Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Belial’s cry rose into the night, cutting through the air with an eerie weight. It was nothing like Papa’s other children—rare, but unsettling, as if something darker lingered in his voice. Mary’s wails were different. Hers were constant, sharp and unrelenting, filling the house like a storm that would never pass. Together, their sounds pressed on Sister’s mind, driving her to the edge of madness.

The new mother, Annaliese, hurried to the nursery where all the youngest children slept—Faith, Mary, Belial, and Meliora. She moved quickly, afraid the two screamers might wake the ones still lost in quiet dreams. But as she entered, she froze. One of the older children was already inside. There was no mistaking who it was. Long, dark hair hung like a shadow around a pale face, the body held stiff and unyielding. Their eyes fixed on her—cold, piercing, merciless. It was a gaze that stripped the air from the room, sharp as a blade and heavy with threat.

“Elizabeth,” Annaliese whispered, greeting the toddler at the doorway. Elizabeth was Papa’s eldest, the firstborn of his ex-wife, Addeline—who had only recently abandoned the ministry for the arms of her lover, Swiss. Their union had been a storm of conflict, a tangle of devotion and destruction that left both scarred. In the end, Papa had let her go, weary of the turmoil and the misery they bred in each other. With the clergy swept aside and a new order rising from the ruins, he had seen fit to strip Addeline of her place as prime mover, releasing her at last from title and from him.

Much to Annaliese’s dismay, Addeline had remained an unshakable presence in Papa’s life—mother to seven of his children and still a guiding hand in the rise of the new ministry. No matter how far she had strayed, her shadow lingered, woven into every corner of his world.

Looking at Elizabeth was like looking at her mother—an uncanny resemblance that no one could deny. But this child carried something her mother never did, a shadow that clung to her very being. It was an evil no one could name, yet all could feel. Even at five years old, Elizabeth Copia seemed marked by it. Mischief was her delight, but it ran deeper than games. She had thrown herself into the violence that shattered the former clergy, nearly ending Mr. Psaltarian’s life in the chaos.

Fear never reached her. Instead, she seemed to crave the darkness, to drink from it, as if danger itself had been written into her fate.

Even though Annaliese had shared in raising the child alongside her nanny, the former Sister of Sin remained deeply unsettled by the girl. There was something in Elizabeth’s gaze that chilled her to the bone, a quiet reminder that this child was not one to be tamed.

Cheery as ever, Elizabeth caught sight of the woman and chirped, “They’re quite noisy, aren’t they?” Annaliese could only nod, unease knotting in her chest. The girl’s smile widened, bright yet wrong, as she added with casual ease, “I can quiet them if you’d like.” The words hung in the air, innocent in tone but carrying a weight that made Annaliese’s skin crawl.

Annaliese shook her head and, with the soft lilt of her Italian accent, replied, “No, thank you, young Eliza. I will do it.”

The child’s eyes locked on hers, unblinking, holding her in a silence that stretched into eternity. The weight of that gaze pressed against Annaliese’s chest until she nearly faltered. Then, with a careless shrug, Elizabeth turned away. “Suit yourself,” she murmured, her voice light yet edged, before slipping toward the door.

Annaliese let out a shaky breath, grateful the moment had passed without confrontation. It felt foolish to fear a child barely old enough for school, yet Eliza’s presence was undeniably frightening. Pushing the thought aside, she hurried to her baby’s crib and lifted him gently into her arms. Belial was the image of his mother, with rosy cheeks and a spray of freckles across his nose. One eye shone blue, deep as the ocean, while the other glowed brown, warm as a cup of coffee. It was the unmistakable mark shared by all of Papa’s children, a reminder of the blood that bound them.

She settled into a nearby chair with the infant cradled close, gazing at his round, chubby face as she rocked him back and forth. At times, it still felt unreal that life had granted her such a gift. Her thoughts wandered back to her own childhood, when she still had a mother. What she remembered of her mother was little more than fragments, but they were enough—soft touches, gentle words, and the unwavering care of a woman who had done everything she could to shield her daughter from the world’s harshness.

She remembered nothing of her father, only that he had left them when she was very small. What lingered instead was the night she and her mother fled, slipping away in silence to find refuge among a group of nuns. The memory was hazy, but she recalled the steady grip of her mother’s hand in the dark and the feeling of safety that came from knowing they were together.

The women they lived with were not ordinary nuns who spoke of God and morality. They called themselves Sisters of Sin, and their lives revolved around darker creeds. Among them, vengeance was a lesson often spoken and more often lived.

Of course, Annaliese had been too young to understand at the time. Only later would she learn the truth—that her father had tried to kill her and her mother, desperate to cast them off so he could begin a new life with his mistress, unburdened by the family he no longer wanted.

That was where the Sisters of Sin stepped in. With their help, Annaliese’s mother struck back, ending not only the life of her selfish, treacherous husband but also the woman he had tried to begin anew with. What she had not foreseen, however, was the cost—that in the chaos of revenge, she too would be caught in the crossfire and killed, leaving Annaliese parentless.

As an orphan raised within the strange cult, Annaliese often wondered if her mother had thought the sacrifice was worth it. The question haunted her, especially now that she herself lived as the “other woman” in her bond with Papa. At night it gnawed at her, keeping her awake, as she wondered if Addeline—or perhaps Addeline’s unsettling daughter—harbored thoughts of their own revenge.

She had not spoken of it to Papa—not yet. Addeline, after all, appeared content in the life she had chosen with her ghoul lover. Rumors of her happiness reached the ministry often, and now she was said to be carrying yet another child—her eighth.

Nonetheless, the former Sister of Sin kept her distance from Papa’s ex-wife, refusing to be drawn into comparisons or rivalries. Instead, she turned her attention solely to her own bond with the man, guarding it carefully as though it were the only thing that truly belonged to her.

At just ten years old, she had been plucked from the convent she had called home for so many years and offered to the man as a “gift.” In the beginning their relationship was professional, even harmless, as he trained her to be his apprentice. He had been about thirty-five when she first came to him, and she spoke nothing but Italian. With no true authority left in her life, she clung to him for guidance, finding in him the figure she desperately needed—though perhaps not the one she deserved.

She still remembered his first words to her: “Che bambolina carina che sei”—what a pretty little doll you are. From that moment on, she followed him everywhere, eager to please. Whether it was organizing his papers, carrying messages, or bringing him his breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she obeyed without question. She was his loyal servant. In time, he taught her English so she could speak with the rest of the clergy, though she remained mostly quiet, keeping to herself, a shadow at his side.

He had grown to depend on her. At the time, he was only a Cardinal of the Clergy, though already being shaped for something far greater. Annaliese understood little of the hierarchy within those walls or the ruthless struggles that defined it, but she knew one thing with certainty—she wanted to see him rise. Whatever crown the clergy fought over, whatever power they coveted, she longed for him to claim it, and for herself to remain at his side when he did.

That time finally came when Annaliese was twenty-five—a grown woman now, old enough to know what love meant. By then, he had ascended as Papa Emeritus IV. She remembered overhearing Sister Imperator speak of how Copia must secure his place in the clergy by providing it heirs. In her heart, she believed she could be that person for him. But all her dreams collapsed the day he returned home with another woman at his side, shattering the hope she had carried for so long.

Addeline. A mere fan plucked from the crowd and elevated to prime mover. An ordinary woman, Annaliese thought with disdain. Beautiful, yes—but beauty alone meant nothing. She did not know Papa the way Annaliese knew him, had not walked the long years at his side, had not earned him. To Annaliese, it felt like theft—her rightful place stolen before her very eyes.

But she was only a Sister of Sin, an attendant meant to be seen and not heard, and in the clergy’s eyes, she was never good enough for him. The thought broke her heart. Still, she remained his humble companion, helping to raise his children, packing his bags for long journeys, keeping order in his absence, and waiting at the door to greet him when he returned from tour. She knew Addeline despised her, yet that disdain only fed the quiet fire that kept her near him.

She noticed the cracks in their marriage even before Papa’s twins, Opus and Cirice, were born. She overheard the arguments, saw the disdain Addy began to hold for pregnancy, and watched as the woman buckled beneath the weight of marital duty and motherhood. Annaliese often laughed to herself at such weakness. To her, being prime mover demanded strength, resilience, and the will to endure—it was a role meant for someone bred to provide without faltering. She knew she could have done it, and done it without complaint.

To Annaliese’s delight, Addeline had taken another lover. The proof came the day she and Papa returned home with their fifth child, Meliora. One look at the boy’s sun-kissed skin and warm caramel eyes told her the truth. He was no child of Emeritus blood. Though she often played the part of the quiet observer, Annaliese was far from oblivious. She could piece together truths others overlooked, and she was certain it was only a matter of time before Papa discovered the child’s paternity and cast Addeline out into the cold where she belonged.

It irritated her that he did not catch on as quickly as she wished, and she longed to be the one to reveal the truth to him. Yet her low status within the clergy bound her hands. Without proof, any attempt to meddle in his marriage or undermine the prime mover would have brought severe punishment, perhaps even physical retribution. Sister Imperator had made it clear that the role of prime mover was sacred to the highest ranks of the clergy, and any threat against it would not be tolerated.

Because of this, she held her tongue and waited. Outwardly she appeared patient, but inside the thought consumed her. She told herself the moment would come, and when it did, she would be ready to claim the place she believed was always meant for her.

She still remembered the day she fell pregnant. Papa’s wife had left on what was said to be a trip of respite, a brief escape from the weight of her family duties. Annaliese had not known then that the woman was truly visiting her lover, nor did it matter. What mattered was the quiet space her absence left behind. In that space, Annaliese and Papa Emeritus found each other. It felt less like temptation and more like fate, as though the moment had always been waiting for them.

Annaliese had known little about intimacy, yet she understood well enough how children were made. In her mind, one time was all it would take. One chance, and maybe, just maybe, she could give him a child of her own, binding herself to him in a way no one could take from her.

She remembered that night with perfect clarity. He had sat in his chair, weighed down by his failing marriage, his work, and the endless pressures of the clergy. Yet she saw how all of it seemed to melt away the moment his eyes found her. She remembered the question he asked, whether she was a virgin, the words heavy with hunger, his gaze devouring her every movement. In that instant, she believed he had finally seen her, not as the quiet child who once barely spoke his language, but as the woman she had become.

Before he could brush her off or let doubt creep in, she rushed to speak, her voice trembling with urgency. She told him she wanted him to be her first. “I want you to take me, Papà Emeritus… please, I want you to be my first, sì?” she remembered whispering.

She had seen the conflict in his eyes, the weight of his vows pulling against the temptation before him. For a moment she feared he would turn away, but she promised him softly that Addeline would never need to know. His hesitation vanished, and suddenly his arms were around her, pulling her into him. Annaliese whimpered at the feel of his lips brushing her neck, his touch so gentle it made her legs weaken. She clutched at his shoulders, desperate to steady herself, afraid of collapsing under the rush of unfamiliar sensations.

When he stripped away her garments, she felt her breath catch in her throat. Vulnerability coursed through her, but when he sank before her, pressing close, that vulnerability blurred into something overwhelming and strange. His mouth against her breasts sent a cry tumbling from her lips before she could stop it, her voice betraying the shock of a feeling she had never known.

He silenced her with a finger at her mouth, his voice a whisper against the storm inside her. “Shh, Sorella… you must contain yourself.”

She remembered the sting of tears threatening her eyes, his hair the only anchor she could cling to as the world tilted beneath her. When he sank lower, her breath seized in her chest, a sharp intake she could not release. He was so near to the parts of her she had always kept hidden, and the nearness alone left her trembling. She had never felt so exposed, so utterly undone, and the weight of that realization sent a shiver through her thighs until she could no longer hold them steady.

She recalled the moment his mouth claimed her, the heat searing straight through her until her body shuddered in helpless waves. The scrape of his teeth against her slick folds sent tingles racing across her skin, making her clutch at him as though she might fly apart without his weight to hold her down. She had never imagined that this was what passed between a man and a woman—that such hunger, such unholy pleasure, could consume her so completely.

She had heard Papa and Addeline behind closed doors before, the walls carrying Addy’s shrieks into the hallways, sounds Annaliese never understood. She had wondered what could drive a woman to such cries. Now she knew. The urge to cry out burned in her throat, raw and insistent, because what she felt now was unlike anything she had ever imagined. It was too much, too consuming—yet it was good. So achingly, impossibly good.

But she knew enough to understand this was not what brought a child into the world, and so she waited. Her body trembled as she watched him, breath caught in her chest, knowing what must come next. She waited for him to cast off his garments, to bare himself in the same way she had been stripped, and there was no stopping it. Even then she felt it—this was the moment her life would change, the path laid out before her, whether she was ready or not.

When that moment finally came, she remembered the shock that seized her. The sheer size of him, the length, the girth, made her breath falter and her mind race with doubt. How could she endure it? How could something so immense fit inside of her when she had never known a man before. The thought left her nervous, both terrified and spellbound.

Copia’s low chuckle eased her for a heartbeat, loosening the knot of panic in her chest. But then came his question, soft yet cutting, “Are you frightened, little one?” The words sent a tremor through her, dragging her back to the days when life had been simpler, when she was only a girl whose sole purpose was to make his days lighter, his burdens fewer. But now she was no longer that child. She was a woman, standing on the edge of something she could not name, and she did not know what her duty was anymore—or what he truly expected of her in that moment.

“Papa… are they all that big?” she remembered whispering as he pressed her back against the office wall. His answer had come with calm certainty, telling her that most men were not. But that didn’t matter. She would never need to know any other man. It was only him she belonged to, only him she wanted. Still, the thought of it made her chest tighten. She remembered how small her voice had sounded when she confessed, “I’m scared it will 'urt, Papà.”

She also remembered how, for a fleeting moment, she had wanted to stop when he admitted that it might hurt a little. The words sent a chill through her, making her stomach twist with doubt. Perhaps there could be another way. Perhaps kisses would be enough, or the soothing press of his hands, or even the things he had done to her only moments before that had left her trembling. For a heartbeat, she thought she might ask him to leave it at that.

But before she could speak a word, the moment was gone. He swept her up with startling force, scattering papers from his desk as though they were nothing. In the next instant, she felt the hard surface beneath her, planted there by his will alone, breathless and unable to catch hold of her thoughts.

With a final plea, her voice shaking with uncertainty, she tried to explain herself—she wanted him, but the thought of taking something so great felt impossible. It was too much for her, too daunting. That was when Papa bent close, his tone steady, and promised that he would not give her more than she could bear. And in that moment, she chose to believe him. She gave him her trust.

She remembered how he had struggled to ease his fingers into her, the low sound of frustration in his throat as he tried. Wanting to please him, she parted her legs a little wider, offering herself as best she could. The intrusion burned at first, unfamiliar and tight, but then his fingers began to curl and circle inside her, working her open with slow insistence. Each deliberate touch unraveled her a little more, until all she could think of was giving herself over to him completely.

She’d felt something coil tight within her, each touch winding it further until she thought she might snap apart. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps, her body trembling as if standing on the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath her. She didn’t know what waited on the other side—only that she could no longer stop herself from falling.

Just as the heat inside her was about to break, his fingers slipped away. The sudden emptiness tore a whimper from her lips, her body trembling with need she didn’t have the words for. She reached for him, hips twitching, desperate for the touch he had stolen. But Papa only held her fast, his grip firm, his eyes steady with authority.

She still remembered what he’d said to her, “Sorella, you will not cum on my fingers. You will cum on my cock.”

The words sank into her, leaving her shivering with a hunger she couldn’t satisfy, her whole body alive with the ache of denial.

She felt him guide himself against her, the tip of his manhood putting deliberate pressure upon her entrance. Her hands clung to the edge of the desk as if it could steady her against what was coming. Then, the barrier gave way, and the sharp intrusion drew a gasp from her throat.

She recollected how her body tensed, quivering, until she heard his voice, low and steady, telling her to breathe. She forced the air out, shaky and uneven, and with it he pressed deeper. The stretch was piercing, foreign, unlike anything she had ever imagined. Her eyes blurred with tears, but still she held her ground.

She remembered the fleeting thought that crossed her mind—how does Addy endure this so often?

Each time her breath faltered, he paused. Each pause left her hovering on the brink, torn between the sting and the strange wonder of being opened. When he whispered to her—that’s it, you’re doing so well for me, sorellina—the words settled into her like a rock or something to cling to.

By the time he filled her halfway, she felt his mouth at hers, his kiss gentle where his body was not. It steadied her, made her feel for the first time that she might bear it. He waited, so still inside her, until she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Only then did her body begin to yield, adjusting to the fullness, accepting what she had thought impossible.

I’ll stop whenever you need me to, he had promised. His voice was soft, and there was no doubt he meant it.

She had shaken her head, however, desperate for him not to withdraw. “No… I want to feel it. I want you,” she whispered, opening her legs wider in offering. The weight of him settled against her as his hips met hers, and she moaned at the sensation, the steady push that broke through her in waves. His hand braced her spine, holding her as he rocked into her, each movement pulling a new sound from her lips.

Her eyes stung with tears she couldn’t hold back, the burn still there even as her body began to mold to him. She felt his pause, his careful stillness, and heard the gentleness in his murmur—does that hurt? —the concern threading through his voice.

She told him she had never felt anything like it, and in that instant, she believed he was hers and only hers. In his arms she felt shielded, as though he were her protector, and the closeness between them seemed sacred, something set apart, something no one else could ever share.

The next moment of that night rose vividly in her memory—when his restraint seemed to vanish. She recalled the sudden shift as he lifted her leg onto his shoulder, pressing her open to take him more deeply than before. The words he spoke were rough, unfiltered, and they burned into her. He wanted to know if she ever thought of him, if she touched herself with him in mind. The questions made her flush with both shame and longing.

She had answered him in a halting mix of Italian and English, confessing that sometimes she did touch herself when she thought of him. It wasn’t the truth, but she believed it was what he wanted to hear. In reality, she had never explored her own body, never dared to seek out what sensations she might give herself. Every feeling, every discovery of pleasure had come from him alone.

“Touch yourself for me now, Sorella,” he had boldly commanded.

She could still feel the way her hand had drifted downward, finding his where it rested low against her abdomen. With timid boldness, she had pressed her fingers over his, guiding them lower until they circled together over the most sensitive part of her. The memory of that touch, that unbearable sweetness, still made her shiver.

She remembered his teeth grazing her neck, gentle, careful, as though he feared marking her. But she also remembered how his rhythm had grown heavier, each thrust pushing her closer to a precipice she had never known. Her voice had betrayed her then, spilling free in a cry she could not contain: “Mi sento bene, Papà!” The words had echoed through the room as her body unraveled beneath him.

And she recalled his voice in return, low and coaxing—“That’s it, Sorella.”

She reminisced how it broke over her all at once. The pressure that had been winding inside her finally snapped, spilling into waves that shook her to her very core. Her body seized, trembling against him, every nerve alight as if she were coming undone from the inside out.

It had frightened her, this sudden, overwhelming loss of control, but it had also consumed her with a pleasure so fierce she could not hold it back. Her cry rang out again, torn between sob and moan, her legs quivering around him as though they no longer belonged to her.

For the first time in her life, she had felt what it was to shatter and still be held together by someone else. When the storm finally ebbed, she had collapsed into him, breathless, spent, her body limp against the desk.

What lingered most in her memory was not the force of it, but the way he steadied her afterward—his hand firm at her spine, his murmured words soft against her ear as though he had guided her through a threshold she could never return from.

But then it had all changed in an instant. His warmth vanished, his demeanor turned cold, and he dismissed her with a quick command to dress and go. She had been devastated, her chest heavy with the fear that he already regretted what they had shared. The sight of blood only deepened that fear—small specks staining her cotton underwear as she pulled them on with trembling hands. Papa had told her it was only because it was her first time, but the words did little to soothe her. In her heart, she could not escape the dread that she had been nothing more than a mistake to him.

Things had grown unbearably awkward between them after that night, and the return of a pregnant Addeline only worsened it. Papa avoided her at every turn, and with each passing day her sorrow deepened. She had longed to speak to him, to ask what it meant, to cling to the moment they had shared—but the chance never came. Instead, she was left with her confusion, her body aching with desperation to feel him again. Yet, at that time, his gaze belonged only to his wife, and every time Annaliese saw it, the cut of it went deeper, sharp as a knife lodged in her heart.

And then, the world had thrown her a bone. It had given her the most precious gift she could have hoped for—the sudden absence of her monthly bleeding. When she realized she was pregnant, her heart soared. She never imagined the commotion it would cause, never considered that the clergy might see it as grounds to cast her out, or that Papa might let them. She couldn’t have imagined then how devastated and broken the news would leave Addeline. In her innocence, she was only happy. She carried the secret like a treasure, unable to wait to tell him, though a quiet fear lingered at the edges of her joy, whispering questions of how he might react.

The uncontrollable sobs of Mary shattered her concentration, pulling her abruptly from the past and back into the present. Belial had long since drifted into sleep, his tiny chest rising and falling peacefully, and with care she laid him back into his crib. Then she turned to Mary, only a few months younger than her own son, and lifted the crying child into her arms. The baby’s wails only grew louder against her shoulder, snot soaking through her shirt as Annaliese rocked her, trying in vain to soothe her.

“My goodness, you are your mother’s child,” Annaliese murmured, bouncing the wailing girl against her shoulder.

Just then, Papa Emeritus appeared in the doorway, his frame filling the threshold. “What is it now?” he asked, his voice edged with sarcasm, a question that needed no answer. Mary cried incessantly, and often for no reason at all—or so it seemed. Yet Annaliese knew that the firm, steady touch of her father always quieted her.

“Nothing, Papà,” Annaliese answered softly, her accent lilting as she tried to keep her tone light. “You know how Mary is. I think she is just an insatiable child.”

Papa lifted a hand to silence her, then stretched out both arms in wordless command. Annaliese obeyed, placing the child into them, already knowing the little girl would calm the moment she was cradled against him.

Of course, Mary’s sobs faded the moment she was in his arms, dwindling into soft hiccups. The storm of her cries left behind only the shaky little gasps she tried to hold back, her tiny body shuddering with each effort to quiet herself.

“Mary, Mary, Mary,” Papà murmured, holding the child close as his gaze lingered on Annaliese. A flush of guilt rushed through her, as though she had somehow failed, and the apology spilled out before she could stop it. “I am so sorry, Papà… I am not such a good mother.”

His expression softened at once. Fearing he had wounded her pride, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “You are a fantastic mother, dolcezza,” he reassured her quietly. “Mary is just… Mary.”

Papa lowered himself into the chair and cradled the little girl against his chest, rocking her gently until her cries softened once more into sleep. Annaliese drifted over to him and sank to the floor at his side. She rested her head on his lap, closing her eyes as she let herself bask in the tranquility of his presence. His fingers combed slowly through her hair, and when he began to hum a lullaby, the sound wrapped around her like a balm, easing the ache she so often carried.

She couldn’t help slipping back into the past, to that day when she had confessed to Papà that she was pregnant. Before she realized it, the memory had escaped her lips. “Papà, do you remember when I came to you to tell you I was with child?”

She wanted to snatch the words back the instant they left her, but it was too late. Copia had already heard, and his quiet chuckle filled the space between them. He patted her head lightly, a gesture at once tender and dismissive, while Mary slept soundly against his chest. Rising carefully to his feet, he crossed the room and lowered the girl into her crib with painstaking care, mindful not to rouse her. He knew that if she woke, all peace would be shattered.

The woman trailed after him like a lost puppy, her steps hesitant, her heart unsure if he would answer her or dismiss her entirely. When he finally turned, his eyes softened. He reached for her hands, taking them gently into his own, and with a playful bop to her nose he murmured, “Of course I remember, fragolina.”

