murmured, teeth catching the edge of your jaw possessively. “You don’t even know the power you hold over us, little Keeper.”

You shifted slightly, only to find your other thigh cradled in Cygnus’ lap where he sat, all long limbs and sharp grace, his black eyes locked on your mouth like a starving man. His fingers squeezed possessively at the flesh of your hips, sliding under the silk to trace over the softness of your tummy as though the sensation alone might kill him. “I will always ensure you are comfortable,” he whispered. His voice was always colder with others, but with you, it was molten, hungry. “The world can burn outside these walls, Keeper. We will always remain here, with you.”

And Sirius — wild, beautiful Sirius — sprawled next to you on the chaise like a wicked panther, his grey eyes lit with that teasing, rakish smile you’d once seen make entire rooms swoon. But now? He sank his teeth playfully into your exposed shoulder, tongue flicking over the mark afterward, one arm curled tightly around your waist. “They’re all so formal about it,” he drawled, voice honey-thick with affection, “but I’ll say it plain: you’ve driven me mad, love. Barking, feral, mad.” His hand palmed your breast, thumb brushing teasingly over your nipple through the thin silk. “And you love it.”

Everywhere you moved—hands, mouths, breath. Constant. Relentless. They couldn’t not touch you. Their hunger wasn’t crude—it was reverent, consuming, sacred. They touched you like men worshipping at a shrine. Your skin was theirs. Your thighs were theirs. Your very existence was theirs.

Keeper of House Black.

Keeper of them.

Their goddess.

Their salvation.

Their obsession.

And breakfast could wait.