“Were you 'appy?” she asked, though in her heart she already knew what his answer would be.

He paused, searching himself for the right words. She heard the faint click of his tongue against his teeth before he finally spoke. “I was nervous, my sweet,” he admitted, a laugh rumbling out to soften the truth. “If you recall, I got into a lot of trouble over that.”

“But you were happy?” she pressed, her voice softer now, almost pleading.

Copia tilted his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his features as he searched her face. “Dolcezza, why do you ask?” he murmured, his tone caught somewhere between tenderness and puzzlement.

She tried to smile, but it was weighed down with hidden sorrow. “I…” she faltered, her voice trembling, “I just want to know that I am not a mistake to you.”

He pulled her into his arms at once, holding her so tightly she thought he might never let go. No words came at first—only the warmth of his embrace, only the safety of being held. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she wrapped her arms around him, clinging to him as though he were the only thing keeping her steady.

He swayed her gently from side to side before drawing back, his hands firm on her shoulders as he studied her face. His gaze was steady, unshaken. “You are no mistake, Annaliese,” he said with conviction, before claiming her lips in a passionate kiss that banished her doubts, if only for the moment.

Chapter Text

That night, Annaliese and Papa laid their heads down together. Even after all the nights they had shared, she still found herself in disbelief that he was truly hers. The days of longing were behind her, the years of living in another woman’s shadow finally gone. Instead, there was only the warmth of his breath beside her, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the comfort of knowing she belonged at last.

It felt so good to be back home. When the clergy first discovered her condition, they had let her remain only until she began to show, until concealment was no longer possible. Then, without mercy, they cast her out, excommunicating her from the place she had called home for fifteen years. The wound of that rejection had cut deep, leaving her hollow with grief.

But her beloved Papa did not abandon her. It was not in his nature to see her left on the streets or sent to some cold nunnery to be forgotten. Instead, he had placed money in her hands and sent her to find a house in Los Angeles, where she could make a life of her own. He wanted her near enough that he could still watch over her, still provide for her and for Belial. Though the clergy had turned its back on her, he had not, and in that devotion, she found her solace.

After Papa Emeritus and Addeline had parted ways, he came to her with words she never thought she would hear. He asked her to return to the Mountainview Mausoleum and live with him, promising that she no longer had to worry about the old ways or the rigid rules of the clergy. He made the rules now, and he wanted her and their child by his side—not hidden away, but honored, as his new bride.

Annaliese had been stunned, her heart swelling with disbelief and joy. All the years of longing, all the nights of wondering if she had only ever been a mistake, seemed to vanish in that instant. Overcome, she could only whisper her gratitude, awed that the life she had once dreamed of was suddenly being placed into her hands.

Still, there was one thing she could not grow used to—his relentless desire for passion that pressed into the realms of possession and pain.

Still so inexperienced, and not yet willing to surrender fully, she would often stop Papa before things went too far beyond her limits. Each time she did, shame weighed heavy on her, the fear gnawing that she was disappointing him. She told herself that one day she would learn, that she would be able to give him everything he desired. But for now, she carried the guilt of her hesitation, uneasy with her own weakness and afraid he might see her as lacking.

In that instant she felt Papa’s hand trail across her back, sending a shiver through her. She rolled over to face him, smiling the moment her eyes met his. She leaned in to kiss him, softly at first, but the tenderness lasted only a second. It soon ignited, deepening until it was no longer gentle but desperate, the two of them clutching at each other as if starved. Their mouths moved together in a fevered rhythm, each kiss more demanding than the last, as though neither could bear to let the other go.

She broke first, laughter slipping from her lips as she pressed closer into him. His growing erection left no question about what he wanted, and the realization made her smile against his mouth. Tilting her head back just enough to catch his eyes, she teased, her voice low and sweet, “Papà… did you want something from me?”

The words hung between them, half-innocent, half-daring, her laughter softening the edge of her provocation. Yet her heart raced, knowing full well what his answer would be.

His smile curved. He didn’t answer her right away. Instead, his hand slid firmly down her side, claiming every inch of her until she was trembling beneath his touch. Then he caught her chin between his fingers and lifted her face to meet his gaze.

“Always,” he told her, his tone low, sharp with intent. “And you’ll give it to me, won’t you, sorellina?”

His words struck through her like a commandment, leaving no room for doubt. Her teasing smile faltered, and her breath caught. She had wanted to play, to provoke, but she could feel in his eyes that he would take what she had offered, and more.

“Si, Papà,” she whispered, “I’m yours.”

The confession poured out of her like a vow, her body yielding as her hands slid up to clutch at his shoulders. Whatever fear lingered was drowned beneath the heat of wanting him, the relief of giving herself over completely. In that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be claimed, to prove to him she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Papa slid the nightgown from her shoulders, letting the thin fabric glide over her freckled skin as it fell away. His mouth found her neck, kissing and sucking in turns, marking her with every touch. He stripped out of his own boxers without breaking contact, pressing closer, his lips moving from gentle to possessive as he tasted her.

Copia seized her and turned her over in one swift motion so that her chest pressed into the mattress. His weight followed, covering her like a weighted blanket. Leaning down, his lips brushed her ear as his voice dropped into a dark whisper, “I’d like to try something, Sorella…”

She was in no position to refuse. Every lesson she had been taught, to obey, to yield, rose to the surface. Her voice cracked, half-breathless. “What do you want me to do, Papà?”

A grin tugged at Copia’s lips, sly and unhurried, though she could not see it. He shifted his hips forward, pressing the hard length of himself against the curve of her ass, grinding slowly as if to remind her just how helpless she was beneath him.

“Stay still,” he growled, one hand fisting in her hair and jerking her head back so her mouth was close to his ear. With the other he dragged his palm down her spine, stopping only to slip between her thighs. His fingers found her slick, teasing her folds before driving inside without warning. She gasped and arched against the bed, but his grip on her hair held her steady.

Her muffled cry only spurred him on. He pumped his fingers harder, curling them deep until she writhed beneath him. When he finally pulled them out, slick and glistening, he spread her thighs wider with his knee and lined himself against her entrance.

With a rough thrust, Papa buried himself inside his wife. The force drove another cry from her lips, her nails clawing at the sheets as he filled her completely. It was the first time she had taken him whole. He pressed down harder on her back, pinning her in place while his hips snapped forward again, each thrust sharp and unrelenting.

“You feel that?” he hissed in her ear. “That’s mine. Every bit of you.”

The bed creaked under the rhythm he set, fast and merciless with her body taking every push as he claimed her without pause. Broken and raw, she moaned helplessly and still he didn’t let up, his grin widening with each desperate noise she made.

He wasn’t usually this rough with her but in that moment, she felt every sharp thrust drive into her, each one harder than the last. Her body ached, stretched tight around him, but she pushed herself to meet him, desperate to keep pace.

“Brava, Sorella,” he growled against her ear, his breath ragged. “Take me… all of me.” His hand clamped at her hip, holding her exactly where he wanted, giving her no room to retreat.

“I—I’m trying, Papa,” she gasped, her voice breaking, but he only pressed deeper, grinding into her until her breath hitched again.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he whispered, rough and fervent. “Let me hear you… let me hear how much you can take.”

The bed shook beneath them, her body trembling as she tried to mold herself to his rhythm, and though the strain made her shudder, her heart surged with every word of praise he gave her.

But then she couldn’t take anymore.

Her voice broke as the words tumbled out. “Papa, stop… I can’t… it’s too much.”

The moment they left her lips, his thrusts faltered. He held still, his chest rising and falling against her back, his grip on her hip shaking as though torn between instinct and restraint.

Then, slowly, he loosened his hold. “Va bene, Sorella,” he whispered, “I hear you.”

He pulled back just enough for her to draw in a full breath, one hand smoothing down her spine as though to soothe the ache he had left there. His body still burned with need, but he pressed gentle kisses along her neck, the sharpness of a moment ago fading into reverence.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmured, nuzzling against her skin. “I don’t want to break you.”

She closed her eyes, relief mingling with the warmth of his tenderness, and for the first time since he had flipped her down, she felt safe again, even in his fever.

She felt the weight ease off her back. For a moment, she thought he might withdraw completely, but instead he lingered, his breath still warm at her neck, his hands still exploring the curves of her body.

Her heart swelled at his confession. She turned her head just enough to catch his mouth, their lips brushing in a slow, tender kiss. “I know,” she whispered, her voice steadier now. “I want you, Papa… just slower. Let me feel you.”

His chest tightened at her words. He nodded against her, his lips grazing her jaw as he shifted back into her with deliberate care. This time, the thrust was deep but measured, his hand guiding hers so she could brace herself.

Her body adjusted to the slower rhythm, her cries turning from pained to pleading. Annaliese pressed back against him, guiding his thrusts, letting him know she could take more this way. Copia’s breath tore out of him in ragged groans, his forehead damp against her shoulder as he matched her movements.

“Così…” he panted, “That’s it. You’re guiding me now, sì? Tell me how much you want.”

She gasped as he filled her again, the sting replaced by a steady ache that burned sweet. “Like this, Papa,” she whispered. “Stay with me… just like this.”

Her words nearly unraveled him. His grip on her hip tightened, his body shaking with the effort of restraint. Every muscle in him screamed to let go, to drive harder until he lost himself in her completely, but he forced it down, forced himself to obey the softness in her plea.

He buried his face against her neck, his voice breaking on the edge of a groan. “You don’t know what you do to me. Dio… I could lose myself in you.”

She shuddered beneath him as the pleasure overtook her, sharp cries spilling into the sheets while her walls clenched desperately around him. He drove her through it, holding her steady, letting her ride her orgasm until she collapsed. For her, this was still so new.

But even as her climax wrung every bit of her strength, his own release never came. His cock pulsed hard inside her, the need vicious, but he held himself back. His jaw tightened, his grip on her hip bruising as he wrestled against the urge to let go.

He wanted it too much—wanted to pound into her without restraint, to take what he needed until the tension inside him broke. But she had already begged him to stop once, and he couldn’t push her past what she could bear.

“You’re perfect, dolcezza,” he rasped into her ear. “You give me everything… but I can’t finish like this. Not when I can’t have you the way I need.”

She turned her head weakly, still trembling from the aftershocks. “But I wanted you to.”

He kissed her hard, almost desperate, then pulled back with a ragged breath. “No. You came for me, that’s enough tonight.” His insides ached with denial, still throbbing inside her, but he stilled, content only to hold her, the hunger inside him caged.

She wouldn’t disappoint him tonight though. Even trembling from her own release, she turned to him with pleading eyes. “Please, Papa… let me please you.”

With a low groan, he finally withdrew, falling back onto the mattress. His chest rose and fell in heavy breaths, his cock still rigid, straining with denied release. He stared down at himself, fist flexing once as though he might finish it with his own hand, but the thought soured almost instantly.

His gaze shifted to the woman, flushed and so willing beside him as a wicked idea tugged at him. He could teach her. He could guide her mouth until she learned exactly how to serve him with it. His jaw tightened, breath catching at the thought of her lips stretching around him.

“Dio mio…” he muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to her. He reached out, brushing a thumb across her swollen bottom lip. “You would do that for me, wouldn’t you, Sorella? Learn how to take me in your mouth?”

Her lips parted beneath his thumb, her breath quick and uneven. She nodded, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of nervousness.

“Come here,” he urged. He guided her down with a gentle hand at the back of her head until she was kneeling between his thighs. His cock stood hard and flushed, heavy against his stomach, the sight of it making her swallow.

“Look at me,” he murmured. She lifted her eyes, meeting his gaze. “Good girl. Now… start with your tongue. Slow. Taste me.”

Annaliese leaned forward and pressed her tongue to the swollen head. The groan that tore from Copia’s throat was immediate. His hand tightened in her hair, not forcing, but steadying.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Lick along the side… sì, just like that. Take your time.”

She followed his words, her tongue tracing the thick vein along his shaft, her lips brushing his skin. His eyes fluttered shut as he let his head fall back against the pillow and his chest rose in sharp, shallow breaths.

“Now,” he said, “wrap those pretty lips around me. Take me in slow.”

She obeyed, lips closing around the head of his cock, sliding him into the wet heat of her mouth. He hissed through his teeth, his hips jerking before he caught himself.

“Merda… brava,” he groaned, his fingers stroking her hair as he guided her down inch by inch. “Not too fast. Breathe through your nose. Yes… sì, that’s perfect.”

The sight of Annaliese, her mouth stretched around him, made his restraint tremble on the edge. His voice came ragged, torn between praise and command. “Use your hand too… stroke what you can’t take. Ah— Dio, you’re learning so well…”

Her lips slid lower, her hand stroking what she couldn’t take as her tongue pressed against the underside of his cock. Copia’s head rolled back against the pillow, a broken groan escaping his chest as his fingers tightened in her hair.

“Brava, Sorella… just like that,” he panted, his hips twitching despite his effort to hold still. “Keep going— Dio, sì—don’t stop.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, wide and glistening, and the sight of her mouth full of him unraveled what was left of his restraint. His breaths grew more ragged, his grip guiding her in a steady rhythm as the tension inside him broke.

“Merda— I’m coming—” he growled, thrusting.

The woman braced herself, but nothing could have prepared her for the sudden heat that spilled across her tongue. She gagged, her throat tightening as the taste filled her mouth, bitter and overwhelming.

Her instinct was to pull back, but his grip held her there, groaning her name as the last pulses faded until finally his hand relaxed in her hair. Copia’s chest rose and fell in uneven gasps, his eyes heavy-lidded but soft when they found hers again.

“Brava,” he whispered, cupping her cheek with a trembling hand. “You did so well for me… so well.”

Her lips slid from him, but she didn’t swallow. Instead, she sat frozen, cheeks puffed, his taste heavy on her tongue. Copia’s eyes narrowed immediately—he knew that look.

“Ahh, Sorella…” he muttered, scrambling for the nightstand. He snatched a napkin and pressed it to her mouth. “Spit, spit—don’t sit there like a little squirrel with a nut in her cheek!”

She obeyed quickly, relief flooding her as she spat into the cloth. She wiped her mouth clean, red with both embarrassment and the effort it had taken to keep it in.

Copia leaned back on his elbows, still catching his breath, grinning at her with a mischievous twinkle. “Well? How is it, eh? Like fine wine? Or… more like spoiled milk?”

She hesitated, then gave him a small, sheepish smile. “It’s… not my favorite taste, Papà. But I’m happy to have pleased you.”

He chuckled, cupping her cheek and tugging her close for a kiss. “You please me plenty.” His grin widened, mischief dancing in his eyes. “But eh… next time, maybe I bring you a little silver bucket, sì? Like the wine tasters do. You swish it around, spit, and then tell Papa, ‘Mmm… good body, a little bitter on the finish!’”

She laughed into his chest as he pulled her against him, his humor easing the sharp edges of the moment.

Chapter Text

The sun poured through the bedroom window, its heat pressing down on Addy like an unwelcome touch. She was not accustomed to such brightness. At the ministry, the chamber she had shared with Papa had been a place of shadows—corridors swallowed in gloom, crypts breathing with candlelight, where the sun never dared intrude.

She yawned, stretching lazily before rolling onto her side. Beside her lay her new husband, Swiss, still deep in sleep, undisturbed by the sunlight that streamed across the bed. Addy studied his face in the quiet, her chest tightening with a strange mix of wonder and disbelief that this was now her reality.

It was a welcome change from the life she had known—light where there had once been darkness, freedom where there had only been captivity, safety where there had been danger, and peace instead of chaos. Everything was different now, save for one thing. She laid a hand over her growing belly, and the other against her husband’s cheek.

He stirred at the touch of her hand, smiling without opening his eyes. He reached out to pull her near and closed the space between them with a soft kiss, "Good morning, babe," he muttered drowsily. "How did you sleep?"

She felt the insistent press of his morning arousal against her abdomen and smirked, her hand sliding down to brush his hip. “Mmm… I slept fine. Terrible heartburn, though,” she teased, “but I see you slept very well.”

Swiss chuckled, cracking one eye open to peer at her. “Hard not to, with you beside me.” He rolled onto his back, tugging her with him, letting her feel the full extent of his morning wood. “But I think I know a cure for that heartburn.”

Addy laughed softly as she swatted at his chest, “That’s not how it works.”

“Sure it is,” he grinned, catching her wrist and kissing her knuckles. “Doctor’s orders.”

She shook her head but leaned down to kiss him, her laughter melting into a breathy sigh as his hand slid beneath her nightgown. His fingers skimmed up her thigh, finding her already warm and pliant.

“See?” he murmured against her lips, playful but low with need. “Best medicine there is.”

Addy bit her lip, giving in to his touch, her hips rocking into his hand. The quiet glow of the room caught the softness of their laughter, the tenderness in their moans, as playfulness gave way to something deeper.

Swiss’s grin widened as he spoke, “That’s my girl.” He shifted, rolling her beneath him. She felt him hot and ready against her as he pushed her nightgown higher, baring her completely.

“Still want your medicine?” he teased.

But just as he shifted to move over her, she flinched, gasping. A sharp twinge tightened low in her belly.

“Addy?” Swiss stilled instantly, his teasing grin dropping into concern. He cupped her face. “Talk to me.”

She shook her head, breathing through it. “It’s fine—just a cramp. Happens sometimes.”

He frowned as he brushed the hair back from her damp forehead. “Then we stop. No arguments.”

“But, Swiss—” she began, but he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, silencing her.

“Shh. You and the baby come first. Always.”

Her heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. She nodded, letting him pull her close against his chest. His hand rested protectively over her belly, not in frustration, but in quiet devotion.

Guess you win this time,” he murmured, patting Addy’s belly as though the baby had bested him. He kissed the top of her head before grinning down at her. “But don’t think you’re off the hook, babe. I’m holding you to a rain check, and I collect interest.”

With eyes that shined with mischief and tenderness, Addy tilted her face up. “You can cash it in any time you want,” she whispered, brushing her lips against his.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest as he kissed her back, softer this time. “Careful, babe. I might just take you up on that sooner than you think.”

She wanted nothing more than to stay in bed with him, but she had a laundry list of duties waiting. It was her week to have the children—Elizabeth, Kaisarion, Opus, Cirice, Meliora, Mary, and Faith. Seven of them, all under one roof. She and Papa shared custody, and without a nanny it was a full-time circus trying to keep up. Someone was always fighting, someone was always crying, and all of them together could eat her out of a house and a home before noon.

Meliora was Swiss’s biological child, born of an affair that had begun between he and Addeline while on the road. Papa Emeritus had been less than pleased to learn the truth of the boy’s paternity, yet he loved the tot too fiercely to let him go. He had raised Meliora as his own, and when he and Addeline parted ways, he all but begged Swiss and the woman to let him remain in the child’s life.

That truth had marked the beginning of the clergy’s downfall. They had turned on the boy, threatening to cast him out of the ministry by any means necessary. Papa, however, would sooner have died than see it done. Together with his mother, Sister Imperator, he devised a plan to bring the clergy to its knees. The retaliation was brutal and bloody — but in the end, the reward had been worth every drop spilled.

But now the task of building a new ministry lay before them—with new members, new rules, and new standards to uphold. Papa had asked Addy to help him shape it, and so its creation had found its way onto her already overflowing list of duties for the day.

For Addy, it was a point of pride. She had been honored when Papa asked for her help. There was delicious irony in it too—that the very clergy who once enslaved her, who reduced her to nothing more than a breeding cow, were gone. And now she, the woman they tried to break, was helping design the ministry that rose from their ashes. In the end, she had the last laugh.

She also had a prenatal appointment that day—something she dreaded as much as she relied upon. Her pregnancies had always been high risk; three premature births, a terrifying bout of hemorrhaging, and two C-sections had left scars deeper than the ones on her skin. The doctors had warned her not to conceive again, fearful her body would not endure.

Swiss had tried to talk her out of it, his worry plain every time she brought it up. He had begged her to think about her safety, pleaded that he could not bear to lose her. But Addy had been persistent, her longing for another child with him too powerful to silence.

After Faith, she had thought she was finished, yet the dream of giving Swiss another had eclipsed her fears. Still, even in her joy, an uneasy shadow clung to her—the dread that history might repeat itself.

Swiss watched her as she dressed, a soft smile tugging at his lips. She was beautiful, radiant, and somehow, she was his. Even after everything, he could hardly believe she had chosen him. He had suffered heartbreak at her hands before—the rejection, the ache of always being second—yet none of it dimmed the joy he felt now. She was his wife, and the thought filled him with a love so fierce it outweighed every scar of the past.

“I want you to call me when you leave the doctor’s office, okay?”

She shook her head with a small laugh. “You really worry too much.”

“I don’t think you worry enough,” Swiss shot back, his tone sharp with concern. “I’m serious, Adds. I want to know what Dr. Sullivan says about the baby and about you. We really need to figure out a birth plan or something.”

“I’m trying for a VBAC this time,” she said firmly.

“I know that’s what you want, Adds,” he sighed, “but you know that’s dangerous.”

Her lips curved, teasing him. “Oh, you’re a doctor now, are you?”

“Maybe I should come with you,” he pressed, worry etched across his face.

She softened, touching his arm. “No. There’s no point dragging you two hours away. You don’t want to get stuck in the city with me.” She held his gaze, her voice gentle. “I’ll call you. I promise.”

Addeline hopped into the car and began her journey into the city where Papa lived. With the sunroof down and the wind in her hair, she basked in her newfound freedom. She no longer needed permission for anything, no longer trapped by the confines of the ministry. Once she had felt like a caged bird; now she finally felt as though she could fly.

She wasn’t very far along in her pregnancy, just shy of her second trimester, but already she felt more uncomfortable this time, plagued by small aches and twinges. When she had first learned she was expecting again, her longtime physician, Dr. Sullivan, had been thorough to the point of obsession: an extended intake, a detailed history of every past pregnancy, lab work, genetic screenings. No stone was left unturned.

Unlike most expectant mothers, Addy was driving into the city every two weeks for appointments, though it wasn’t a major inconvenience since she already had to pick her children up every other week from Papa. For now, though, she kept the news secret, holding it close like something fragile she wasn’t ready to share.

She sat in the waiting room, her fingers absently twisting the strap of her purse as the minutes ticked by. The walls were a sterile white, the low hum of the air conditioner was the only sound besides the occasional shuffle of footsteps from other expectant mothers. She shifted in her seat, wincing faintly at the dull ache in her lower belly.

“Addeline?” a nurse called at last.

Addy stood, smoothing her skirt, and followed the woman down the narrow corridor into an exam room. Once she was settled on the table, Dr. Sullivan swept in with her usual brisk smile.

“Well, Addeline, how are we doing today?”

Addy gave a small shrug. “I’ve been having these little cramps. Not terrible, just… uncomfortable. Worse than I remember before.”

Dr. Sullivan nodded thoughtfully, slipping on her glasses and flipping through the chart. “That’s fairly common, especially with how many pregnancies your body has been through. Most likely it’s the ligaments stretching. They can pull harder and ache more in subsequent pregnancies.”

“So it’s nothing dangerous?” Addy asked quickly, her voice revealing more fear than she meant to show.

The doctor’s expression softened. “Not necessarily, but we’ll watch it closely. Per your last screenings, I do have one concern—your cervix looks weaker than I’d like at this stage. With your history of preterm births, I’d like to plan ahead.”

Addy’s stomach dropped. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Dr. Sullivan said gently, “that once you’re at twelve weeks, I want to place a cerclage. It’s a small stitch to keep your cervix closed. It’s preventative and given your history, it’s a wise step. It could be the difference between carrying to term and facing another premature delivery.”

Addy nodded slowly, trying to absorb the words. The idea of stitches inside her body made her skin prickle, but the alternative pressed heavier.

Dr. Sullivan reached out, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll take it one step at a time. But you and I are going to be very careful with this little one, alright?”

Addy managed a small smile, though her heart thudded in her chest. “Alright.”

Addy stepped out of the office into the brightness of the parking lot, the sun momentarily blinding her after the sterile hush of the clinic. She clutched her bag to her chest as she made her way to the car, the doctor’s words circling in her mind.

Cerclage. Weak cervix. Preventative.

She slid into the driver’s seat and sat there for a long moment. Her fingers rested against the steering wheel, but she couldn’t bring herself to turn the key just yet.

Swiss was going to worry. He always worried. If she told him about the cerclage, about the risk of her cervix giving way, he’d panic. He’d hover. He’d remind her again how he never wanted her to put herself through this. And yet… if she didn’t tell him, she knew he’d feel betrayed.

Addy pressed her forehead to the steering wheel and exhaled. “God, how do I even say it?”

She pictured his face—that mix of tenderness and frustration, the way his eyes darkened whenever she brushed off her symptoms. She wanted to protect him from the fear, but more than that, she wanted to protect the fragile joy of this baby.

Finally, she started the engine, the low rumble grounding her. Maybe tonight, she thought. After dinner. I’ll ease him into it. He deserves to know… I just have to find the words.

The city street opened before her, but all the while, the weight of the secret pressed down heavier than the sunlight overhead.

Her next stop was the Mountainview Mausoleum, the place she had once called home for so many years. A shiver ran through her as she gazed upon it, the sight dredging up memories of the darkness that had ruled within its walls. She shuddered at the thought that she and her children had once lived beneath such a dictatorship, bound to its cruelty. For a fleeting moment, she dared to wonder what might have become of them had life continued on as it was — and the thought alone made her stomach turn.

She walked up to the heavy doors and knocked. It was Sister Annaliese who answered. Addeline had never been fond of the woman during her marriage to Papa Emeritus; she had always felt Annaliese lurking like an unwanted shadow behind her husband, scheming in silence, waiting for her chance to take him.

The memory struck her hard — the day she had discovered that Papa had impregnated Annaliese. She could still see the slip of paper, a check sticking out of his pocket made payable to the girl. She had confronted him then, her heart splintering in her chest as the truth came crashing down. Rage and grief had consumed her in equal measure. She had unleashed every ounce of violence she could muster, striking at him through her tears, her voice rising as she called him out for his betrayal. The hall had rung with her fury and despair, Swiss watching helplessly as she crumbled. She had cried so hard she thought she might die

Though that memory felt distant now, Addy couldn’t help but let the old disdain cling to her. Time had dulled the sting but not erased it. Annaliese seemed to sense it too; the younger sister could feel it in every ounce of her being. She knew she would never be Addy’s favorite person, no matter how many years had passed.

Annaliese’s lips curved into a polite smile, though her eyes blinked with unease. “Addeline,” she said smoothly, stepping aside. “What a surprise. We did not expect you so early.”

Addy’s cool and unwavering gaze swept over her, “Annaliese.” Her voice was steady, but the name landed like a stone. “I hadn’t expected to find you answering his door. Do you not have servants for that?”

Her smile tightened as her fingers curled into the folds of her sweater. “I’ve been helping where I can. The ministry requires… stability.”

Addy’s brow arched. “Is that what you call it?”

For a moment, silence pressed between them, heavy with unspoken venom. Annaliese shifted first, gesturing stiffly toward the hall. “You’d better come in. Entra.”

Addy brushed past her, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. Even now, she could feel the sister bristle at her presence and she took a certain satisfaction in knowing it.

“I’m afraid Papa may not be ready for you,” Annaliese said smoothly, her hands folded primly in front of her. “He has a meeting soon, and as I’ve said… we did not expect you until much later.”

“That’s fine,” Addy replied evenly. “I’ll just take the kids, and we can reschedule.”

“Of course. I’ll notify him of your arrival.”

Addy remained in the foyer as Annaliese swept away down the corridor, her steps echoing against the stone. The silence that followed was almost unsettling. The Mausoleum had always been alive with whispers, footsteps, the distant flicker of candlelight. But now it felt hushed, too still, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

She barely had time to glance up before Papa emerged from the shadows of the hall, cassock swaying around his legs. His eyes caught hers.

“Mi Amore,” his voice was low and curled faintly into a smile. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here so soon. I’m afraid you’ve caught me by surprise.”

She dipped her head and steadied herself. “I didn’t mean to interrupt but I was already on this side of town. I had a… thing I needed to take care of. I know we may not be able to make plans for the ministry today, and that’s fine. I can just take the children.”

Papa’s mouth softened into something warmer. He stepped close, his hand brushing her arm before he leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek.

“Interrupt?” he murmured near her ear. “Nothing pleases me more than when you come to see me.”

She swallowed, “I understand if your schedule doesn’t allow time for us today—truly, Papa. I don’t want to intrude.”

“Perhaps,” he said, tilting his head as his gaze searched her face. “But you’ve already brightened my day, Addeline. Surely you know that.”

Addy folded her hands together, “Really, Papa, I should just take the children. My errands aren’t finished, and I still need to stop by the store before heading home.”

But Papa only smiled, that slow, knowing curve of his lips that always seemed to unravel her composure. “And rush away so soon? No, Amore. You’ll stay a while. A few minutes will not break your errands.”

She hesitated, her pulse quickening. She had promised Swiss she would call after her appointment, and now the thought of delaying, of keeping him waiting while she lingered here, made her uneasy. The groceries could wait, but Swiss’s displeasure, or worse, his worry, could not. Still, Papa’s presence loomed before her so inescapable.

“I don’t want to intrude. You have meetings—”

“Nonsense, I have time,” he interrupted with his eyes fixed on hers. He reached up to brush a loose strand of hair back from her cheek, his fingers lingering just long enough to stir old memories. “We’ve matters yet to discuss. The ministry will not rebuild itself, will it?”

“If you insist, Papa,” she gulped, torn between home and duty.

“I do insist!” He leaned back, still close enough for her to feel his presence pressing down. “The children can wait a little longer.”

She followed Papa into his office, the two of them still trading light pleasantries. Once inside, he closed the door behind them, settled into his chair, and pulled another close. With a pat to the seat, he gestured for Addeline to sit beside him.

“There’s a young woman named Judith who wants to come to the ministry,” Papa began. “She’s a PR professional, from what I gather. I think she could be useful here.”

Addy tilted her head. “Is that all we know about her? Can we really trust her to handle our image?”

“Sister vouches for her,” he said simply. “ So, I believe it’s safe. I’ll meet with her soon enough and tell you what I think.”

Addy nodded, relief softening her features. “Good. After what happened…” Her voice trailed off as the memory rose to the forefront of her mind . The day she thought she had lost him , the chaos of the clergy’s downfall, the moment Swiss returned with her daughter in tow but seemingly without Papa . She remembered the hollow feeling in her chest, the way her knees nearly gave out, the terror that clawed at her until he emerged from the car . Even now, half a year later, the nightmares lingered.

“After what happened,” she repeated, “we need someone we can trust to guard how we appear to the world.”

I agree, my tesoro. This is why I value your opinion. You’ve always had such strong ones.”

Addy began to falter, her thoughts drifting. Copia tilted his head, quickly catching it. “Are you alright, my pet? You seem… distant.”

“What?” She blinked, shaking herself from the haze and meeting his eyes. “Oh, no, I’m fine. I just… I didn’t sleep much last night, and it already feels like it’s been a very long day.”

He reached over, his hand warm on her knee. “Are you sure you can handle the children? I can keep them another day, it’s no issue.”

“No.” The word came out quickly and firm. “I’m already here, and they’re probably excited to come along.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “That they are.” He rose from his chair just as the door flew open.

He had barely risen from his chair when the office door banged open so hard it rattled the hinges. Kaisarion barreled in, hair wild, clutching his shoes in one hand and a half-buttoned shirt in the other. “Papa, Eliza stole my brush again and now I can’t—”

Elizabeth shot in right behind him, cheeks flushed, waving the missing brush triumphantly in the air. “I did not! He left it in the bathroom, and I found it, so it’s mine now!”

Copia pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan while Addy stifled a laugh.

Opus and Cirice appeared next, slipping in quietly behind their louder siblings. They remained quiet, standing in the doorway hand in hand with their wide eyes fixed on the room. Their silence was almost eerie, their skin pale to the point of translucence.

They looked more and more like a young Sister Imperator with each passing day, but it was Cirice who bore the closest resemblance—her high ponytail, the long shape of her face, the quiet way she held herself like a shadow of the woman they all knew. 

The silence stretched until Kaisarion groaned and snatched the hairbrush clean from Elizabeth’s hand.

Meliora was next to tumble into the room, his long curls bouncing into his eyes as he barreled past the twins with peals of laughter. He looked nothing like his mother, and certainly nothing like Papa, but was the very image of his true father.

He ran straight into Addeline’s arms, his little face gleaming with joy as he shouted, “Mama!”

She scooped him up instantly, cradling him close against her chest. Papa smiled at the sight and reached over to tousle the boy’s curls.

Meliora clutched something tightly in his hand—a grucifix, shiny and sharp.

“What have you got there?” Addy asked, leaning toward him.

Before the boy could answer, Elizabeth looked up from the squabble she was having with her brother and snapped, “That’s Papa’s. Meli’s not supposed to have that! He’s been snooping again!”

Papa arched a brow and crossed the room in two strides. With a sigh, he gave Elizabeth a quick pop on the bottom—not hard, just enough to make his point. “Eh, you let your brother be, cara mia. Worry about yourself, sì?”

Her face soured instantly, but she knew better than to test him. “Yes, Daddy,” she muttered.

Next to her, Kaisarion stuck out his tongue, grinning wide, far too pleased she had landed in trouble.

Copia clapped his hands together, his voice carrying across the room. “Now, who is ready to go with Mommy?”

“ME!” came the chorus, all at once, shrill and eager. The sound made Addeline laugh, and her heart swelled at the sight of their little hands and bright faces. She adored her children. They were her joy, her pride, her entire reason for being.

Papa’s lips rounded in amusement as he turned to leave. “I’ll fetch Mary and Faith.”

Addy nodded, grateful for his help, and began shepherding the five elder children toward the door. Their voices echoed in her ears as she guided them out. She ushered them across the gravel drive, their chatter spilling over one another as they jostled for seats. Buckles clicked, little hands fidgeted, and voices overlapped in a chorus of demands—Elizabeth insisting on the window, Kaisarion elbowing her in the back, Cirice silently glaring until Opus slid over to give her space. Despite the ache in her belly, she forced a steady smile. Keeping order among them always felt like herding wild birds, but they were hers, and she wouldn’t trade the chaos for anything.

The slam of the front door drew her attention just as she shut the last buckle. Papa strode out with Faith on his hip and Mary clutched in his other arm. Faith was calm, content to lean against him—but Mary made her displeasure known in ear-splitting shrieks, her tiny fists flailing at his cassock.

Addy winced as the high-pitched wail cut through the air. Papa shot her a look of exasperation and amusement as he shifted the squirming girl higher against his chest. “Your daughter,” he called over Mary’s screams, “is not pleased with our arrangement this morning.”

Addy reached instinctively. “Here, give her to me. I’ll—”

The moment she touched Mary’s arm, the child twisted away, her cries doubling in pitch. “No! Papa! Papa!” she wailed, clinging to him with desperate fists.

Addy’s smile faltered. She smoothed Faith’s curls instead, lifting the quiet child into her own arms while Papa rocked Mary against his chest.

“I can keep her here,” he offered gently over the racket. “It will be easier on both of you.”

“I don’t understand she…ugh…”

“Don’t fret. She loves you… you know how temperamental she can be.” His tone was firm but not unkind, the sort of reassurance only he could deliver.

Addy hesitated, then nodded. “You’re right. It’s best.” She pressed a kiss to Faith’s temple, the quiet warmth of her youngest daughter soothing, a stark contrast to the sting of Mary’s rejection. “Still… I’ll miss her.”

“Then I’ll bring her to you midweek,” he said over Mary’s cries. “You’ll still have your time with her, I promise.”

Addy exhaled slowly, relief mingling with sadness. “That would mean a lot.”

Papa gave a small nod, rocking Mary closer still. “Then it’s settled.”

He bounced Mary gently, her cries softening into mews as he pressed his nose to her curls. With his free hand, he brushed his thumb along Addy’s cheek. “Go on, tesoro. I’ll see you soon. Drive safe.”

She nodded, her throat tight. She gathered herself and climbed behind the wheel as Papa stepped back, raising his hand in farewell. The children shouted their goodbyes from the windows, voices tumbling over one another in excited chaos.

Copia’s smile lingered as he waved them off, standing tall in the drive until the car disappeared from sight.

Addy tried to match the smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. As the ministry shrank in the rearview mirror, her chest tightened. The road ahead wasn’t just miles of open highway—it was the hard conversation with Swiss she faced later on.

Chapter Text

Swiss, upon hearing the car pull into the driveway, ran to open up the door. He saw the children approaching and already knew what everyone would ask for and he wanted to be ready to make everyone happy to keep chaos to a minimum. Elizabeth was the first to enter, “Hello Uncle Swiss, do you have—”

He handed the child a chessboard without talking. Since the young girl craved being a leader she favored strategic games, the kind where she could calculate, dominate, and command the pieces as though they were subjects under her rule. Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed as she accepted it, already plotting her first move before the board was even set.

Kaisarion was next, bounding in with his usual cheer. “Jolly good day, Swiss, where’s the—”

Without hesitation, Swiss placed a Nintendo Switch in his hands. Kaisarion grinned, his excitement plain and unguarded. He was a normal child in every sense—easy to please, quick to laugh.

He had been bred to be a leader, carefully groomed and taught, but his heart was too pure, like his father’s. He longed for peace, not domination. Unlike Elizabeth, whose hunger for power seemed innate, Kaisarion fell short of the steel it took to rule.

Opus and Cirice walked in next, not saying a word. They stood before the ghoul and made eye contact but did little else to greet him.

“Hi, guys,” the man said gently. “Still not talking, huh?”

They glanced at each other and then back at him, simultaneously holding out their hands in perfect unison. Swiss chuckled under his breath at their wordless synchronicity, reaching behind him to collect the offerings he had already prepared. Into one hand he placed a worn DVD case of The Shining—their odd but undeniable favorite. Into the other, a bag of freshly cooked popcorn, still warm enough for the butter to glisten through the paper.

Neither child spoke, but their eyes brightened at the exchange, a silent agreement passing between them. Swiss watched them drift toward the couch, a strange pair, bound more tightly to each other than to anyone else in the room. He shook his head with a smile.

Then it was Meliora’s turn to enter. He had the trophy for being Addeline’s brightest child, always with a smile on his face. The boy ran as fast as his little legs could carry him up the driveway, a sippy cup tucked under one arm and the other reaching for the man.

“Daddy!” he cried, his little voice ringing with joy.

Swiss bent down, scooping him up in one smooth motion, laughter spilling out of him before he could stop it. Seeing his son like this—uncomplicated, happy—was his greatest joy. He held him tight, breathing in the familiar scent of the ministry.

His mind drifted back to the day the child was born—the chaos of a soundcheck interrupted by Addy’s sudden labor. No sterile room, no doctors, just panic backstage and his trembling hands doing what had to be done. It had been one of the scariest moments of his life, but also the most defining. By sheer will he had delivered the boy, and when he finally heard that first wail, he thought his heart would burst.

But at the time, he couldn’t admit the tike was his. Not with the eyes of Papa and fans upon them, not with Addy’s fate and reputation already hanging by a thread.

Now, however, it was no longer a secret he had to keep, and seeing the child run to him, calling him ‘Daddy’ sent his heart soaring. He held out his arms to catch the boy, grabbing him immediately and embracing him tightly.

“Meliora,” he chuckled, his voice thick with pride, “how is my boy?”

The little one laughed, clutching at Swiss’s collar with his free hand while the sippy cup wobbled precariously in the other. His cheeks were flushed from the sprint, his bright eyes glowing with an innocence that seemed untouched by the heavy legacy shadowing the family.

Swiss pressed his forehead lightly to his son’s, breathing him in as though he needed the proof of him, solid and real in his arms. To be called Daddy out loud, with no fear of judgment or denial—it was still a miracle to him.

“Do you have some candy for me, Daddy?”

“Of course I do, little man.” Swiss’s voice was warm, but his temperament faltered as his eyes lifted and caught sight of Addy coming up the drive with Faith cradled in her arms. For a second, the joy of the moment snagged against the tension in his chest.

He glanced back at Meliora quickly, forcing a smile to hold steady. “Go look in the kitchen, ok? It should be on the table.”

Swiss set his son gently back on solid ground, giving him one last affectionate pat on the back.

“Yay!!” the boy shouted, already darting toward the kitchen.

Swiss exhaled slowly, straightening as Addy approached, the weight of unspoken words in her tired eyes. He rubbed his palms together once, bracing himself, before offering her a half-smile.

“No Mary?”

Addy laughed sarcastically. “What do you think?”

He gave her a knowing nod as he took Faith from her arms. “Adds, it’s okay. I know it bugs you, but Mary’s going through some separation anxiety. It’s completely normal in situations where parents divorce.”

She shrugged, breathing out heavily. “It’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, babe. She’s always been attached to Emeritus. Remember when K-man was that age? He cried non-stop for you.”

“And you,” Addy reminded him.

Swiss laughed, shifting Faith against his chest. “Well, all your kids love me. What can I say?”

He turned, letting his eyes roam the room. Elizabeth hunched over her chessboard, already in deep concentration. Kaisarion sat cross-legged on the floor, Switch in hand, content as ever. Opus and Cirice watched The Shining in their strange, silent togetherness, popcorn between them. And Meliora—his Meliora—was tearing into a candy bar at the kitchen table, humming to himself.

Swiss’s chest swelled with pride. “Look at that. All of ‘em happy. You’re welcome.”

Addy leaned into him, pressing a kiss against his lips. “I’m so thankful for you.”

But then a heavy silence settled between them, stretching awkwardly until the man gave a weighted shrug, addressing the obvious, “Adds,” he said at last, ‘you didn’t call me after your appointment.”

Her eyes darted to the ground. “Swiss, I’m so sorry, I just—”

“You’re my wife.” His tone was firm, steady. “I know you like the lines etched in my palms. You don’t like giving bad news.”

Addy bit her lip, trying to slip past him, but he shifted, blocking her path. He sighed, his patience thinning. “Be straight with me.”

“It’s nothing bad, okay? I just hate for you to worry.”

“Then stop lying to me!” His voice spiked before he caught himself, glancing toward the children. He lowered it again, sharp but hushed. “What did the doctor say?”

She swallowed hard. “Can we talk about it later? They don’t know I’m having another baby yet.”

The man stared daggers into her, the weight of her words sinking in. His jaw clenched as he searched her face, then at last he gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“Fine,” he muttered, handing Faith back to Addeline. “But don’t try to get out of it.”

*

All the children had gone to sleep. Not at a decent hour but it was still more than what Addeline and Swiss could hope for. The house had gone quiet, save for the faint hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen. Swiss lingered in the doorway of their bedroom, watching Addy brush her hair in long, languid strokes. She caught his reflection in the mirror, her hand slowing as if she already knew what was coming.

“Adds,” he said, his voice firm but low, “we’re not putting this off anymore.”

She set the brush down with a sigh, her shoulders sagging. “Swiss…”

“No.” He crossed the room, every step deliberate. “You had an appointment. You didn’t call. You lied to me. Don’t you get how that feels? I can’t protect you or the baby if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

Her eyes shimmered as she turned toward him. “I didn’t want to see that look on your face. The one you’re giving me right now.”

He knelt down in front of her, taking her hands into his. “Then stop shutting me out. If it’s good, if it’s bad, if it’s complicated—I need to know.”

She hesitated, then whispered, “The doctor said I need a cerclage.” Her throat tightened on the word. “My cervix isn’t strong enough to hold the baby. If they don’t stitch it, I could lose the pregnancy.”

The words struck him like a blow. For a moment he could only stare, his chest rising and falling too quickly. Then he pulled her hands to his chest, pressing them against his pounding heart.

“Adds,” his voice broke, “You should’ve told me. That’s not just some little thing. That’s serious.”

“I know,” she whispered, her tears spilling. “I didn’t want to scare you. I thought maybe if I kept it to myself, it would be easier for you.”

“Easier for me?” Swiss shook his head, pulling her into his arms. “Nothing’s easier if I don’t know what’s happening. You’re my wife. You’re carrying our baby. If there’s a risk, I need to face it with you. Don’t shut me out.”

Addy clung to him, burying her face into his chest. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” he murmured, kissing the crown of her head. “But we’ll do it together. The cerclage, the checkups—whatever it takes. Let me be here for you.”

Addy wiped at her eyes, her voice soft. “I’m just used to doing these appointments on my own, I guess. Papa used to leave the pregnancy stuff up to me and—”

Swiss cut her off gently but firmly. “I’m not him, Adds. You need to get that through your head.”

She nodded, almost ashamed, her gaze falling to her lap. “I know… I’m sorry. It’s just hard sometimes to shake the old ways. I’ll keep you in the loop from now on. I promise.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy with the truth finally laid bare. Then Swiss shifted, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he searched for a way to ease the tension.

“So…” he began, his tone lighter, “did the doctor say we should refrain from any… activities?”

Addeline blinked, then let out a surprised laugh. “I didn’t ask.”

Swiss arched a brow, his grin widening. “Didn’t ask? That seems like a pretty important detail. For scientific purposes, of course.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a smile. “Oh, sure. Scientific.”

He leaned closer, brushing his nose against her temple. “Well, I say until the doctor explicitly forbids it, we’re in the clear.”

Her laughter softened into a sigh as she settled against his chest, the tension easing from her shoulders. He placed a hand on her belly and for a moment, the fears and the risks faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of his touch and the comfort of his presence.

A delighted squeal spilled from Addy’s lips as Swiss swept her up with urgency. He carried her to the bed and laid her down, his mouth claiming hers before she could speak. The kiss deepened, all heat and breathless need, as Addy’s fingers fumbled clumsily at his pants. She was desperate to finish what they had begun that morning.

He slipped the nightgown from her shoulders, her body hastening at the sudden exposure. The space between them vanished in a rush of skin to skin, her heat sparking at every touch. She burned for him. Her eyes fell to his cock, hardening in his hand. It was not as long as Papa’s, but it was thicker, heavier, perfectly filling for her in all the ways she craved.

Addy surprised him by pushing him back onto the mattress, climbing on top with a hunger that caught him off guard. Her nails scraped across his chest as she ground against him, and he let out a low groan, hands gripping her hips. For a moment, he reveled in it—her urgency, her fire, the way she claimed him.

But then his brow furrowed. “Addy,” his voice was tight with restraint, “we need to slow down.”

She blinked down at him, parting her lips in protest, but he was already moving. Swiss rolled her gently beneath him. “I don’t want to risk hurting the baby,” he murmured, kissing her temple as he guided himself to her.

He pushed himself inside of her, but only halfway. She gasped at the stretch and wrapped her legs around him, but he kept his control, careful not to drive too deep. “Like this,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers. “I’ll give you what you need, just… safe.”

Her whimper melted into a moan, torn between frustration and the ache of pleasure as his thick length filled her cautiously, “I… I want more of you.”

He kissed her again, steadying her body with his hands. “Trust me,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you.”

His thrusts stayed shallow, and the weight of his body braced above hers as though he feared pressing too hard. Addy clutched at his shoulders, her hips rocking instinctively, trying to draw him deeper. He kissed her to quiet her advances, his mouth hot and insistent even as his pace stayed steady.

“Easy, Adds,” he warned gently against her lips.

The thickness of him inside her, even only halfway, made her tremble. Each careful stroke rubbed exactly where she needed, building heat in slow waves instead of wild surges. Then, frustration gave way to something sweeter, her body yielding to the rhythm he set.

Swiss’s hand slid up to lace with hers, pinning it gently to the pillow above her head. His other arm curled tight around her waist, holding her close as he rocked into her with controlled precision. Her moans turned softer, drawn-out, threaded with both need and relief.

Her whole body arched beneath him as her climax creeped up on her slowly. The tension coiled, then broke, shuddering through her in waves as she cried out, gripping him tighter. Swiss pressed his forehead to hers, groaning low as her walls clenched around him. But he held back, refusing to give in fully.

“See, baby?” he rasped. “I can make you come even with just the tip of my dick.”

He drew back with a shudder, pulling out of her slick heat, his cock flushed and straining.

His hand wrapped around himself, stroking hard and fast as he hovered above her. His eyes never left her face. “Watch me… I want you to see what you do to me.”

Addy, still breathless from her release, reached to touch his thigh, her gaze locked on him, urging him on as he worked himself. His groans grew sharper, the tension breaking as he spilled hot over her belly and thighs.

He grinned wide, still panting as he leaned down to kiss her.

“You could’ve finished inside me, you know?” she teased softly.

Swiss reached for a napkin on the nightstand, carefully wiping her clean. “I know that,” he admitted with a chuckle, “but I didn’t want to chance it. Probably would’ve taken me longer anyway, since I couldn’t push too far into you.”

Addy pouted, brushing her fingers over his jaw. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m going to break.”

“Oh, but I do.” His eyes softened, though his tone stayed firm. “You’re the one who wanted another baby, and I told you—one of the stipulations was that we play everything safe.”

She huffed, her lips still curled in that little pout, though the warmth of his care seeped into her chest all the same.

*

The sun crept in through the curtains, stretching across the bed where Addy still lay curled against him. Swiss stirred first, his arm heavy around her waist, his chin resting against the crown of her head. He breathed her in slowly, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over them.

Addy shifted, blinking herself awake, and let out a low hum. “You’re staring,” she mumbled, her voice rough with sleep.

“Can you blame me?” he grinned as he pressed a lazy kiss to her temple. “You’re prettier than that sunrise.”

“You’re so cheesy,” she scoffed lightly as her pale cheeks turned a bright shade of red. “I’m the opposite of a sunrise.”

“Maybe a beautiful dark night then?” he countered softly, closing the space between them once more.

Just then, the door burst open with a crash, shattering their bubble in an instant.

Elizabeth stood there, arms crossed, her tone sharp and disdainful. “Could you guys please not be so noisy when you’re making love?”

Stunned at her daughter’s request, Addy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me, young lady?”

Swiss reacted fast, yanking the blanket higher and wrapping it around his waist, shielding himself as if embarrassed.

Elizabeth shrugged, her face cool, almost smug. “Making love. Having sex. Creating babies. Whatever you wish to call it.”

Addeline sat up straighter, her voice rising in a mix of shock and reprimand. “Eliza, how do you—”

“Oh, don’t insult me, Mummy.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a child.”

Something in the way she responded irritated Addeline. There was an edge to her tone that didn’t belong to a girl her age. Still, she knew this was something her daughter wouldn’t know unless she heard someone talking about it.

In a tone that was calm but unyielding, Swiss lightly scolded the girl, “Elizabeth,” he said, “you need to knock before you come in here.”

She hesitated in the doorway, “But—”

“No buts.” His voice was polite, but there was steel underneath it. “Your mother and I deserve privacy. You understand that, don’t you?”

She huffed, her eyes narrowing for just a moment before she gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Sir.”

Swiss offered her a small smile, not pushing further. “Good. Now—what did you need?”

The tension in the air softened just slightly, but Addy noticed the way Elizabeth’s chin tilted as though she hadn’t lost entirely, only conceded this round, “Faith is crying and it’s driving me mad. She’s already woken up Meli and now he’s upset too.”

 Swiss’s gaze held steady, though a flicker of protectiveness softened the sternness in his eyes. “Elizabeth, why don’t you grab your brother and sister and go to the kitchen? Mommy and I will come help with breakfast in just a minute, alright?”

The girl nodded and quietly closed the door behind her. As the oldest, Elizabeth often shouldered much of the responsibility for her younger siblings, a role that had shaped her maturity far beyond her years. With her mother and father frequently away on the road, and a nanny handling the basics of their care, it often fell to Elizabeth to pick up the slack. She learned early how to step in, how to steady the household in small ways, and it showed in the way she carried herself.

Jealousy burned hot inside the young girl. In the former ministry, she was too often dismissed as ‘just a female.’ Phrases like, ‘She’s of no use to us,’ or ‘She isn’t as vital as her brother,’ echoed in her memory, each one striking like a lash. While her brothers were welcomed on tour alongside their parents, she had been left behind with her sisters, shut out of experiences. The unfairness festered, leaving in its wake a bitterness that hardened into resentment.

This resentment often drove her to act out, stirring up trouble wherever she could. Mischief became her weapon of choice—she delighted in pranks, and if someone was stung or embarrassed by them, all the better. Sister Imperator punished her frequently for these antics, yet Elizabeth never regretted them; the defiance felt worth it. Despite her grandmother’s severity, she admired the woman deeply, seeing in her a rare example of strength—a female figure who commanded respect.

Elizabeth had a keen eye and a restless mind, teaching herself more than most expected of a child her age. Though the adults around her tried to keep her in the dark, she was far too clever—sometimes clever to her own detriment. She would spy from corners, slipping into shadows to catch fragments of adult conversations. And when something escaped her understanding, she turned to her grandfather, Papa Nihil. Whether out of indifference or simple lack of discretion, he always answered her questions, indulging her curiosity with more honesty than perhaps he should have.

Elizabeth stomped back into the bedroom she shared with Faith and Meliora, muttering under her breath, “I don’t understand why I must sleep in here with the likes of you two.” Scooping Faith into her arms, she sighed, “Come along, you naughty child.” Then, turning toward Meliora, she added with exasperation, “Meli, you as well—and stop that screaming before I throttle you.”

The toddler clambered clumsily out of his crib, tossing his legs over the side and dropping to the floor with a thud. At once he began to whine, “Liza, Liza, my cup!” Elizabeth spun on her heel, rolling her eyes. “Oh rats,” she muttered, setting Faith down so she could retrieve the forgotten sippy cup. She pressed it into her half-brother’s small hands. “Here, Meli. Now off to the kitchen with you. I’ll prepare us breakfast.” The boy darted ahead, while Elizabeth trailed behind with their baby sister.

In the bedroom, Swiss had already risen and was pulling on his pants, though he made no move to find a shirt. It was a small detail, but one Addeline and her children noticed when life began to change—how casual he was, how comfortable in his own skin. In the ministry, everyone was expected to be dressed and presentable by midmorning without exception. To walk about in nightclothes was unthinkable, a breach of order.

The children relished the freedom of not having to dress the moment they woke, savoring the ease of every other week spent away from Sister Imperator’s rule and their strict British nanny. Only Mary seemed unfazed by the ministry’s rigid order. Even at a young age, she appeared to scorn change itself, holding a quiet contempt for nearly everyone—everyone but her father.

“I’m sorry about Elizabeth.”

Swiss let out a laugh. “You’re apologizing because your kid is acting like a kid?”

“I… I suppose I am.”

“Addeline,” he said, shaking his head with a grin, “I told you before—I love your kids. They’re… a little unusual, sure, but they’re yours. Which means they’re mine too. You don’t have to keep apologizing for everything, babe.”

She gave him a half-smile as she crawled out of bed. Swiss’s eyes caught on her belly before she slipped a shirt over her bare skin. There was a faint curve now, the beginnings of a bump.

“How do you feel this morning? Any pain? Any cramping?” he asked softly.

“No. I feel fine right now.”

“Good,” he said, relief flickering in his voice. He pressed a quick kiss to her temple before straightening. “Come on—I smell eggs. I think your six-year-old prodigy has decided she can cook again. Let’s get in there before she burns the whole place to the ground.”

Chapter Text

Papa held Mary in his arms, a small diaper bag slung over his shoulder. “Annalise,” he called, “darling, I’m taking Mary now!” The woman gave no reply. For Papa, the change from seeing this former Sister of Sin as an apprentice to recognizing her as his wife had been no small adjustment. “Sister Christine!” he called instead, summoning one of the elder Sisters. She hurried in within moments, handkerchief already out of her pocket as her eyes fell on messy little Mary.

“I shall take this one to Addeline,” the Cardinal declared. “See that my wife is apprised of my whereabouts.”

“Oh, of course, Cardinal,” she replied, drawing back the handkerchief and giving Mary’s cheeks a playful pinch. The child, however, remained stoic, unbothered by the gesture.

Mary was nearing her second year, a little younger than her half-brother Belial. She was tall for her age, steady on her feet, and capable of speech—though she used words sparingly. Her dark brown hair had yet to grow beyond her forehead, still soft and short with the natural unevenness of a toddler. Like her father, she bore the Emeritus eyes: one blue, one brown.

Despite her striking gaze, Mary was painfully shy. She often hid her face when spoken to and could dissolve into tears without reason the adults could name. Gentle and anxious by nature, she carried a delicate temperament easily unsettled by the world around her.

She enjoyed the company of her brothers and sisters, finding ease and laughter in their presence. At times she would permit Elizabeth to cradle her, though more often she reached only for her father. Mary adored Papa Emeritus. In moments of distress, it was to him she turned; his presence alone seemed to soothe her. A single touch, a glance, the gentle sweep of his hand across her back was enough to still her cries.

Now, nestled in his arms, she was calm again—though her flushed eyes, damp nose, and swollen cheeks betrayed the remnants of her latest tantrum.

“Mary,” he murmured, voice warm with patience, “Are you ready to see Mommy?”

She looked up at him and gave a slow shake of her head, one small hand twisting a strand of hair while the other tugged absently at her ear. Copia released a patient sigh.

“My darling Mary,” he coaxed gently, “can you not stay with your mamma for but a day? She misses you terribly.”

At this, Mary gave the faintest nod—hesitant, reluctant—but enough to warm Copia’s heart, for it was more than he had dared hope.

The journey ahead spanned two hours, a daunting prospect with a child of Mary’s delicate temperament. Yet when traveling alone with her father, she bore it surprisingly well.

Just as it had been for Addeline, the adjustment had been an odd one for him as well. A visit to Swiss’s home was not a journey he made often—and with good reason. The last time he had crossed that threshold, he had found his wife in bed with the ghoul. The sight had branded itself upon him, a wound that lingered still, though their marriage had long ended.

It had been a little more than half a year since Addeline left him for Swiss. Though it was by his own hand, his urging, even, that she had found the resolve to make the choice, some hidden corner of his heart had clung to the hope that it would never come to this. Separation. Remarriage. Divided children. It was not a life he had embraced, only one endured.

And though he loved his new wife deeply, Addeline remained ever pressing upon his heart—a presence he could not banish, no matter how firmly he tried to close that chapter of his life.

But above all, he had wanted her to be happy, and he knew she had not been. As deeply as she had loved him, life at his side had proven a hard one, wearing her down little by little. He could concede that it pleased him to see her find peace at last with one she truly loved. Yet jealousy gnawed at him still, for he often caught himself—without meaning to—measuring Sister Annaliese against the memory of his former wife.

Addeline stood at the window, watching as Papa’s car eased into the drive. She remained there as he unbuckled Mary and lifted her into his arms, carrying the child toward the house.

She opened the door before he could knock, her eyes wide and her smile breaking bright at the sight of her daughter. “Hey, baby!” she exclaimed, crouching to meet the little girl’s gaze while she was still nestled in her father’s hold.

For a moment, Addeline’s glance flickered uncertainly to Copia. He answered with the faintest nod, a silent command granting her permission to take the child.

Addeline reached out, but Mary shrank back at once, kicking her small legs and pressing her face into her father’s shoulder. A flicker of defeat crossed Addeline’s features.

Copia bent his head, his voice low and coaxing. “Mary… we spoke of this, did we not? Only one night?”

The child peeked up at him, then cast another wary glance toward her mother. With a tiny sigh of surrender, she stretched her arms toward Addeline. The woman’s face lit instantly, her earlier heaviness lifting as she gathered her daughter close.

“One night, huh?” Addeline chuckled, bouncing the girl lightly on her hip.

“Best be content with the small triumph, eh?” Copia returned with a faint smile.

“Mamma… Liza?” Mary asked, her voice small but hopeful.

“Eliza’s playing with your brother,” Addy assured her. “Would you like to go join her?”

The little girl nodded. Addy set her gently on her feet, and though Mary lingered warily for a moment, she soon disappeared into the house.

“Won’t you come in?” Addeline asked, stepping back to offer him space.

“Is he here?”

“You mean your bandmate? Your back up singer? Your musician? You’re going to have to talk to him eventually, you know?”

“Yes… I know. Forgive me, my pet. It remains somewhat awkward still.”

“No, I understand,” she replied softly. “But he’s not here. He had to restock on food—well, you can see why. We’re running something of a small daycare at the moment.”

Copia leaned to glance inside. His children were scattered about, each absorbed in their own little world. “I do not wish to disturb them,” he murmured.

Addeline accepted this with a nod. “Alright then. I’ll see you when I bring them home.” She began to close the door, but he caught it with his foot.

“Tesoro… uh, Addeline?”

The word caught her, a name she had not heard from his lips in months. For the smallest moment her eyes softened, betraying a flicker of warmth before she forced her voice steady. “Yes?”

“There will be a tour soon. A short leg through Europe. We shall need to sit and prepare—it falls to you now, this work. May I depend upon you?”

“Of course,” she said quickly, recovering herself. “We can discuss it next time.”

Copia held her gaze a moment longer, as though weighing whether to say more. At last, he inclined his head. “Very well. I shall await you then.”

(need to speak about what ‘Elizabeth said)

He stepped back, letting the door fall gently from his hand. Mary’s laughter drifted faintly from within the house, a sound that lingered in his ears as he turned down the walk. The diaper bag bounced lightly against his shoulder until he shifted it higher, his pace steady, measured.

Addeline remained in the doorway, watching his retreating figure. For a breath she almost called after him, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she let the door close, the latch clicking softly behind her.

*

Papa returned home a short eternity later to find his wife seated with their son Belial. The boy’s very existence carried the shadow of old sins. He had been born to the girl—conceived while Papa was yet bound in marriage to Addeline, who was herself heavy with child at the time.

Papa had once hoped to keep the truth veiled, but his carelessness betrayed him, and Addeline learned of it all the same. She had pleaded with him then, begged him to turn his back on the mother and child, to banish them into the same silence the clergy demanded. Yet it was a command he could never bring himself to fulfill.

Belial’s birth had nearly cost Annaliese her life. Her labor refused to progress as it should, and the doctors, after tense hours, ordered a cesarean. It was then they uncovered the true danger—placenta accreta, the placenta fused too deeply into her womb. The bleeding came fast and relentless. Doctor Sullivan and a team of surgeons worked furiously to save her, packing, transfusing, cutting and stitching in desperate turns until, at last, they managed to pull her back from the brink.

For Papa, the sight had been haunting. He had already watched Addeline teeter on the edge of death with her own hemorrhage, and now Annaliese had lain nearly bled dry before him. A pattern had begun to etch itself into his mind, cruel and unshakable. The women he had loved never seemed to escape the curse of childbirth unscathed. And so he had begun to believe it was him—that some evil shadow clung to him, tainting every womb he touched, demanding blood for every life he brought into the world.

It was one of the reasons Papa had not wished for any more children. Had he known that Addeline had been trying with her ghoul, he would most likely have stopped her. His mother had often reminded him that Addy was no longer his concern, yet he could not help but wish for her safety all the same.

“Ciao, my love,” Annaliese greeted the man as she rose from her seat, still holding her son close. Her eyes lingered on him, soft but searching. “I was told you took Mary to Addeline. How did it go, marito caro? Was she delighted to see the child?”

Copia exhaled softly, setting aside the weight of the journey. “Sì… Addeline was much delighted to see her,” he admitted. “Mary did not rush to her arms at first, but in the end she yielded. It warmed her, I think, to hold the child again.”

“Mary is quite difficult to raise, no? A vile temperament, that one. Perhaps, it is due to Addy’s displeasure at the time with me being with child…” she trailed off, realizing that she’d brought up the past, something he didn’t like to explore.

“It was a difficult time for her, dolcezza. She too suffered greatly bringing Mary into the world. Give her the benefit of the doubt, eh?”

“Sì, Papà, I am sorry for judging her too harshly.” Annaliese’s gaze fell for a moment. She feared she had soured his mood. His expression had shifted, and she needed him calm if she was to speak about what she had on her mind. Still, she could not hold it back. She drew a breath and pressed on.

“Papà … do you not think it is perhaps time for us to have another?”

Copia moved past her slowly, her meaning not settling at once. He lowered himself into the chair she had vacated moments before, eyes fixed ahead while she pressed her plea.

“Should we not grow our little family?”

A low chuckle escaped him, though there was no mirth in it. “Fragola, we have so many already. Our family is anything but little.” His hand came to rest on his knee, fingers curling, as if to hold steady the thought that threatened to shake him.

“Papà,” she pressed gently, “those are your children, yes—but your legacy should be carried on by the sons of our union, should it not?”

Although he knew her remark had been spoken in innocence, Copia could not help but bristle at the suggestion. It stung, as though she would sweep aside his children—his truest constant, the purest loves of his life. Even Meliora, whose very existence was a thorn in his history, remained a part of that love.

He forced himself to remember that Annaliese had been raised in strict adherence to rule and order; it was only natural that she should assume Belial would be the heir apparent, the one destined to inherit his mantle as frontman and head of the clergy.

But Copia made the rules now, and things didn’t work that way anymore. The old hierarchy no longer carried the same weight; tradition, once ironclad, had already been reshaped by his hand. The next leader wouldn’t be chosen simply because of their age, gender, or even whose blood they bore. Those chains belonged to the past, and he had no intention of letting them dictate his future—or his children’s.

“Annaliese, I have not yet decided who is to succeed me,” Copia said, his tone firm but measured.

She blinked at him, lips parting as though to hold back her impatience, yet her composure began to fray. “Papà, it should be Belial who takes over.”

“My dear, I love Belial. But he is young and inexperienced. Kaisarion was bred for this—he knows what to do, and he is older. His voice is strong. Even Elizabeth has a passion for the role—”

“Oh, Papà,” Annaliese interrupted, shaking her head. “Kaisarion is weak-minded. The pressure would crush him. And Elizabeth? A girl? To carry the weight of such a legacy as Ghost? It is blasphemy to think she could lead the band and the congregation—”

“Enough, Annaliese.” His voice cracked through her words like a whip. “The decision is not yours to make. Should I desire your opinion, I will ask for it.”

The force of it cut her sharply, heat rising to her cheeks. Her blue eyes lifted, caught in her husband’s unflinching stare. “Papà … I am so sorry for undermining you.”

The man did not respond at once. Instead, he dragged a hand down his face, wearied by the aggravation. He might have let the matter rest there, had Annaliese not revealed the deeper reason behind her insistence.

“Papà, forgive me,” she said carefully, “but I think you use Addeline’s children as an excuse not to give me more of my own.”

His head lifted at once, eyes fixed on her as she pressed on.

“I am not very experienced when it comes to… natural things between a man and a woman. But you have taught me well, and still… still you do not give me your seed, Papà.”

Papa finally rose and crossed the room to his wife. She lowered their son to the floor so her arms were free to accept his embrace.

“Annaliese,” he said, his voice low but weighted, “I fear it is not safe. You nearly died bringing Belial into this world, and I will not gamble with your life again. That is more care than I showed Addeline, and I have since learned when enough must be enough.”

“But, my love,” she countered softly, her hands resting against his chest, “there is no love without risk. And children are the very heart of happiness. Even Addeline believes it, does she not? It is rumored she is with child again.”

At that, Papa’s ears pricked sharply. “Who told you she is with child?”

“I cannot say for certain. I only overheard Sister Christine speaking of it.”

He shook his head, a trace of irritation cutting his tone. “Think little of anything Christine says, my dear. She is a gossip, nothing more.”

“Still, Papa…” Annaliese’s eyes lifted, glistening with resolve. “I would risk everything to give you more children. I want it so badly. Would you truly deny me that?”

Her plea hung in the air, trembling with desperation. Papa’s arms tightened around her, and for a long while he only held her, his breath warm against her hair. At last, he sighed, pressing his forehead gently to hers.

“Annaliese…” his voice was soft, but there was no wavering in it. “I will not risk it again. I nearly lost you once, and I cannot bear the thought of it a second time. No legacy, no joy, is worth your life. That is where this ends.”

He drew back just enough to look into her eyes, his thumb brushing tenderly along her cheek. “Do not ask me again, dolcezza. My answer will not change. I would rather have you here with me than a thousand children without you.”

*

Sister Imperator stood at her window, staring into the stretch of night beyond the glass. The halls were too still. Days without the children in the ministry always left the air hollow, and though their antics, their shrieks of laughter, and the sleepless nights had often driven her to the edge of madness, the silence drove her closer still.

She was expecting her son. He had promised to come, and she intended to remind him of his duties. The next tour loomed, and already she sensed his mind wandering, drifting from the path she had carved for him. It was a weakness she could not afford him.

She heard someone approaching her, someone soft, someone that hadn’t used the door to get in.

“Papa? Is that you, old man?”

Papa Nihil snorted. “Ah, Seestor, you heard me. I was trying to surprise you.”

“Don’t bother. Nothing you do ever surprises me anymore. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“The crypt is so quiet tonight without the children pestering me. I can’t sleep.”

Imperator rolled her eyes. “You need… noise to sleep?”

“Oh yes, the twins especially keep me company.”

Her brow arched. “The twins? Opus and Cirice speak… to you?”

“Oh yes, Seestor. Quite chatty. Though,” he leaned closer, lowering his voice in mock seriousness, “I think what really keeps me awake is this new woman. Dresses like a sister wife, all buttoned to the chin. Tsk. Yet, she gawks at me like she desires what is under my papal gown. But I think I miss the other one—she wore things so tight and short I nearly broke my back trying not to look.”

Imperator snorted, folding her arms. “Ha! You didn’t try very hard.”

“Of course not,” Nihil wagged a finger. “Why resist temptation when it parades itself right in front of you?”

Imperator’s voice snapped sharp as a whip. “Papa, that ‘new woman’ is merely Sister Annaliese. She’s been back for months now you blind old coot.”

Nihil’s grin faltered, the gleam in his eye dimming for just a second before he forced a chuckle. “Ah, don’t be so serious, Seestor. It was only a jest.”

“Not everything is a jest,” she shot back, her tone colder now. “Especially when it makes you sound like a lecherous fool.”

She crossed the room with purpose, moving to sit at her desk, her black skirts sweeping the floor in her wake. But Nihil was already there, slouched in her chair like a cat unwilling to yield his place at the hearth.

He tilted his head, a grin sly beneath the shadow of his mitre. “Lecherous, am I? You wound me, Seestor. I was only reminding you that even an old ghost can still charm.”

Her eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of disdain crossing her face. “Charm? You mistake indulgence for admiration. I allowed you your little performances once. Do not confuse them for relevance now.”

“You do look so lovely when you’re angry.”

“That will be all tonight,” she said crisply, her hand slicing the air. “Go, Papa. Your son will be here shortly.”

The old man bristled, his lips curling into a thin sneer. “Always eager to push me aside. Why do you prefer his company to mine?”

Her gaze cooled him at once. “Do not be foolish. He has business to discuss, and you will only distract him with your rambling.”

But Nihil was not ready to surrender. He leaned forward, voice low and coaxing. “Rambling? Ah, but I remember when you hung on every word of mine. You were radiant then, so hungry for my wisdom. Shall I remind you what you once whispered in my ear—?”

“Enough.” The single word cracked like a whip. “I might have been hungry for something, but it wasn’t your wisdom.” Even as she scolded him, his flattery stirred the faintest curve at the edge of her mouth. Nihil saw it and chuckled, smug in his small victory.

Still, when the echo of footsteps sounded in the hall, Sister’s spine straightened. “Leave us,” she ordered, her tone final.

Nihil sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward as though to say she would never change. His gaze, cloudy with cataracts that death had never washed away, lingered on her a moment longer. For all her sharpness, he adored her still, and perhaps it was that devotion that kept his shade tethered here at all.

He rose with effort, the motion not of muscle and bone but of memory, the faint shimmer of his form wavering as he straightened.

“A king forever banished from his own court,” he muttered, the words laced with both mockery and fondness. His laughter followed him as he shuffled toward the shadows, fading into nothing just as Copia crossed the threshold.

For a heartbeat, father and son brushed past one another—one entering, the other departing. Nihil’s form paused beside him, the ghost’s smile twisting wry.

“Ah, Cardinal,” Papa Zero drawled, “still clinging to skirts and sermons, I see.”

Copia stiffened, looking at the old man with disdain, “Better that than to haunt halls you no longer rule.”

“Careful, ragazzo. You may sit in my chair, but you will never wear my crown.”

“Your crown is dust, Father,” Copia said as he turned his shoulder, “Mine is real.”

The phantom’s laughter echoed once more, then dissolved into the stones. Sister’s expression softened at once, her calculating eyes settling on her son as she took a seat. “C,” she said, his nickname dripping with both affection and authority, “you’re late.”

“Can you believe that guy? What an ass, eh?”

“Cardi, you let him bait you far too easily. Don’t let his words get the better of you.”

Copia shut the door behind him, straightening as though her gaze alone demanded it. “He is a ghost. What harm can his words do?”

Her lips curved, not in warmth but in scorn. “Words are the most dangerous of weapons, my boy. You, of all people should know that. Our congregation listens for every syllable from your tongue, weighs every glance, every pause. If you squander your temper on your father, how long before you squander it on a stage?”

He shifted under her scrutiny, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other drumming softly against his thigh. “Perhaps I learned from the best. You never wasted a word, mother… and yet, you always managed to cut deepest.”

That earned him the faintest flicker of approval, though she masked it quickly. “Flattery will not save you, my son. I need results. Discipline. The tour is upon us. Europe.”

Sister Imperator lowered herself fully into the chair, the candlelight catching on the silver in her hair. “This will be the first tour since all the changes,” she said, her tone measured but heavy. “There is no clergy anymore. No safety net. Everything we once commanded must be built back from the ground up.”

She let the words hang before continuing. “And do not forget—our enemies are still out there. They smell weakness. If they sense even a crack in your performance, they will pry it wide until all we have collapses.”

Copia drew a breath, steadying himself. “Then we will give them nothing to scent. They will see Papa Emeritus, and they will fear him as they always did.”

Her lips curved faintly, though whether in approval or doubt was hard to tell. “See that you mean it, Cardi. Because this time, there is no order, no council, no hierarchy to shield you. Only us. Only you. If you stumble, everything falls.”

He inclined his head stiffly, shoulders squared against her gaze. “I will not stumble, mother.”

“Won’t you?” she pressed, her eyes narrowing. “You let your wife run off with the ghoul, and then you married that silly girl all because you couldn’t keep it tucked away in your pants.”

Copia’s lips thinned, but his reply came steady, almost defiant. “Mother, Addeline’s happiness meant more to me than anything else. And you too were once a silly girl, pregnant with your bastard son, caught up in passion, were you not?”

For the first time, Sister Imperator faltered. Her gaze flickered, and though her chin lifted proudly, she did not deny it. The faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed amusement, though her eyes remained hard as stone. “That will be all, my dear boy,” she said smoothly, neatly closing the subject.

*

After the long day, Copia decided he needed a warm bath. Something to wash away the weight of it all—the strain of his daughter’s tantrums, of Addeline’s shadow always at the edges of his thoughts, of his wife, his mother, his ministry. He wanted the steam to lift it from his shoulders, if only for a while.

But when he stepped into the bathroom, he halted. Through the glass, Annaliese was already beneath the spray, her yellow hair plastered to her back, rivulets running down her skin.

It was unusual for her to be up so late, much less bathing at this hour.

He lingered in the doorway, watching. Her hands moved slowly over her body, lathering soap into her skin—arms, legs, the gentle slope of her stomach, the fullness of her breasts. Copia’s breath caught in his throat. Such a beautiful angel, he thought, one he had perhaps never deserved.

It struck him how faint the memory of the little girl she once was had become. That child was gone, replaced by the woman before him, radiant and untouchable in the water’s glow.

His chest tightened, desire stirring despite the fatigue dragging at him. With a low sigh, he let it win. Stepping forward into the steam, he slid the glass door open and entered the shower, allowing the warm rush of water to hit his skin.

Annaliese turned, water streaming down her long hair, and her lips parted in surprise. “Papà?”

Copia’s answer was a low murmur, his eyes never leaving the lines of her slick body. “Sì, dolcezza… it is me.” His hand lifted, trembling but certain, as he reached to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Forgive me. I cannot resist you.”

Copia’s fingers lingered against her cheek, sliding down to trace her jaw before his hand cupped her throat lightly. The steam clung to them, blurring the edges of everything but her.

Annaliese’s lips rounded into a knowing smile. “You should be resting.”

“And waste this chance?” he rasped, his mouth already lowering to claim hers. The kiss was fierce, devouring, his tongue sliding against hers as his hands roamed — wet skin, soft curves, the arch of her back.

She gasped into him as he pressed her against the tile, the water cascading over them both. Her nails bit into his shoulders, pulling him closer. Her touch was awkward, almost shy, yet it only stoked his desire hotter. The thought that she still had so much to learn thrilled him beyond measure.

“I’ve thought about this all day,” Copia admitted between kisses, his breath rough against her ear. “About you. About your body. About how badly I needed to bury myself in my wife.”

Annaliese moaned at his words, her thighs parting instinctively as he pressed his hard length against her hip. His hand slid down, gripping her firmly, tilting her to meet him.

“You do not need to resist me, Papà … I am yours,” she whispered, desperate now.

“Sì, Sorella, you are,” he howled, positioning himself with a hunger that bordered on desperate. “Hold onto me.”

With one sharp thrust, he was inside her, the heat of her body engulfing him. The shower muffled her cry, but he swallowed it with another searing kiss, driving into her harder as the water poured over them both.

He ordered her, “hold still,” his voice rough with need. One of his hands gripped her thigh, hauling it higher around his waist, opening her to him. The other stayed tight on her hip, holding her in place as he pounded into her, “Sweet hell, you’re so tight I can barely move inside you.”

He drove into her with a growl, water slicking their bodies as he pinned her against the tile. His thrusts were sharp, unrelenting, the slap of wet skin echoing under the rush of the shower.

Annaliese clung to him, letting her nails rake his back as each movement wrung another cry from her lips. Her voice faltered in soft, uneven gasps, every word uncertain, as though she was asking questions she didn’t know how to finish.

“Papà—please… I—I don’t… oh, it’s so… different—why does it feel… like this—ah—?” she whispered, her tone fragile with wonder as she arched into him.

Her climax built slow at first, then surged, cresting in waves that left her trembling, pulsing around him as she cried his name. “Stay inside me, ciccio.”

Copia was tempted, the sensation nearly breaking him. But he pulled back and with a sudden rumble he withdrew, his hand wrapping tight around himself as he pumped hard. With ragged breath, he pressed his forehead to hers, his grip on her hip bruising as he spilled hot across her stomach and thigh.

The frenzy ebbed, leaving only the steady hiss of the shower and their uneven breaths. Copia braced his palms against the tile, caging her in as his chest heaved.

Water cascaded between them, washing his seed from her skin, down over their joined bodies, carrying it away. The sight of it swirling away left him strangely hollow, as if the heat of the moment had been stripped from him too quickly. He watched it for a heartbeat, then dragged his gaze back to her face.

Annaliese’s eyes fluttered open while her wet lashes clung together. Her cheeks were flushed and water dripped over her parted lips. She reached up and brushed his jaw with her fingertips.

For a moment, he only stared—at the woman before him, at his wife—then he bent, capturing her mouth in a slower, deeper kiss, with less frenzy and more claim.

When he pulled back, his voice was a rasp. “Mia moglie… you undo me every time.”

“I only wish I could please you more, Papà. You can be an insatiable man,” she teased with a giggle, stepping out of the shower.

Copia leaned over the tub, letting the hot water thunder into the basin, steam curling around them. His eyes lingered on his young wife, droplets tracing her skin as she wrapped herself in a towel. “Why don’t you go lie down, my sweet,” he murmured, voice low and indulgent. “I will be there soon… and perhaps I can teach you some more.”

She blushed, nodding timidly as she walked out of the bathroom with only the towel wrapped around her body. The sound of her footsteps faded as she eased the door shut, the soft click of the latch echoing in the steamy quiet. The hush that followed pressed in around him, leaving him alone with the water and his thoughts.

The relief was immediate, but incomplete. The water washed his skin clean, but not his mind. The image of his wife lingered—her awkward, eager touches, her shy smile, her towel slipping as she disappeared through the doorway. She was learning, still so new to him, and yet already she carried pieces of his heart he hadn’t meant to give.

And yet… beneath that warmth lay a shadow he couldn’t shake. Addeline’s face flashed unbidden, her laughter, her tears, the memories they shared in rooms not unlike this one. Copia sank deeper into the water, closing his eyes, as though submerging himself could drown the ghosts that clung to him.

But they always floated back to the surface.

Chapter Text

The phone rang, slicing through the children’s laughter. Swiss, surrounded by a mountain of tiny shirts and socks, was bent over the endless work of folding clothes—seven children’s worth, a task that made him look every bit the devoted father.

They had planned to take the children to the fair that night, a rare treat promised all week. The little ones had been buzzing with excitement, chattering about rides and sweets.

He hurried to snatch up the receiver, scooping a wailing Mary from the floor as he did so.

“Hello?”

A crisp voice answered on the other end. “This is Dr. Sullivan’s office. May I speak to Addeline Ghoul, please?”

Swiss called out as loudly as he could, but no answer came back. “Could you hold just a moment?” he asked quickly, setting the receiver down.

Weaving through the sea of toys scattered across the floor, doing his best not to stumble with the crying toddler still clutched to his chest, he found Addeline hunched over the bathroom sink, her body tense with distress.

“Addy?” He set Mary down gently, though the child’s sobs didn’t ease. “Addeline!” He rushed to her side, his arms circling her.

“I’m okay—I’m fine, don’t panic,” she begged, clutching the sink as sharp pain etched across her face.

His voice was tight with fear. “What is it?”

Her eyes squeezed shut as another wave of tightness rippled through her belly. “It feels… it feels a bit like Braxton Hicks,” she murmured, almost to herself. Then, after a beat, her voice dropped lower. “But I know it’s too early. Too early for that.”

His chest tightened, dread flooding him. “Addeline, don’t… don’t say that. You’re only eleven weeks. This could be—” He broke off, unable to finish the thought.

She shook her head quickly, clutching the sink again. “It could just be stretching. Growing pains. I don’t want you to freak out.”

But Swiss was already panicking, his hand tightening over hers. “You’re high risk, Addy. We’re not taking chances. Dr. Sullivan’s office is on the phone right now. Let’s just go in to make sure everything is okay.”

She scoffed, clutching the sink tighter. “And do what with seven children?”

Her tone was sharp, but her face betrayed her fear. Swiss turned back, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t care if I have to pile them all in the car.”

Her lips trembled, softening as she looked at him. “I just… I don’t want to make a scene if it turns out to be nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” he shot back, voice rough. “Not when it’s you.”

The standoff lasted another thirty seconds before Addeline finally gave a small nod. Swiss wasted no time darting back to the phone. He lifted the receiver quickly, his voice tight as he spoke with the receptionist.

Addy smoothed her hair and stepped out of the bathroom, forcing a smile as though nothing had happened. Mary crawled after her, still sniffling but curious.

“Elizabeth, dear,” Addy called gently, “I need to speak to you.”

The girl rose at once, crossing the room to her mother. Kaisarion, unwilling to be left out, trotted after her. Addeline crouched low, gathering them both into her arms. She cupped their small faces in her hands, eyes shining with a secret she had not yet spoken aloud.

“Mommy and Swiss need to go somewhere very important,” she whispered. “But before we do, I want to tell you something special. You mustn’t tell anyone yet, not even your brothers and sisters.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, she loved a good secret, and Kaisarion leaned closer, their faces expectant.

Addeline’s lips curved in a trembling smile. “There’s going to be another baby. You’re going to have a little brother or sister.”

Both children gasped, Elizabeth’s hands flying to her mouth, “Not another one!” while Kaisarion grinned in awe. Addy kissed their foreheads quickly, her voice low and urgent. “But this is just between us for now, do you understand? Promise me you’ll keep Mommy’s secret.”

They nodded solemnly, the weight of her words pressing on them like a sacred vow.

The woman could hear her husband in the next room, his voice low but urgent as he finished with the doctor. By the time he hung up the phone, she was sitting with Elizabeth and Kaisarion, her secret still glowing in their wide eyes.

Swiss stepped back into the doorway, running a hand over his face. “We’ll need to go in,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Dr. Sullivan wants to see you tonight.”

Addy swallowed, nodding faintly. Her gaze drifted to the children scattered across the floor, toys still clutched in their hands, laughter still echoing despite the tension in the air. “And what about them?”

He exhaled, glancing toward the clock as if weighing time itself. “We’ll have to take them home early. It’s not what we planned, but we’ll already be near Mountview on the way to the hospital.”

Her lips pressed thin, “They’ll be disappointed. They were so excited for tonight.”

“I know,” Swiss said, his voice gentling as he crossed to her side. He rested a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “But we don’t have a choice, Addy. Emeritus can take them to the fair. They won’t have to miss it completely.”

She sighed, smoothing Elizabeth’s hair back from her face. “Then we’ll call Papa on the way. Let him know the children will be home sooner than expected.”

Elizabeth’s little brow furrowed, as though sensing the weight of her mother’s words. Kaisarion clung tighter to Addy’s arm, looking up at her with questioning eyes.

Addy forced another smile, soft and steady, though her heart was racing. “It will be alright,” she whispered, to them or to herself, she wasn’t sure.

(We will revisit papa later maybe to see what he thinks about all the children coming back. Maybe even the kids at the fair. Maybe they meet Papa Perpetua at the fair.)

Swiss and Addeline walked hand in hand into the doctor’s office. Her stomach twisted with nerves. She was still unsettled that Copia had not pressed her about bringing the children home earlier than expected. His silence felt unnatural, like a storm gathering far off.

The waiting room smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper, the ticking clock on the wall far too loud for comfort. They sat close together, but their hands were clammy, their shoulders tight with unspoken fears. Addy’s eyes flickered to the window, then to Swiss, who seemed determined to keep his gaze fixed anywhere but on her.

At last, a nurse appeared, chart in hand, her professional smile not quite able to soften the nerves that lanced through them both. “Addeline?” she called.

They rose together. The ultrasound technician gestured for them to follow her down the hall, the sound of their footsteps echoing as though each step was carrying them closer to a truth they weren’t sure they were ready to face.

The woman was silent as she guided the probe across Addeline’s belly, her eyes fixed on the grainy screen. Addy’s own gaze searched her face for clues, trying to catch the fleeting twitch of an eyebrow, the softening or tightening of her mouth—any sign that might betray what she wasn’t allowed to say. She knew the rules. Technicians never spoke of what they saw. Still, after so many pregnancies, Addy had learned to read the smallest shifts in tone, the subtle tremors in their carefully rehearsed calm.

At last, the wand lifted, leaving a trail of cool gel behind. The woman wiped it clean with brisk, practiced movements, then offered Addy a warm towel for her stomach. Her smile was polite, almost too even. “The doctor will be right in to speak with you,” she said, as though it were the most ordinary visit in the world.

Addy managed to make a small nod, though her pulse thudded unevenly in her throat. She reached for Swiss’s hand again, her fingers curling tightly around his.

The door opened with a gentle knock, and Dr. Sullivan stepped inside, her white coat swaying at her sides. “Good afternoon, Addeline, Swiss,” she greeted warmly as she settled onto the stool beside the monitor, “you two surely are a sight for sore eyes.”

Addy held her breath until the doctor looked up with a tranquil expression. “Everything looks good for now. The baby is growing right on track.” Relief loosened Addy’s shoulders, and she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Dr. Sullivan folded her hands and added gently, “The cramps you’ve been experiencing are common in the first trimester. They’re usually caused by your uterus stretching as the baby grows, but I want to be proactive given your history.”

Addy felt Swiss’s hand tighten over hers, both of them leaning forward as the physician continued.

“You’re entering your second trimester, which means it’s the right time to move ahead with the cerclage we discussed.” She paused, making sure her words landed carefully. “I’d like to schedule it for today, while everything is stable.”

The air in the room shifted. Even though she had known this was coming—had braced herself for it—the reality of hearing Dr. Sullivan’s words made her chest tighten. Her mind spun with flashes of the past: the whispered cautions, the quiet nights lying awake with fear, the ache of knowing her body sometimes failed her. She wanted to be brave, but the thought of surgery, of being wheeled into that sterile room, made her stomach churn.

Her grip on the ghoul’s hand tightened, nails pressing lightly against his skin. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he anchored her, his thumb stroking slow circles across her knuckles in a steady rhythm. “You’ll be alright, babe.”

Dr. Sullivan leaned forward, her tone still calm. “I know it sounds daunting, but the procedure is routine. You’ve done remarkably well so far, and this is just an extra safeguard for both you and the baby.”

Addy nodded faintly, though her throat burned with unshed words. She wanted to ask if she could wait, if it was truly necessary right now, but one look at Swiss kept her silent.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” he said softly, bending closer so only she could hear.

Her chest ached, but she managed to whisper back, “I know.” And for the moment, that had to be enough.

When Dr. Sullivan excused herself to prepare the surgical team, the room felt heavier for the silence she left behind. Addy kept her eyes on the floor, afraid that if she looked up, the flood of fear would spill over in front of him. Her hand trembled faintly in his, betraying her even as she tried to steady herself.

Swiss shifted closer, turning his body toward hers. “Addy,” he said gently, waiting until she met his eyes, “You don’t have to carry all of this alone. Let me carry some of it.”

Her lips parted, but words failed. All she could manage was a shaky breath and a whisper: “I’m afraid.”

“I know. But nothing’s going to happen to you. Not while I’m here.” He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, lingering just long enough to steady her.

She swallowed, ready to admit a fleeting thought that had been weighing her down. “It’s just…” Her eyes glistened, “I usually had Papa for these things.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, and the moment they did, guilt burned her chest. She wished she could pull them back, wished she could swallow them whole.

Swiss’s jaw tightened, his expression flickering with something sharp—jealousy, hurt, maybe both. His thumb paused mid-stroke against her hand. For a heartbeat, she thought he might pull away.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until at last he exhaled through his nose, forcing his hand to move again, steady circles over her knuckles. “I don’t know how many times I have to keep saying this. I’m not him,” he insisted, the edge in his voice revealing how much the comparison stung. “I’m here now. You hear me? I’m the one sitting next to you.”

Addy nodded quickly, her chest tight, shame biting at her for even saying it. She leaned into his shoulder, needing him more than she dared admit. “I know. I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His arm shifted around her, protective but tense, as though he was holding her close while still battling the ghost of another man in the room with them.

A knock at the door cut through the heaviness. A nurse entered with a calm smile. “They’re ready for you.”

The nurse led them down the narrow hallway, the squeak of her shoes against the linoleum sounding far too loud in Addy’s ears. Swiss walked half a step behind, his hand firm at the small of her back. The closer they got, the colder everything felt.

Inside the operating room, the air was sharp and cool. A surgical table sat waiting in the center, surrounded by stainless steel trays and quiet machines. Addy climbed onto the bed with help, her thin hospital gown rustling as she shifted. She hated the way the room swallowed her—how small she felt against the vastness of white and silver.

Swiss took the chair beside her, leaning forward so his elbows rested on his knees. His hand stayed locked around hers. He didn’t say much, and she was grateful. She didn’t want promises, didn’t want sweet words—just presence.

“You good?” he asked quietly, almost gruff.

“I don’t know,” Addy admitted. “But I’ll try to be.”

He gave a single nod, like that was enough. “That’s all you have to do.”

Dr. Sullivan entered then, gloved and masked, “We’ll get started shortly, Addeline. You’ll feel some pressure, but it won’t take long. We’ll keep you safe.”

Addy’s grip tightened on her husband’s hand. He didn’t flinch. He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching hers. “You’re alright,” he said simply, “I’m not letting go.”

And that was what she carried with her as the lights brightened overhead and the team prepared to begin.

The lights above her seemed too bright, pinning her in place. She tried to focus on the cool touch of Swiss’s hand in hers, on the steady warmth of his thumb brushing her skin, but the sterile smell of the room kept pulling her back to reality.

The anesthetic numbed her lower half quickly, and though she had been through this before, that heavy, unnatural stillness in her body always unsettled her. She hated not being able to move, hated having to surrender to the quiet efficiency of masked faces moving around her.

The clink of instruments, the low murmur of Dr. Sullivan giving instructions to the nurse—those sounds pressed in around her, but they felt far away, as though she was underwater. Her heartbeat filled her ears, too fast, too loud.

“You’re doing fine, Addeline,” Dr. Sullivan’s voice cut through gently. “Everything is going just as it should.”

Addy swallowed hard, tasting the dryness in her mouth. She nodded, even though she wasn’t sure she believed it. The only thing that felt real was Swiss’s grip. He leaned closer, and she could smell the faint trace of his cologne beneath the antiseptic.

“Almost there,” Dr. Sullivan added after a moment. “Just a few more stitches.”

Addy blinked rapidly, feeling as though a vise were closing around her. She didn’t cry—she refused to—but she let her hand squeeze Swiss’s as hard as she could. He didn’t wince, didn’t pull away. He just bent his head until his forehead touched hers, grounding her in that single point of warmth.

The world could have fallen away outside those walls, and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Dr. Sullivan’s voice cut through at last, calm but final. “There. The stitch is in place. Everything went smoothly.”

Relief hit Addy so fast her chest stung. She let her head drop back against the pillow, a shaky exhale slipping from her lips. For the first time since she’d walked into the hospital, she let her body loosen, if only a little.

“You did well, Addy,” the doctor added gently, tugging her gloves off as she stepped back. “You’ll rest here for a bit, and we’ll monitor you closely. But your baby is safe. You are safe.”

Safe. The word felt fragile, like glass. Addy closed her eyes, tasting the salt of tears she hadn’t wanted to shed. She turned her face toward Swiss, catching the warmth of his sleeve against her cheek.

“I told you,” he murmured, voice rough with the weight of everything he hadn’t said out loud. “You got through it.”

She let out a faint, tired laugh, more breath than sound. “We got through it.”

And for the first time that day, she believed it.

The recovery room was dimmer, the light softer than the surgical glare she had endured. A thin blanket covered her legs, but she still felt the heavy numbness lingering in her lower body. The monitors beeped softly, steady reminders that she was still tethered to the hospital.

She lay back against the pillow, exhausted but restless, her eyes drifting to the IV taped to her arm. She hated the way it made her feel—weak, dependent. She had never gotten used to it, not through all the years and all the times before.

Swiss sat in the chair beside her bed, too large for the narrow space, his elbows balanced on his knees. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her. Not once.

“You don’t have to stare at me,” she muttered, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” he said simply, not shifting. “I just need to see you breathing.”

The honesty in his words cut her deeper than she expected. She turned her face away, staring at the muted TV mounted in the corner, though she wasn’t really watching.

She thought of what she’d said earlier—that she usually had Papa for these things—and the guilt came rushing back. It sat on her chest, heavier than the blanket.

“You should hate me for saying that,” she whispered. “It was… uncalled for.”

Swiss’s chair creaked as he leaned back, arms folding across his chest. His silence lasted so long she almost wished he wouldn’t answer. Finally, he said, “I don’t hate you. I just hate that he’s still in your head.”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t about choosing one man over the other, that it was only the force of habit, the remnants of a life she couldn’t shake.

“Thank you for being here.”

Swiss shifted closer, resting his hand lightly over hers on the blanket. “There’s nowhere else I’d be.”

The door opened softly, and Dr. Sullivan stepped back into the room, clipboard in hand. Her expression was calm, professional, but there was a gentleness in her voice as she came to Addy’s bedside.

“You did very well today,” she began. “Now we need to talk about recovery and aftercare.” She glanced between Addy and Swiss, making sure she had both of their attention.

“For the next few days, you’ll need to rest. Light activity around the house is fine, but avoid anything strenuous. No running, no heavy lifting, and definitely no picking up your older children. That part’s important—your cervix needs to stay protected.”

Addy’s heart sank. The thought of not being able to scoop up her little ones when they came running to her nearly broke her heart, as though now they were being punished for a decision that she had made.

Dr. Sullivan continued gently, “Walking is good. Daily movement is healthy, but slow and steady. Think of it as maintaining circulation, not exercise. You’ll also want to avoid long periods on your feet.”

Addy nodded faintly, her fingers curling in the blanket. “And… normal things? Cooking? Sitting with them?”

“Those are fine,” the woman said with a small smile. “But you’ll need help with the lifting and chasing.”

Swiss straightened in his chair, “She’ll have it.”

The doctor lingered a moment longer before setting her clipboard aside. Her gaze softened, but her tone sharpened with emphasis. “Addeline, I want to be very clear about one thing in particular. Absolutely no sexual activity of any kind until I give you clearance. You got that?”

Her head snapped up, cheeks coloring, but the doctor pressed on. “That includes intercourse, oral, even stimulation that could bring on contractions. I know intimacy is important to you, and I understand how much you value that part of your relationship, but this is one area where you cannot bend the rules. Even a single episode could risk the stitch and the pregnancy.”

Addy stared at her hands, her chest heavy. Bedrest, restrictions, no lifting, no intimacy. A life half-lived until the baby was safe. She felt Swiss watching her, waiting for her to look at him.

“I understand,” she whispered.

Dr. Sullivan gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “This isn’t forever. But for now, your focus has to be on protecting the pregnancy. You’ve both come too far to risk it.” She straightened, collected her chart, and left them with that final word hanging in the air.

The room seemed colder once she was gone. Addy turned her head toward Swiss, trying to gauge him, but he was already watching her. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between protective and unsettled.

Finally, he blew out a breath through his nose, leaning back in the chair. “Guess that answers that.” His mouth twitched like he almost meant to smile, but the tension in his eyes gave him away.

Addy’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be,” Swiss shook his head immediately. “This isn’t on you. Sex isn’t what matters right now.”

She nodded, eyes burning, but before she could look away, he gave her hand a squeeze and let a crooked grin slip through.

“Besides,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, “nobody said anything about blowjobs.”

A laugh slipped out of her. She clapped her free hand over her mouth, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Improvise, adapt, overcome,” he shot back. “Not the worst motto for parenthood either.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she dropped her gaze to their intertwined hands. “You make it sound so simple, but you know me…” Her voice lowered, almost sheepish. “I’m not good at… going without.”

His grin softened into something more serious. “I know,” he said. “And trust me, I’ll miss it too. But if the choice is between holding out a few months or risking you and the baby? That’s not even a question.”

She swallowed hard, “You’d really be alright?”

“Addy, I’d wait forever if I had to. The rest of it… that’s just a bonus.” He smirked again, voice dropping lower. “Though don’t think I’m not gonna cash in on that blowjob loophole.”

Her laugh came softer this time, but it stayed with her, warming the cold edges of the room. For the first time since the surgery, the knot in her chest began to loosen.

Chapter Text

Elizabeth was riding through the ministry halls on her father’s old tricycle, the metal frame rattling over the smooth tiles. The sound carried, a hollow clatter echoing against the vaulted ceilings and through corridors that once held the solemn steps of clergy. Her small legs pumped furiously, pigtails flying behind her as she steered with reckless delight, utterly unaware of the way her presence transformed the silence into something alive again.

Candles in the sconces flickered as she passed, her laughter chasing ahead of her like a wild spirit. The tricycle was far too big for her, her little legs straining to push each pedal but she was determined. Since it belonged to Papa, she liked to think that every scuff and dent in the paint carried some piece of his childhood mischief. She imagined him riding through these same halls long before he became the man everyone bowed to.

A pair of trainees pressed themselves flat against the wall to avoid being bowled over, blinking after her in shock before breaking into hushed whispers. Elizabeth only grinned wider, gripping the handlebars tighter, her voice rising in a gleeful whoop that made the shadows tremble. The ministry was hers for the moment—her playground, her kingdom, her inheritance.

She was so lost in the thrill of the ride that she didn’t notice the way the air shifted—how the corridor seemed to grow colder, how the candle flames leaned toward the walls as if bowing.

She looked up just in time to see him emerge from the smoke ahead. The squeak of the pedals broke under her shoes, the front wheel jolting as she skidded to an abrupt, clattering stop. Her small chest heaved with both exertion and awe as she gazed upon him.

His robes were a deep, regal violet, heavy with embroidered silver crosses that glinted in the dim light. The fabric caught the glow of the flames, throwing sharp flashes of metal and jewel.

A towering mitre crowned his head, its surface etched with intricate designs and dark gemstones that shimmered like trapped stars. His features were hidden behind a skull-like mask, but she could see eyes beneath it that matched her own. Dark hair spilled outside the edges of the mask, shifting faintly in the air stirred by his own movement. For a heartbeat, it was as if she were staring at a strange, towering mirror of herself.

Most striking of all were his hands—metallic and skeletal, each finger crafted in gleaming segments that caught the light with every subtle shift. They looked both sacred and terrible like relics from an evil world. He raised them slightly as if in greeting or benediction, the gesture as commanding as it was unsettling.

Elizabeth’s small chin tipped upward, her tricycle rocking beneath her as the man approached.

“Hello, young one,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “Who might you be?”

She didn’t back away. Elizabeth was not one to shy. “I am Elizabeth Emeritus, heir apparent to Papa Emeritus the Fourth. I am the eldest of seven Emeritus children and…” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as her eyes darted up and down the hall. “And the most clever.”

The man regarded her in silence for a long moment, then dipped his head, as though her boldness had confirmed what he already suspected. “I am Papa Perpetua,” he said at last, his metallic fingers gleaming as they moved. Then his voice softened, as though sharing something rare and personal. “But you can call me Pepe.”

Elizabeth blinked, her brows knitting together. “Pepe?” What a silly name you have,” She tilted her head and flashed him a mischievous grin. “The people here call me Eliza. They think it is more befitting for one my age, but I am no child, mind you!”

“Ah, then I should call you Elizabeth,” he said between chuckles, his skeletal fingers lifting as if to frame her in blessing. “You are just like your grandmother—fearless and sharp of tongue.”

Elizabeth grinned, pleased with herself, her hands gripping the handlebars like she’d just won a duel. “You know my grandmother?”

Papa Perpetua inclined his head slightly. “I know of her,” he corrected gently. “I am here to meet her. I hear she is in need of help with the new ministry.”

Elizabeth leaned forward on her tricycle, mischief sparking across her face as though she relished being entrusted with such a secret. “I can take you to her if you please. I always know where she is, every minute of every day.”

Perpetua regarded her with an unreadable expression, a mixture of admiration and something far more thoughtful, “I would be forever grateful, young lady.”

She set her feet back to the pedals and with a squeak of the tricycle’s wheels, she pushed forward again. She tossed a glance over her shoulder, chin lifted in command far beyond her years. “Come along, Pepe,” she called, bidding him to follow as though she were the one in charge of his audience.

Papa Perpetua’s long strides fell into place behind her, his violet robes whispering across the stone as the rattle of the tricycle led the way.

As they approached the wing where Sister Imperator kept her office, Elizabeth leaned slightly to one side, speaking over the clatter of her wheels. “Best mind yourself when we get there. Don’t cross her, and don’t prank her, either. You’ll get a solid lashing with a switch from the garden if you anger her.” Her voice lowered, conspiratorial but utterly serious. “And don’t linger too long. She doesn’t care for it. Only say as much as you need to, to get your point across. She despises endless chattah.”

Papa Perpetua’s deep voice rumbled with amusement. “What a strange accent you have, little one. Were you raised in England?”

“No,” she giggled, shaking her head so hard her pigtails whipped about. “My governess is from Great Britain.”

She said it with pride, as though it were some great distinction, then glanced back at him with a sly little smile. “She makes me drink tea every afternoon and say my r’s properly, even when Papa does not.”

Perpetua chuckled at her answer, the sound low and rolling, his mismatched eyes glinting. “Ah, then that explains the chattah,” he teased, mimicking her crisp pronunciation.

Elizabeth slowed the tricycle to a screeching halt, one wheel wobbling before it steadied. She sat up tall and pointed to the carved wooden door looming before them. “Here we are,” she announced, her tone carrying the weight of authority. Then, lowering her voice to a sage whisper, she added, “Knock first. My grandsire likes to enter there without knocking and Sister despises it. He’s a ghost though and doesn’t need a door.”

Papa Perpetua inclined his head gravely, though a playful gleam danced in his mismatched eyes. “Then I will make sure to give the door a thorough beat down,” he promised, flexing his skeletal fingers.

The young girl gave an approving nod, satisfied with his answer, and then shoved her feet back onto the pedals. With a squeak and rattle, she shot forward, her laughter trailing behind her like ribbons. “Good luck!” she called, her voice fading as she disappeared around the bend, leaving the man alone in the shadow of Sister’s door.

Perpetua looked down at his feet and for the first time since stepping into the ministry, hesitation tugged at him. He thought, fleetingly, that perhaps he should have let the unshakable little girl knock for him. But no. This was his burden to bear, his audience to claim.

Drawing a steady breath, he lifted his hand and let his knuckles hover just above the wood. Before he could bring them down, however, a sharp voice rang from the other side.

“I can hear you out there. Just come in and quit stalling!”

Perpetua’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard. With a slow, deliberate motion, he wrapped his fingers around the knob. The metal turned with a creak, and as the door eased open, he braced himself—ready to meet Sister Imperator.

From her desk, Sister scarcely bothered to lift her gaze, accustomed to all manner of interruptions. But as her eyes swept across the man standing in her doorway, she faltered.

At first it was only a cursory glance, a dismissal born of habit. Then her gaze snagged, held fast, and she looked again—harder this time, sharper. The lines around her mouth slackened, her lips parting as if the breath had been stolen straight from her chest.

“Hell’s teeth…” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could gather them back. Her quill rolled from her hand, forgotten on the desk. For the first time in forever, Sister Imperator rose without command, her chair scraping back against the stone floor. She stood tall, disbelief etched into every sharp angle of her face as she stared at the figure framed in her doorway.

The man in the doorway did not move at first, only watched her with his mismatched eyes that seemed to pierce straight through the years. “Hello, Mother.”

Sister walked to the man and cupped his face, she traced his skin like a mother would to a new born. A single tear rolled down her cheek and stopped at the corner of her mouth, “My son…” she choked.

Pepe removed her hand, almost bitterly, and placed it at her side. He breezed  past her, tight lipped, making himself at home in her office.

Sister’s steps were slow but certain as she closed the space between them. Her hand, thin and trembling with age, rose to his face, cupping his cheek as though afraid he might vanish if she did not touch him. Her fingers traced the lines of his skin with the same reverence she might give a newborn child, each motion heavy with years of absence and regret.

A single tear slipped free, carving its path down her cheek before catching at the corner of her mouth. “My son…” the words broke in her throat.

Pepe’s expression hardened. He caught her hand, not tenderly but with an edge, and lowered it back to her side as if the gesture were unwelcome. Without a word, he moved past her. He took her office as his own, settling into its space with the quiet certainty of one who believed he had every right. His lips pressed into a thin line, his silence heavier than any accusation he might have spoken.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” Sister whispered, the weight of years pressing down on every syllable.

Pepe’s jaw flexed as he nodded once. The motion was sharp, almost dismissive. His undeniable family eyes burned into her. “Did you want to?” the words sent a bitterness that curled through the room.

“Of course I did, my boy,” she rushed to say, “I looked for you.”

He let out a sound—half laugh, half scoff—as his gaze broke from her to the shadows of her office. “Not hard enough though, eh?”

Sister’s shoulders slumped, the sharpness of his tone cutting deeper than she wished to admit. “I lost touch with your Aunt. But I swear I tried. Mr. Psaltarian did as well. He wished to find his wife just as much as I wished to find you.”

Pepe gave a short wave of his hand, as if brushing the past aside. “Then we’ll let bygones be bygones. No need to dwell on it. I’m here now.”

He leaned back a little, his tone turning more matter-of-fact. “My aunt and I heard you could use some help putting this ministry back together. We figured we might be of some use.”

Sister Imperator watched him closely, trying to read whether there was more behind his words than what he let on.

Although wary of his suggestion, she knew she was in no position to turn him away. The ministry needed hands, and even if his sudden return unsettled her, she couldn’t afford to dismiss him. With a pause, her lips tightened before she asked, carefully, “What did you have in mind?”

He moved about the office with the ease of someone inspecting what might soon be his. A hand drifted over the shelves, tracing the spines of leather-bound volumes until he tugged one free. He flipped through the brittle pages without reading a word, the sound of paper rasping against his fingers filling the silence.

“I caught a whiff from someone within these very walls that there’s a tour amongst you?” he asked, his tone casual as he turned another page.

The woman behind the desk stiffened. “How did you—”

He snapped the book shut, dust clouding the air, and set it back with a soft thud. “Perhaps I could be of some assistance there. I’m strong,” he continued, dragging his fingertip along the edge of the shelf, “so I can help with the setup.” He examined the faint smear of dust on his unique glove before brushing it absently on his robe. “I’ve got leadership skills, which makes me a natural choice for stage manager.”

His gaze slid to her as he strolled toward the desk, picking up a quill left carelessly in an inkwell. He twirled it between his fingers. “And I’m a musician. I can play. And…” he leaned close enough for her to catch the faint amusement in his eyes, “…I can sing.”

“Sing?” the word slipped out, incredulous.

“Yes.” He set the quill down carefully on the blotter, aligning it just so. “Sing.”

“Your brother is already the singer.”

“My brother.” He let the words linger, as though savoring the taste of them. One hand flattened on the desk, smearing a fine line through the dust. “Well, it’s possible he might grow weary, and I could fill in. The possibilities are endless, really.”

He circled slowly toward the chair opposite hers and lowered himself into it without asking, stretching long legs out before him. His smile sharpened as he added, “And I heard you’re down one ghoullette. My faithful companion, Tempest, is a beautiful creature. Skilled. Loyal. I could bring her along.”

The silence stretched, thick with the weight of his intrusion. He leaned back in the chair, hands laced over his chest, as though he had already settled into the role he claimed for himself.

Sister knew Cardi would bristle at the thought, but how could she refuse her long-lost son? How could she turn him away now that he stood before her, shatter the fragile chance of making things right? She resolved to explain it delicately to Copia in due time and, with a quiet breath, accepted Perpetua’s offer.

“Yes. Of course. I will send you the information once the plans are finalized.”

“Splendid, mother… I can call you mother, can’t I?”

She didn’t answer, only gave a stiff, uncomradely nod.

Pepe’s grin deepened, satisfied enough with her silence, “Until we meet again.” He pivoted on his heel and strode from the chamber, the heavy door shutting with a dull thud behind him. His steps carried him down the long corridor. He had meant to wander, to acquaint himself with the ministry’s bones, to measure its halls as though staking a claim.

But then he saw her.

Annaliese was gliding down the passage, her pace unhurried but purposeful, the sweep of her dress dusting the floor. She paused now and then, peering into doorways as though searching for something.

Pepe slowed. His eyes followed the curve of her movements, the way light from the tall windows caught in her hair. In that instant all thought of stone and relics fell away. He was taken with her at once.

“Regina…” he whispered, savoring the syllables as he stepped toward her.

Annaliese turned, her brows lifting in surprise at the stranger addressing her so boldly. Her gaze lingered on him a beat longer than politeness required.

He laughed under his breath, amused by her quick attention. “A pet name, nothing more. You walk these halls as though they belong to you—a queen without a crown.”

Her lips curved ever so slightly. “I am no queen,” she giggled, “I am Papa Emeritus’s wife. Annaliese.”

Pepe inclined his head and let his eyes glint with mischief. “Then I was right. What else would you call a woman who holds a throne beside him?”

Perpetua took the woman’s hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Piacere di conoscerla,” he murmured.

Annaliese tilted her head, a flicker of amusement lighting her eyes as she answered in kind, her voice smooth and lilting. “Il piacere è mio. Nice to meet you as well.”

Their hands lingered a heartbeat too long before she eased hers back, her curiosity sharpened now by his sudden charm.

“Your Italian is perfect. Where are you from, Regina?”

“I am from Roma,” she replied, her vowels soft and lingering, “but I ‘ave been ‘ere since I was but ten.”

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “but you are the most striking creature I have ever laid eyes on. Your golden hair shines like the sun.”

Her blush deepened, her already cherry cheeks darkening. “Ahh, you flatter me too much, signore…”

“Pepe,” he offered, savoring her name in return as her smile deepened. “I must go, but I will return. And when I do, I hope to see more of you.”

She bowed her head with a gentle laugh, the music of her accent lingering in the air as he turned to leave. By the time Perpetua stepped beyond the ministry doors, a smile was etched across his face—victory and curiosity both sparking in his eyes.

*

Sister Imperator sat, her thoughts swirling like a storm she could not quiet. Relief warred with guilt, hope tangled with fear, and suspicion gnawed at the edges of her heart. At last, she had reunited with a son she once believed lost to the world. How she had longed to find him sooner—but the circumstances of her past had made that impossible.

After her own pregnancy, she had vanished, swallowed whole by her thirst for vengeance. Those who had wronged her—and wronged countless others—had become her prey. The hunt had been her lifeblood, her very purpose. It had filled her with a grim satisfaction, a cruel balm for wounds that never truly healed.

She returned to the ministry much later, a tiny Copia cradled in her arms. What no one knew, what she had hidden even from those closest to her, was that she had not borne one child but two. Copia had been only half the story.

When the twins were born, she entrusted them to a woman she considered a sister—Marika. Marika, who later married Mr. Psaltarian, had raised the children with him until Imperator could return for them. But when that day came, only Psaltarian and Copia remained. Marika and the other boy, Perpetua, were gone.

The loss had gutted her. It had been the wound that never closed, the reason she held Copia so fiercely, so possessively, all his life. To lose one son was unbearable; to risk losing the other, unthinkable.

And so, when she returned fully to Nihil, she poured herself into his world—helping him craft Ghost, building a clergy designed not only to dominate but to keep her search alive. Every ceremony, every chant, every whispered plan carried a hidden prayer: that she might someday find the child who had slipped from her grasp. But the years had passed, and he came. Until now.

But she had to wonder—why now? After all these years of silence, of absence, why choose this moment to step out of the shadows? The timing unsettled her. She could not help but question what motives had driven him back into her life.

Beneath his charm, she sensed something calculated and deliberate. Perpetua had not come merely to reunite; there was a hunger in his eyes. Sister’s heart ached with the relief of finding her son, yet a quiet dread whispered that his return was not the miracle it seemed.

There was also the question of Copia. He had only just begun to grapple with the truth of his own parentage—that he was the spawn of herself and Nihil. The revelation had left him raw, uncertain of his footing, even as he tried to wear the mantle of Papa with dignity. How could she lay another truth upon his shoulders so soon? How would he react to the knowledge that he was not alone in the world, but had a twin brother—one who had appeared suddenly, asking to share the very burden he had only begun to claim?

And then there was Nihil. He too had only just discovered Copia was of his blood, a shock that had shaken him to the core. To tell him now of another son, another heir, would be a blow far greater still. Would he welcome Perpetua, or see him as a usurper come to wrest away what little legacy remained?

The thought pressed like a stone on her chest. She had long carried her secrets for what she believed was survival, but now, revealed piece by piece, they threatened to undo her.

Chapter Text

Perpetua walked into his manor, a crumbling stone villa on the outskirts of the city, shrouded in ivy and shadow. He preferred it that way. He loved the dark, and the dark seemed to love him back. From the road it looked like nothing more than a ruin, a forgotten estate left to rot.

But once the iron doors groaned open, the illusion of decay fell away. The halls inside breathed with eerie splendor. Black marble floors stretched beneath vaulted ceilings; their arches draped in crimson velvet. Chandeliers of wrought iron hung low, each one burning with dozens of tall, trembling candles that painted the walls in gold. The air smelled of wax and old stone, touched with something metallic that lingered faintly on the tongue.

Portraits of ancestors—gaunt, pale, their eyes following from the frame—watched as he passed. Tapestries depicting scenes of conquest and ruin clung to the walls, their threads dulled but still defiant. In the distance, the low moan of the wind threaded through the broken shutters, blending with the faint echo of dripping water somewhere deep in the villa’s bones.

It was not a home meant for comfort. It was a throne for a predator. And Perpetua thrived in it.

As the heavy doors closed behind him, a soft voice slipped through the shadows.

“Welcome home, my lord.”

Tempest stepped into the candlelight, her long hair gleaming like spun gold, her figure wrapped in a black dress that clung to every curve. The firelight caught on the subtle shimmer of studs scattered across the fabric, so she seemed to glimmer faintly as she moved, like starlight caught in mortal form.

Her eyes caught his, like hooks, lined dark to deepen their pull. She was beautiful. But it was not her beauty that made the air shift—it was the resonance of her voice. Low, melodic and tinged with something ancient. It was a siren’s voice, the kind meant to draw sailors to their doom, now tamed to greet only him.

She crossed the marble floor with the grace of a hunter, her heels clicking softly until she stood before him. A smile tugged at her lips, sly and knowing, as though she could read every thought in his mind.

She had started as a nightclub singer, moving through dim lounges and underground bars. Audiences never left her shows unchanged—obsessed, addicted, sometimes even ruined. It wasn’t fame she craved, it was the power in their surrender. Perpetua discovered her in that haze, and she saw in him the first man who could resist her pull.

He had found her in a basement lounge off a forgotten street in Germany, a place thick with cigarette smoke and neon haze. The crowd was small, restless, and full of half-drunk men that were already in love with her before she even opened her mouth.

Then she sang.

Her voice rolled out deep and smooth. It curled around the room like smoke, pressing into lungs and bloodstreams until even the bartenders leaned closer. The song wasn’t anything special—a cover of “Alone” by Heart—but on her tongue it was ruin and rapture. Men at the tables gripped their glasses tighter, women tilted their heads, caught between admiration and envy.

Perpetua stood in the shadows and watched, recognizing her for what she was. Not just a singer. A predator, much like himself. Every note was a hook, every pause a promise. And the crowd? Helpless. They would follow her anywhere, even if it was straight into the sea.

When the set ended, she stepped offstage, brushing past admirers who clamored for her attention. She dismissed them all with a single look, her eyes already searching the room. That was when she saw him—tall, composed and smiling like he knew her deepest secret.

Her brow arched as she closed the distance, her voice still carrying that intoxicating edge. “You,” she said. “You were able to look away.”

“Yes,” he replied, bowing his head just slightly. “Seems your song doesn’t work on me.”

For a heartbeat she studied him, searching for the tremor of fear, the slip of awe she always found in others. But there was nothing. Just calm, steady certainty.

A slow smile curved her lips, sly and dangerous. “Then you’re either stronger than most,” she murmured, “or far more foolish.”

“Perhaps both,” Perpetua said, offering his hand. “Either way, I think we belong to each other now.”

And when her fingers slid into his, it was as though the room around them ceased to exist.

That was the night the stage siren became Tempest.

And now, as she stood before him in the flickering candlelight of the villa, she smiled with the same dangerous bow of her lips, as if she too was remembering.

“Did you miss me?” she teased, with a voice low and melodic. It carried the same seductive pull as her song.

Perpetua reached for her hand and drew it to his lips, kissing her knuckles with deliberate worship. Only he knew what she was. “Always, my Tempest. Always.”

*

Addeline was in the kitchen, working over a pan of eggs, when her husband wandered in—bare chested, hair tussled and one hand rubbing the sleep from his eyes. She glanced up from the stove and let her gaze linger a moment longer than she meant to. The thickness of his arms, the way his height seemed to fill the room, the defined lines of his abdomen, even the roundness of his backside beneath the thin cotton of his boxers—all of it stirred warmth in her. One layer of fabric was the only thing keeping her from seeing more.

“Like what you see?” he asked, catching her stare and tossing the tease her way.

Her cheeks flushed hot as she snapped her eyes back to the pan. “I hope you’re hungry,” she muttered, fumbling for composure. “I had to cook the rest of this bacon before it went bad.”

“Starving,” he said easily.

Addeline, still flustered and far too aware of herself, risked another jab. “Starving, huh?”

He let out a shrill laugh before it melted into a softer chuckle and slid into his seat while shaking his head, “For food, Adds.”

She plated the bacon with a little more force than necessary before setting it in front of him. “Food? You could’ve fooled me with the way you were staring back.”

He smirked, picking up a piece and biting into it. “What can I say? Bacon isn’t the only thing sizzling in this kitchen.”

Her face went crimson again, and she swatted the air with her spatula. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hungry,” he shot back, grinning. “And maybe a little ridiculous for my wife too.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on her. “Trust me, Adds. Nothing in this room’s going cold anytime soon.”

She set the spatula down and finally turned to face him, arching a brow. “Keep talking like that and you’re going to be eating something else for breakfast.”

Swiss pushed back from the table, rising to his feet with that mischievous grin she knew too well. “Something else?” He closed the distance in a few long strides, slipping his arms around her waist from behind, his bare chest warm against her back, “What else would you feed me?”

Addeline sucked in a quick breath, the spatula now forgotten, her hands bracing against the counter as his lips brushed her shoulder. “One of your favorite meals,” she whispered, more like a dare than an option.

Swiss growled low in his chest, lips dragging up her throat. “Don’t tempt me. You know I’ve got no self-control when it comes to you.”

His hand slipped lower, cupping her through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts, rubbing firmly enough to make her cry out. The pressure lit her up instantly and her hips rolled shamelessly into his palm.

“Swiss—" she gasped, her fingers clutching at his wrist, trying to drag him harder against her clit.

His teeth grazed her ear, his cock already hard against her ass as he rocked into her. “You like me playing with you here, in the kitchen? Would you like it if I bent you over this counter and ate you until you screamed?”

Addy nodded, pushing back against him as her thighs shook. Her body was on fire, ready to shatter at any moment.

But then, just as quickly, his hold slackened. He pulled back, his grin softening into something almost regretful as he clutched her cheek, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“As much as I want to, babe, we can’t. Not yet.”

The sudden absence of his touch left her trembling and clutching the counter, her body still aching with need. In almost an angry tone she snapped, “No self-control, huh?”

Swiss only laughed, dropping back into his chair as though the air wasn’t still buzzing with heat. He picked up his fork, smirking over his plate. “Hey,” he said around a bite, “one of us has to have it.”

Her glare could have burned a hole through him, but he only chewed, smug and unbothered, while she stood there still quaking from the denial.

*

Copia sat in the ministry’s library, the cavernous room quiet except for the sound of pages turning beneath his fingers. Row upon row of ancient tomes surrounded him, their spines heavy with the history of the clergy. He leaned into the words, tracing the past for guidance on how to rebuild the strength of the ministry in the present.

He sat back in his seat, letting the quiet settle around him while he waited. His ex-wife was due any moment, and though the thought made his stomach knot a little, business came first. They had to talk about the upcoming tour, hammer out the details, and at least pretend to be on the same page, even if things between them were anything but simple.

His concentration shattered at the sudden slam of the door, the sound ricocheting off the high walls of the library. Footsteps echoed in steady rhythm, drawing closer, until at last Addeline stepped into view.

He drew in a breath that felt heavier than it should. She looked almost the same as the day he’d first seen her at that concert—striking, magnetic and impossible to ignore. Her dress, though cut loose to hide her condition, betrayed her all the same. Its hem teased with every movement, lifting just enough to make him wonder what lay hidden.

His gaze dipped lower, catching the graceful press of her thighs as she walked. Heat stirred unbidden, and he shut his eyes for a moment, willing control back into his body before it gave him away.

When he opened his eyes again, she was closer, the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the old musk of parchment and dust.

Addeline said nothing at first. She simply crossed to the table, brushing her hand against the worn wood as she passed. He forced himself to sit straighter, to focus on the stack of books before him, though the words on the page had long since blurred.

Finally, she met his gaze with a half-smile that wasn’t quite kind, wasn’t quite cruel. It lingered in the air between them.

“You’re already working,” she murmured, her voice carrying a husky edge, as though she knew exactly what effect she had on him.

He cleared his throat, shutting the tome in front of him a little too quickly. “Trying to,” he answered. “Though some distractions are harder to ignore than others.”

Before he could gather another word, she leaned in, her lips brushing his cheek in a fleeting kiss. It was nothing more than a polite gesture on the surface, yet it left a trail of heat that lingered long after she had pulled away.

She sat across from him, smoothing her dress as though the movement had meant nothing, her face calm, composed. But he felt the shift in the air, the invisible weight pressing between them. “So, what have you been working on?”

Copia cleared his throat, dragging the book a little closer as though its weight might steady him. “The tour,” he began, his voice rougher than intended. “A short leg through Europe. Fewer cities, but bigger venues. We need to finalize setlists, staging, travel… everything.”

Addeline leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table as she let her chin rest against her hand. She regarded him with quiet interest, though her eyes still held that faint spark from moments before. “And you want me to handle the organization, I assume.”

“You’ve always been good at it,” he admitted, glancing at her despite himself. “The order, the detail… I’d be a fool not to rely on you.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Careful, Papa. You make it sound like you miss having me at your side.”

He shifted in his seat, ignoring the twist in his chest. “I miss having someone I can depend on.”

The words lingered longer than he meant them to, heavy with more than just logistics. Addeline seemed to hear it too, her smile fading into something smaller, more thoughtful.

She gave her head a small shake, as though brushing away the moment, and reached into her bag. She slid a folded sheet of paper across the table toward him. “Here. A list of songs I think would work well for the set.”

Copia unfolded the page, eyes scanning her tidy script. “Hmm. Not bad.”

She smiled faintly. “And I’d like to remain a ghoulette, if that’s fine with you. You know I love to sing.”

His brow rose, but before he could answer, she pressed on. “Elizabeth has also been asking to come along this time. She’s old enough, and she’s eager. Kaisarion, on the other hand, says he doesn’t want to.”

Copia’s expression hardened, the paper crinkling in his hand. “Nonsense. He has been on every tour since he was born. This is his heritage. His place.”

Addeline crossed her arms and shook her head, firm but calm. “He doesn’t seem at all interested in taking your place, Papa. Perhaps we should let him be himself this once, instead of forcing him into a mold that doesn’t fit.”

The air between them tightened, her words cutting through the silence like a bell. Copia’s jaw clenched as he stared at her, torn between anger and doubt.

“I will talk to the boy,” he said at last, his tone clipped, as though the finality of the words could settle the matter.

Addeline only shook her head, her arms still folded. She had already had the conversations—Elizabeth’s bubbling excitement, Kaisarion’s stubborn refusal. Their minds were made up, and she knew no amount of his stern insistence would shift them.

Still, a part of her almost longed to watch him try. To see Papa Emeritus, the man who commanded arenas and congregations with a single gesture, forced to reckon with the unyielding will of two small children. It would humble him in a way only his own blood could.

“Right. You let me know how that works out for you.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the books stacked around them, filled with all the things they couldn’t agree on—and perhaps never would.

“And Papa, there is also the matter of which musicians will return on this tour.”

That caught his attention. His eyes lifted from the page, sharp now.

“Shall I tell Swiss that he’s still the male backup singer?”

He hesitated, the pause stretching. For a fleeting moment, the thought of leaving Swiss behind felt like a relief—no awkward silences, no weight of unspoken things hanging in the air. But he knew better. Not inviting him would speak louder than anything else, and the consequences would ripple far beyond the stage.

“We’re already down a ghoulette after losing Cumulus last year,” Addeline pressed. “It would be unwise to, for lack of a better word, fire someone now. And that is why I think it’s a good idea I return as a ghoulette myself.”

Copia leaned back slowly, studying her, then gave a single nod. “Yes, my dear. Tell him he has his place.”

His words were firm, but the moment they left his mouth, a weight pressed against his chest. Tell him he has his place. The phrase echoed, and with it came the reminder of everything left unresolved between them. Swiss’s voice, his laughter, the memory of trust once unshakable—now fractured into something sharp and uncomfortable.

Addeline, meanwhile, was already gathering her notes, her expression businesslike. “Good. It will make the transition smoother. The fans will notice stability more than they’ll notice who’s standing behind you.”

He watched her, torn between gratitude and unease. On paper, she was right—Swiss belonged on the tour, at his side. But in his heart, Copia wondered how he would weather the long nights, the rehearsals, the travel… all with those memories clawing just beneath the surface.

Still, he forced a small smile. “Then it’s settled.”

But the words echoed bitterly in his chest, dragging him back to that day on the tour when everything had cracked.

He had only been searching for receipts, a simple, mundane task, when he stumbled upon the envelope—creased, worn, but damning all the same. Congratulations Swiss & Addeline. It’s a boy. The paper had trembled in his hands, his heart pounding as if it were about to split his chest open.

The memory pulled him deeper still—to the moment he confronted her. The way she had looked up at him when he called her name, her laughter freezing midair, her smile faltering. Swiss’s hand had been on her shoulder then, steady and too familiar, and when she stepped toward him, Copia had seen guilt written in every line of her body.

And then the images had come, unbidden but undeniable: the glances, the laughter, the intimacy he had once dismissed as harmless. It had all been right there in front of him. He had been blind—willfully blind—until that moment.

The memory darkened, shifting to the confrontation, to Addy’s face under the weight of his fury, to the way she had looked at him with fear instead of love. Even now, the shame and betrayal twisted together inside him until he could hardly breathe.

Her denials had spilled out, trembling and desperate: We’re just friends. We only work together. Lies he pretended to believe because the truth would break him. But the weight of revelation had already settled deep in his chest, poisoning everything.

Copia blinked hard, yanked back into the present. Addeline sat across from him now, calm, professional, sliding notes across the table as if nothing had ever happened. But the memory never really left. Not then. Not now. And especially not with Swiss’s name once more etched into their plans.

“Well, if that’s everything, Papa, I really need to be going. I have an appointment I can’t miss. I’ll take all of this with me and I’ll put together an itinerary that you can give to Sister for final approval. I’ll make the phone calls too, inviting our usual team back.”

He nodded, the gratitude on his face genuine enough, though muted by the weight of all that lingered between them. “Grazie, Addeline. I appreciate it.”

They both rose, gathering their things, and found themselves hesitating in the narrow space between chair and table. For a moment, neither knew whether to extend a hand or simply walk away. At last, they leaned in, the movement stiff and careful, a half-embrace that carried none of the warmth it once did.

It was awkward, brief, and over too soon—but even that small contact was enough to stir spirits of what had been, and the reminder of everything that could never be again.

Addeline pulled back first, smoothing her dress as though to erase the moment. “I’ll be in touch,” she said lightly, though her eyes avoided his.

He sank back into his chair, fingers drumming against the table. The woman’s perfume still lingered in the air, a reminder of how close she’d been and how impossibly far she remained. The awkward hug still burned on his skin. It was a shadow of the intimacy they’d once shared.

She moves on so easily. So professional. So untouchable. He wanted to believe her words had been only about itineraries and rehearsals, but beneath it all, he felt the sting of what lay unspoken—Swiss, betrayal, and the years of love twisted into something unrecognizable.

Copia rose abruptly, shoving the chair back with a scrape of wood on stone. He couldn’t sit in that room any longer. The ghosts were too loud.

He straightened his robe, smoothed his hair, and walked out of the library with a purpose that had little to do with ministry business.

As his footsteps carried him down the corridor, his mind was already wandering toward places he knew he shouldn’t go. Toward temptations that would be easier than sitting alone with the echo of her absence.

He called out to her, his voice carrying down the stone hall, and at the sound of her name she froze mid-step.

“Papa,” she said softly, almost meek. “Is there something else you need before I leave?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the distance in long strides, his hands slamming against the wall on either side of her shoulders. His chest brushed hers with every breath, the heat of his body pinning her to the cold stone. Copia’s eyes burned into hers as his voice spilled out in a dark purr.

“Mrs. Ghoul,” he murmured, voice low and sinfully smooth. “I find myself craving a certain… bruschezza.” The word dripped from his tongue, heavy with suggestion.

Her pulse stuttered and her chest rose fast against the confines of her dress. She swallowed hard but said nothing.

“You once strayed from me to him…” His mouth lowered until it nearly brushed hers. “Perhaps you can stray from him… to me?”

He took her silence as permission. One hand dropped from the wall and slid down her body, cupping the swell of her breast before tracing lower. He didn’t hesitate. His fingers pressed between her thighs, rubbing firmly over her cunt through the thin barrier of her panties.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as the sudden contact jolted through her. Copia chuckled darkly, grinding his palm against her. “Mmm… sì. I remember how your body used to answer me this way.”

Her hips betrayed her, tilting toward his hand. Heat pooled between her thighs, soaking the fabric as he circled her clit with merciless precision.

“Papa…” she whispered as her eyes fluttered shut and her thighs quivered around his hand.

“Shh,” he hushed, letting his mouth graze her ear, “This is how wet you used to get for me.” His finger traced the seam of her panties, dipping into the heat, stroking just enough to feel the slick dampness forming there.

Addeline knew she needed to stop him, that this wasn’t right. But his touch felt too good. Every firm stroke against her made her knees weak, made her resolve slip further away. She tried to think of her husband, of Swiss, to anchor herself, but all that surfaced was the ache of how unsatisfied he’d left her lately. Nights of restraint, of gentle refusals, of being told not yet.

And here was Papa, giving her exactly what her body craved.

“Brava,” his voice was rough with hunger. “Dripping for me, already. You miss this, don’t you?”

His fingers tugged her panties aside, slipping beneath to stroke her bare flesh. Two fingers slid through her slick folds and pressed inside, filling her with a steady thrust that had her knees buckling.

She bit her lip to keep quiet, but a moan broke free as he curled his fingers just right, grinding the heel of his palm against her clit. The rhythm was unforgiving, calculated to unravel her.

Her body trembled, the tight coil of release threatening to snap. She clutched at his shoulders, torn between yielding and resisting.

“Tell me you want me still, Amore.”

“I… I…” at the last moment, with her climax surging close, she squeezed her thighs shut around his hand, gasping out the words, “Papa—stop… I can’t. It feels wrong.”

He stilled immediately, pulling back as if struck. Shame flickered over his face, though the raw desire still burned dangerously in his eyes.

“I’m pregnant,” she confessed, her voice unsure but firm as she cupped the curve of her belly to reveal a bump.

The words froze him where he stood. His hand dropped away, and he pushed back from the wall, every line of his body going rigid. “So, the rumor is true, then?”

She nodded, breathless, cheeks flushed from more than just her confession, “Papa, I—”

“You need not explain yourself,” he cut in sharply. “You are pregnant by your husband. And that is that.” He shifted quickly, eager to change the subject. “The appointment you mentioned earlier… is it a doctor’s appointment?”

“It is.”

“Are you alright?” Concern edged into his voice now.

“Yes. You don’t need to worry yourself over me.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with all that remained unsaid. At last, Addeline forced a faint smile and lifted her eyes to his. “How are things with your wife?”

Papa exhaled, “Well. Very well. Though I do miss the passion,” he admitted at last with a low voice. “She is… delicate. I cannot possess her so wholly as I once did you.”

A soft laugh spilled from Addeline, her eyes gleaming with mischief despite the tremor still in her body. “If it’s any consolation, lately Swiss also lacks that possessive fire you once gave me in the bedroom.” She let the words linger, then winked, playful and cutting.

His breath hitched, his body leaning forward before he caught himself, the hunger still burning but now trapped behind iron restraint.

Addeline’s wink lingered in the charged silence, and then she slipped past him down the hall, her steps quick, her dress swishing at her thighs. Papa stood frozen, his hand still tingling with the heat of her arousal, the scent of her clinging to his fingers.

He pressed his palm flat to the wall, breathing hard. His cock strained painfully against his cassock, throbbing with the need he hadn’t been allowed to spend. He shut his eyes, replaying the feel of her body tightening around his fingers, the quiver in her thighs as she clamped down, nearly undone for him.

“Merda,” he hissed, pounding the wall once with his fist. The sound resonated through the corridor.

She was pregnant. By her husband. This time he was the other man. And yet her moan still rang in his ears, soft and desperate, the sweetest sound.

He dropped his head back against the cold stone, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His hand drifted to his cock, stiff beneath the fabric, but he jerked it away before giving in. He wouldn’t reduce himself to finishing alone like some shameful boy. He wanted her. He wanted to ruin her all over again, and the knowledge that he couldn’t—that she had stopped him—drove him half-mad.

“Addeline…” he groaned under his breath, her name slipping out like a prayer and a curse in one. His eyes burned with frustration, lust, and something perilously close to grief.

By the time he finally pushed off the wall and walked away, his steps were uneven, his fists curled at his sides. He could taste her refusal like ash in his mouth, but worse — he could still feel her slick heat on his fingers, taunting him with everything he wasn’t allowed to take.

Chapter Text

Addy barely made it through the door before she was on him. The ache Papa had left inside her hadn’t faded. If anything, it burned hotter on the ride home and with every step she’d taken into the house. She needed her husband. Needed him to finish what Papa had started

“Hey, Adds, how was—"

Her lips crashed into his, cutting off his words before they could form. She was desperate for him, her hands already tugging his shirt over his head. Swiss kissed her back hard, groaning into her mouth as she pressed her body to his. He let her push him down onto the couch, her thighs straddling his hips and grinding against him in frantic circles.

“Addy…” he murmured, gripping her waist and holding her still for a moment. “Baby, slow down.”

“I can’t,” she whispered hotly against his lips, rocking against him harder. “I need you. Don’t make me beg.”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth as her hips rolled just right, her damp heat grinding against the bulge straining his jeans. His body responded instantly, and he allowed his hand to tighten on her—but his head was already shaking. “No, Addy. Not like this. We can’t risk it.”

He said it like a man trying to convince himself, as though every part of his body was screaming yes while only his mind could force out no.

She knew if she kept coaxing him, perhaps he’d give in, “Then don’t go inside me,” she begged, kissing him frantically still. “Just—just make me come. Please, I can’t take it anymore.”

His resolve cracked at her begging and his hand slid up her thigh, slipping beneath the hem of her dress. He cupped her through her panties, pressing his fingers firmly into spots that made her sob in relief.

“Yes—God, yes,” she moaned, grinding against his hand. She pulled him closer, clinging like she might lose him if he stopped.

Swiss kissed her back, rough and hungry, his fingers moving faster as she writhed against him. Her cries grew sharper, every roll of her hips dragging her closer to what she craved. “That’s it, Addy,” he rasped, “I can feel how bad you need it. Come for me.”

But then he stopped. His hand froze between her legs and the fight in his eyes became clear. “No,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look at her. “We can’t.”

“Don’t stop,” she was pleading now, grabbing at his wrist, trying to push his hand back between her legs.

Swiss cursed under his breath as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Addy, I want to—God, I want to—but if I push you too far, if anything happens to you or the baby—”

Her eyes burned with frustrated tears as she clung to him. “Nothing is going to happen. It’s one orgasm. Just one and I won’t ask again, baby please.”

She decided to take him into the palm of her hand since she already thought she had him eating out of it.

Her fingers slid down between his legs, finding the hard length between them. She gripped him through the fabric, then worked at the button, shoving his pants down far enough to free him.

Swiss groaned and threw his head back as her fingers wrapped around him. “Fuck, Addy…” he hissed, his hands tightening on her hips.

She stroked him roughly, clumsy in her urgency, “How about I make you come, then you return the favor?”

His cock throbbed in her grip though he still didn’t agree to the terms she set. But he cupped her cheek and kissed her hard before pulling back with a hoarse whisper.

 It didn’t take very long—just a few rough, desperate pumps of her hand and he was already buckling.

With a guttural growl he lost control, his body snapping forward as his release surged. She stroked him through the last pulses, milking every drop. Swiss slumped back against the couch, still catching his breath, her hand sticky with his release.

But Addy wasn’t satisfied. She pressed herself against him again, guiding his softening cock to her soaked panties, grinding as if sheer need might wake him again. “Swiss… Touch me again. Just a little.”

His jaw tightened and his hands gripped her waist still, but he didn’t move. “No, Addy.” His voice was rough, almost pained. “If I put my hands back on you, I won’t stop.”

She whimpered, nipping at his jaw, rocking her hips in small, needy circles. “You won’t break me. I promise.”

But he pulled her closer, hugging her tight instead of giving in. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I won’t take the chance. Not with you. Not with our baby.”

Her body sagged against him, frustration and longing knotting in her chest. She clutched him anyway, trembling, knowing she wasn’t going to win.

*

That night, Papa sat alone in his chambers, the silence pressing in like a vice. The candles had burned low, shadows stretching across the walls, and yet he found no peace in the flickering light. His cock still ached, the memory of Addeline’s body squirming beneath his fingers refusing to fade.

He poured himself a glass of wine, downing it in one gulp, but even the burn of it couldn’t cleanse the taste of her moan from his mind. He could still hear it — the way she whimpered when he touched her, the way her thighs trembled as she clamped down on him, nearly begging to break apart.

“Pregnant,” he spat into the empty room, his voice hoarse. “By him.”

His jaw clenched. He wanted to hate her for it, wanted to curse her husband, wanted to scrub the thought from his mind. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was her flushed face, her lips parted, her body straining for release that he’d nearly given her.

He raked a hand through his hair, pacing the floor like a caged beast. His cassock pulled tight over his erection, every step making it throb with need. He considered touching himself, just to relieve the pressure, but the idea soured on his tongue. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

He wanted her. Not just her body, but her surrender, the way she used to yield to him completely. He wanted her begging, moaning his name, falling apart only for him.

And the fact that she had looked him in the eye and winked… winked… before walking away? It drove him madder still.

Papa slammed the empty glass down onto the table, the sharp crack ringing through the chamber. He bent over the edge, both hands gripping the wood, his chest heaving.

“Addeline,” he whispered again, this time not a curse but a confession. He pressed his forehead against the cool surface and shut his eyes tight. “You’ll be the death of me.”

The door creaked softly behind him. Papa didn’t move at first—he knew that step, that careful pause. Annaliese.

“Papà?” her voice was gentle, cautious. “It’s late. Come to bed?”

He straightened slowly, shoulders rigid, his hands still braced on the table. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. When at last he turned, the shadows clung to his face. His eyes were still dark with the storm Addy had left in him.

Annaliese offered a soft smile, though it faltered under his gaze. She was delicate, always delicate, warm, pliant, obedient. Nothing like Addy, who burned under his touch, who fought and yielded in equal measure.

He crossed the room in two strides, catching Annaliese by the wrist. She gasped, startled, but didn’t resist as he pulled her close. His mouth found hers, tasting of wine and desperation.

She whimpered against him, uncertain, but tilted her head to accept his kiss. His hand slid down, cupping her breast, squeezing harder than he meant to.

“Papà,” she breathed, uneasy.

He growled into her mouth as his cock throbbed painfully against her hip. He wanted to lose himself, to bury the ache his ex wife had left smoldering inside him. He wanted release—any release—but as his hands roamed Annaliese’s body, frustration clawed at him. Her kiss was too soft, her body too yielding.

With an exasperated groan, he tore his mouth from her lips, pressing his forehead to hers, “I want fire from you now dolcezza.”

The former sister of sin’s wide eyes searched his face, but she remained quiet as he embraced her.

Papa’s breath grew ragged as he pinned Annaliese against the edge of the table, his hands roaming with a hunger she wasn’t accustomed to. She gasped, startled by the sudden force, her palms pressing lightly against his chest.

“Papà… what’s gotten into you?” she whispered, but he swallowed her words with another kiss, rough and consuming.

His cock strained as he fumbled her nightdress up around her hips, fingers digging into her thighs as he pulled her closer. Annaliese whimpered but didn’t resist, only clutched at his cassock as he pressed her down.

“I need this,” he growled against her throat, biting harder than he intended. “Dio, I need it.”

He freed himself and pushed into her with one hard thrust. She cried out, clutching at him, her body unprepared for his roughness. But he didn’t slow. His hips snapped against her, every movement driven not by tenderness but by the fire Addy had left smoldering in him.

“Yes… sì,” he panted, his grip bruising her hips. “Just like this—take me.”

She whimpered again, trying to match his rhythm but her body could barely keep up. Her moans were breathy and delicate, lacking the raw desperation he craved. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine Addeline instead—Addy’s heat, Addy’s resistance, the way she had trembled around his fingers hours before.

She stiffened, her hands faltering on his shoulders. Her lips parted as though to protest, but only a small, wounded sound came out, "Papà, you are hurting me."

Copia’s pace weakened for a heartbeat, shame slicing through the haze of lust, but then the need surged again, blinding and unbearable. He fucked her harder, chasing the edge, even as guilt coiled in his chest.

She whimpered beneath him, clinging to his shoulders as he drove into her, his breath hot and ragged against her ear.

“Addeline…” The name slipped again, half a groan, half a prayer, as the fire inside him finally broke. With a guttural roar, he thrust deep, spilling hot release inside Annaliese as his body shuddered violently against hers.

She cried out at the sudden heat filling her, her nails digging weakly into his cassock as she tried to catch her breath.

Papa collapsed against her, chest heaving, his cock softening inside her. The release left him trembling. Sweat dripped down his temple as he caught his breath. Annaliese’s fingers brushed through his damp hair, but her voice came low and uncertain.

“What did you say?” she whispered.

He froze.

Her hand stilled against him. “…Whose name was that?”

Copia pulled back sharply, his eyes flashing in the dim light. For a moment the mask of authority cracked, “Annaliese,” he rasped. “Don’t.”

She searched his face, her eyes glossy with hurt. “It wasn’t mine.”

The silence pressed heavy between them. He stepped back, adjusting his cassock with shaking hands, his gaze fixed anywhere but her.

“You’re my wife,” he said finally, his tone clipped and brittle. “That is all that matters.”

But the words rang hollow, and they both knew it.

Annaliese’s breath shook as she steadied herself against the table, her nightdress still hiked around her waist. She looked at him and her heart twisted at what she saw. His chest heaved, sweat glistened on his brow, but his eyes were distant, fixed on a ghost that wasn’t her.

“Papà,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “do you think of her… when you’re with me?”

The question struck like a blade. His head snapped toward her as his eyes widened, and his lips parted as though to deny it—but no words came.

“You said her name,” she pushed, softer now, tears threatening. “Addeline. I ‘eard it.”

He shut his eyes, dragging a hand down his face. Shame coursed hot through his veins, but it couldn’t smother the truth. He had thought of Addeline—her body beneath his, her fire, her refusal, her trembling moans—even while he emptied himself inside his wife.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and hoarse. “You are my wife,” he said again, almost pleading. “You are the one in my bed, the one I vowed to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she whispered.

His eyes met hers then, torn open by guilt and hunger but he said nothing—and in that silence, Annaliese had her answer.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her knuckles white. “Tell me, Papà,” she pressed, “When you touch me… when you take me like that… are you really with me? Or are you chasing her? Because in all our marriage, you refuse to put your seed in me! But now you do… why?”

He flinched at her words, his shoulders stiffening.

Her eyes glistened, tears welling but not falling. Not yet. “What does she give you that I do not? Is it the way she fights you? The way she burns? Or the way she breaks your heart?” Her voice began to crack as she became more desperate. “Am I not enough for you?”

Copia turned from her, dragging both hands through his hair, and in that instant, Annaliese’s tears finally spilled, hot trails down her cheeks.

She made no move to wipe them away. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her nightdress slipping from her shoulder as she stood trembling before him.

Papa’s hands hung limp at his sides, the fight gone from him. He turned but couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, bitter as ash.

“You are enough,” he whispered, though this time his voice cracked under the weight of it.

Her laugh was soft and broken. “Then why don’t I feel that way?”

The silence that followed was unbearable. He opened his mouth, shut it again, the words failing him. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t wound her further, nothing he could confess without betraying himself.

Annaliese wrapped her arms around herself, as though bracing against a cold only she could feel. Her tears slowed, drying into a hollow quiet. She turned her gaze from him, looking instead to the darkened window, her voice small and fragile.

“I don’t want to be her replacement, Papà.”

The sound of her footsteps leaving the chamber was soft, almost tender, yet it left him gutted. Alone in the silence, Papa pressed both hands to his face, his body still aching, his heart heavier than before.

And still, behind the shame and sorrow, one name echoed in his mind—the one he dared not speak again.

Addeline.

*

That night, Papa went to bed and found the sheets empty and cold. The hollowness struck him first, then the ache. Sadness crept into his chest until it weighed on every breath.

He felt wretched for what he had done to Annaliese. Memories of her over past years rose unbidden—the way she had clung to him with unshaken loyalty, the trust in her eyes, how utterly dependent she had been. She had been his constant, his steadfast shelter, especially in the years when Addeline’s choices left him adrift.

And how had he repaid that loyalty? With betrayal. With disloyalty of his own.

He hated himself. Hated that he couldn’t control his urges, hated that his weakness had wounded her. The weight of it drove him to set things right.

He searched everywhere—the study, the music room, the chapel—but she wasn’t there. He stormed through the kitchen, even descended into the crypt, his desperation mounting with every empty room.

Then the obvious place struck him.

He moved toward the nursery, his steps softening into a careful tiptoe. The door gave a faint creak as he pushed it open, just enough to slip inside. Faith’s eyes caught his from across the room, but he pressed a finger to his lips, silently bidding her to keep quiet. The tiny baby closed her eyes once more, granting him passage.

And there she was.

On the floor before Belial’s crib lay the Sister of Sin, her long wavy hair cascading like a blanket over her back, her shoulders, her face.

He walked up to her and bent low, sliding his arms beneath her with a care he rarely showed. She stirred at once, her body resisting the intrusion, and a small scowl crossed her face—an instinctive protest from someone pulled too suddenly from dreams.

Papa held her closer against his chest, steadying her weight as though she were made of glass.

“Mmm… ‘hose there?” she asked faintly, her voice muffled with sleep.

“It’s your Papà, fragolina,” he murmured.

Even half-asleep, she remembered her anger. “No, put me down—vaffanculo.”

“Ah, you’re still cross with me, I see.”

Her eyes stayed closed, but her arms betrayed her—slipping around his neck, holding fast as he carried her through the halls.

“Sì, I am furious with you,” she whispered. “You do not love me. You only pretend to love me so that you do not have to live alone.”

He shook his head, though she couldn’t see it. “Sorella, look at me.”

Reluctantly, her lashes lifted, blue irises stung by the candlelight that flickered along the stone walls.

Once he had her attention, his voice softened. Still walking, he began to serenade her under his breath: “Mia dolce sorella… I love you with my whole soul. It was I who sent Addeline away. I chose you.”

Her lip trembled, but he pressed on, his words breaking with guilt. “Forgive me for Addeline. My eyes stray only because she is the mother of my children. But you—” his voice thickened, almost breaking, “you are my wife, my only one. My heart is yours, and yours alone.”

They were nearing their bedroom now. She closed her eyes once more, surrendering to his strength as Copia carried her through the door. He laid her gently on the bed, and she nestled beneath the covers without protest. He crawled in beside her, pressing close until her back was warm against his bare chest, his arm curved protectively around her.

Her voice was faint, but edged with need. “You’ve not been unfaithful to me? You’ve not taken her to bed while married to me?”

“No,” he said at once, his tone firm, steady. “Never. Not while you are my wife. Not while my vows bind me to you.”

Her hand reached back to find his cheek, soft and searching. She rubbed her thumb across his skin, then turned just enough to press a small kiss to his lips. It was not passion, but peace—a truce for the night.

And with that, the matter was laid to rest.

*

Far from the ministry’s quiet halls, Perpetua’s villa was alive. The night wrapped itself around the crumbling stone like a cloak, but within, Perpetua and his siren were wide awake. Candles burned, low with wax spilling across silver holders. The smoke curled lazily in the still air.

Tempest leaned against the balcony doors, a glass of dark wine in her hand and her golden hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. Perpetua sat nearby in a high-backed chair, one hand resting on the armrest, the other turning a heavy ring around his finger as he studied her. The silence between them was not empty but charged, humming with the bond they shared.

At last he rose, crossing the room with a killer’s ease. His fingers brushed her arm as he took the glass from her hand, drinking deeply before bending close enough for his voice to graze her ear.

“My Tempest,” he murmured, the words tasting of possession.

He pressed her back against the balcony doors, his mouth moving over her throat, the scrape of his teeth, tantalizing. She shivered, gripping his shoulders, knowing exactly what he was holding back from her. Her hips jerked against him instinctively, grinding into the hard line pressing through his trousers.

“You always tease me,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. “Always so many kisses, so many touches… but I know what you really want.”

His hand slipped along her thigh, lifting her gown as his other gripped her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. His eyes burned, glowing with hunger more primal than lust. He groaned into her skin, his ring scraping her bare hip “And you, mia sirena, you always beg for it.”

Perpetua’s lips crashed back to hers, his tongue stealing the taste of her wine before he dragged his mouth lower, over her jaw, down to the hollow of her throat. His fingers dug into her hip as his teeth grazed her skin, sharp enough to make her gasp.

The moment he sank them in, the world fractured. Pleasure surged through her veins like fire, tearing a cry from her throat as her body convulsed. It wasn’t a climax that built slowly—it struck fast, white-hot, flooding her in waves that left her shaking in his grasp.

Perpetua groaned against her, drinking deep as her ecstasy coursed into him. The sheer force of it made his own restraint snap. His hips thrust against her belly once, twice, before his cock jerked and spilled hot into the fabric of his trousers. His growl vibrated against her skin as release shook through him, carried by the current of her climax.

When he finally pulled away, blood glistened on his lips, and her body lay limp and trembling in his arms. He held her up easily, his forehead pressed to hers as his smile curved slow and satisfied. “My Tempest,” he murmured, “no pleasure compares to the one you give me when I take what is mine.”

Chapter Text

Sister moved quietly through the chapel, sliding pamphlets into each pew one by one. Every week she performed the ritual, ensuring the congregation would have a program to follow during the sermon. But today the papers served another purpose: they gave her hands something to do while her mind searched for the right words.

Copia was coming. She had to tell him. His twin was here, and the meeting between them could no longer be avoided.

Her fingers lingered on the edges of the folded sheets, straightening them into perfect rows, though her thoughts were anything but orderly. She remembered too well the storm in his eyes when he had learned the truth of her—his mother. The fury when he discovered Nihil was his father. Each revelation had cracked something in him, and each crack had cut her in turn.

And now this. A brother he’d been denied, a life deliberately kept from him. She shivered, imagining the look on his face once when she spoke the words aloud.

Like clockwork, the rasping coughs began behind her, dragged out between wheezes of oxygen. Papa Nihil. The sound alone was enough to suggest he might collapse at any moment—if he hadn’t already been dead for years.

Sister rolled her eyes skyward. Could she not have a single moment’s peace without the old phantom trailing after her? He had an uncanny talent for appearing precisely when she least wanted him.

Without bothering to turn, she laid another pamphlet down and muttered, “Hello, Papa.”

“Seestor,” Nihil crooned, voice thin but smug. “Good afternoon. You’re looking well today.”

“Thank you, Papa.” She felt him edging closer, his shadow falling across the pamphlets as he hovered over her shoulder. Her fingers stiffened on the paper. “Papa, is there something I can do for you?”

The man gave a wheezy chuckle, the kind that rattled in his chest like loose bones. “Oh, Seestor, you could do plenty of things to me—” His words broke off into a fit of hacking coughs, the hiss of his oxygen mask sputtering between them.

Sister only sighed, slipping another pamphlet neatly into place. “Yes, yes. Plenty. And yet somehow, you still exist to bother me another day.”

Nihil straightened, the coughs tapering into a wheeze that lingered like a bad joke. His cloudy eyes narrowed at her sigh. “Even in death, I still can’t get a moment alone with you, eh? Always busy, always rushing me away.”

Sister finally turned, meeting his gaze with tight patience. “Papa, you must leave. Cardi is coming.”

He threw up his hands dramatically, the oxygen tube snaking at his side. “Again? It’s always Cardi. Every time I visit, it’s Cardi this, Cardi that. You’d think the boy was the only one who ever mattered.”

“He does matter,” she said firmly, brushing past him to straighten another pew. “And this is a conversation I cannot have with you lurking over my shoulder.”

Nihil muttered something under his breath, his voice like sandpaper. “Fine, fine. Call me when you want someone who isn’t still learning how to tie his own shoes.” He sniffed, then smirked. “I’ll haunt the organ until you’re finished spoon-feeding him.”

Sister paused, her hand resting on the last stack of pamphlets. She had been so quick to shoo him away, eager for quiet before Copia arrived. But the thought struck her hard and sudden—this secret wasn’t hers alone. It involved Nihil as much as it did Copia.

She turned back toward the lingering shade of him. “Wait.”

Nihil, halfway faded into the dim rafters, blinked at her in surprise. “Eh? You change your mind already, Seestor? I thought the golden boy was coming.”

Her jaw tightened, but her voice was steady. “He is. But this concerns you too. You’ll stay.”

A grin tugged at his ruined mouth. “Finally. A seat at the table.” He gave a hollow chuckle that ended in another pointless cough. “This should be fun.”

Just then, the man of the hour appeared. Copia crossed the chapel with his familiar shuffle and leaned down to brush a light kiss against his mother’s cheek. Sister’s face lit instantly; she plucked a bit of lint from his shoulder and smoothed a stray lock of hair, as though he were still a boy standing before her.

“Hello, Mother,” he murmured.

“Cardi, we need to discuss the tour,” she said, pausing to lick her finger and press down a stubborn cowlick. “I have the plans typed up for you.”

“Fine,” he muttered, shifting sideways to dodge her slick fingers. “Where are they?” He sidestepped again when her hand came too close.

“I have them right here.” Sister plucked a small stack from a nearby pew—separate from the neat rows of programs she’d been laying out—and extended them toward him.

Copia accepted the papers, but the moment his attention dipped, Sister seized her chance and finally tamed the unruly cowlick. He froze, eyes flicking upward in irritation, clearly trying to catch her hand at work atop his head.

From the shadows, Nihil let out a low, wheezy chuckle. “Like a little boy on his first day of school.”

“You invited him?”

“Never mind him, dear.” She tapped the notes with two fingers, guiding his eyes where she wanted them. “There’s one eensie–weensie little thing you and Addeline didn’t discuss.” Her voice was careful, coaxing, as if she could slip the truth in before he discovered it on his own.

But it was already too late.

“Perpetua?” Copia’s brow furrowed. He held the page closer, confusion knitting across his features. “Who is this ‘Perpetua’ you’ve written here?”

Sister nervously shook her head, “Well… my little C.” She didn’t know how to say the words and so it spilled out of her, one confession after the next, “My dear boy you see, you have a twin brother.”

“A twin brother? I have a twin brother?” Copia’s voice pitched higher in disbelief. “How is that even possible? I’ve never seen him, never heard of him—not once in all my life.”

Nihil doubled over, wheezing with laughter at the confession and the sour look on Copia’s face. “How could you not know you had a twin, you imbecile?”

Both Imperator and Copia turned to him, their stares heavy with expectation. They waited, letting him stumble toward the conclusion on his own.

The chuckles faltered, then thinned, each one dropping as the truth slowly knitted itself together in his mind. “You have a… a… wait—wait one minute.” His laughter died completely. “If you have a twin brother, that means…”

“Yes, yes, keep going.” Copia leaned in, voice dripping with mock encouragement. “You’re so close to figuring it out, old man.”

Nihil froze, his cloudy eyes widening. “There are two of these idiots? One was bad enough, but you’re telling me I’ve sired another?”

“Ah, finally you’ve arrived. Good, Nihil.” Copia’s sarcasm was sharp enough to cut.

Sister pressed her fingers to her brow, shaking her head at their nonsense. “This is exactly what I feared.”

The atmosphere shifted, the easy banter collapsing into silence. Copia lowered the papers, his eyes fixing on Sister with sudden gravity.

“Sister, I don’t understand.” His voice was low, deliberate, each word measured as though he feared the answer. “Why are you telling me this now—after all this time?”

Her hands folded tightly before her, fingers twisting the fabric of her blazer. She had known this moment would come, yet the weight of it pressed harder than she’d imagined. “Because you were bound to learn of him eventually,” she said softly. “And I would rather it come from me… than from anyone else.”

Nihil snorted in the background, but neither of them turned. The air between mother and son was far too thick to be pierced by his mockery.

“And because he’ll be here today. To meet you.”

The words scraped out between her teeth, and she stepped back, bracing herself as if for a blow.

Copia’s face went still. He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, only stared at her as though she’d spoken in a language he’d never heard before. Then, slowly, his jaw tightened. “Today?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You’ve kept him from me my whole life… and now you decide I should meet him today?”

From the pews, Nihil wheezed with glee. “Oho, this will be rich.”

But Copia ignored him, his eyes locked on Sister, demanding answers she wasn’t sure she could give.

Sister’s shoulders eased, her voice softening with the practiced calm of someone smoothing over a disaster. “Now, my C, you were separated when you were very young. It was out of my hands—beyond my control, really. But he’s back now, and I think you should make the best of it.”

Her words were delivered so plainly, so matter-of-fact, that it was as though she were announcing a change in the choir schedule. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to present him with a secret brother after decades of silence.

Copia’s eyes narrowed. “The best of it?” he repeated, incredulous. “You drop a twin brother into my lap like a stray cat and you expect me to make the best of it?” His voice cracked, laced with both disbelief and anger.

Behind them, Nihil gave a hoarse reply, his ghostly voice cracking like gravel. “You? What about me? I am not prepared to meet another son.” He pressed a ghastly hand to his chest in mock horror. “One was torment enough. Now I must endure two?”

Copia turned on him, eyes flashing. “Oh, sì, because you’re the victim here.” His tone dripped with venom. “Another son you never raised, never acknowledged, never even cared to know about.”

“I don’t want another son—especially if he’s this one’s twin. Dio mio, can we not abort him, even now?”

Sister’s hand shot out, finger stabbing toward Nihil with sudden fire. “Well, Papa, you have one! Whether you want him or not. And you will face that truth.”

The chapel fell silent, the weight of her words pressing down like stone. Even Nihil’s ghostly frame stilled, his smirk faltering at the force behind her declaration.

“Mother, what is this really about?” Copia was suspicious, his eyes searching hers. “Why am I meeting him today?”

“I’d much rather discuss that when he gets here,” Sister replied carefully, her tone coaxing, almost maternal again as she tried to reason with her grown child. She told herself that perhaps Cardi might accept the news more easily if he saw his brother standing before him—living, breathing proof instead of an abstract secret.

Of course, she also knew it could unravel the other way entirely. The moment could splinter into rage, resentment, even rejection. But it was a risk she was willing to take.

Nihil muttered with a ghostly rasp, “A disaster waiting to happen. I’ll fetch popcorn.”

Sister ignored him, her focus locked on Copia, whose jaw was tight as a vice.

“Will you please do it?” She cupped his chin between her fingers, squeezing lightly the way she might one of her grandchildren. “Do it for your mother?”

Copia let his face rest in her hands for a moment, his eyes softening. “Alright.”

Sister’s smile broke wide across her face, bright with relief. “But it must wait. I am to take Kaisarion to get a haircut.”

“Of course, my C.” She let out a small, condescending chuckle—the kind a parent gives when a child thinks they’ve been clever. “Don’t let them cut it too short.”

Copia gave a small nod, then slipped the papers under his arm. With a final glance at his mother, he turned and started down the aisle, his footsteps echoing against the chapel walls until the heavy door shut behind him.

“I think that went well,” Sister said aloud, smoothing her pant suit as if to convince herself.

From behind, Nihil only grumbled, a low rasp like stone dragged across stone. “If that’s your idea of well, Seestor, I’d hate to see your disasters.”

She ignored him, gathering the remaining pamphlets with steady hands, though her heart was still racing.

*

Perpetua arrived at the ministry at the request of Sister Imperator. Now that Copia had calmed from the storm of revelation, there was no avoiding what came next. He had accepted—at least outwardly—the fact that he had a brother. And now, he would have to meet him.

There was also the matter of Perpetua’s job—the role he was to play on the tour. It was a matter Sister had been nervous to raise in front of Copia, knowing full well he didn’t take kindly to sharing the spotlight with anyone. His pride was a delicate thing, easily bruised, and the thought of another stepping onto the same stage threatened to tear open old wounds she had only just managed to stitch closed.

Perpetua knocked on the ministry’s doors, clad in a fitted black leather jacket that hung open just enough to reveal the dark shirt beneath. Heavy trousers were tucked neatly into his boots. Atop his head sat a Victorian-style hat, adorned with one purple feather and one white—an elegant touch that sharpened his silhouette. Black gloves covered his hands, the jeweled rings beneath catching the light only when he moved.

It was Annaliese who answered the door. She smiled brightly at the man, and he returned the gesture, clearly flattered by her attention.

“Pepe,” she said brightly, her Italian accent softening the edges of her words. “Buongiorno, ’ow kind of you to stop by.”

The man stepped inside, his sharp eyes sweeping over his surroundings with quiet calculation before he removed his hat. He handed it off to the Sister, but not before taking Annaliese’s hand gently in his own. Bowing his head, he pressed a light kiss across her knuckles.

“Buongiorno, Regina,” he murmured.

She laughed softly and set his hat upon a nearby coat rack.

“Forgive me, bellissima, but do you not have a servant to open the door and tend to guests?”

“I take no offense. I don’t mind, really. It is what I have always done and I suppose I am… ’ow do you say? Used to it.”

“Well, certainly your husband would not allow such a delicate flower as yourself to run about catering to everyone.”

“I… I don’t see much of ’im,” she admitted, her tone faltering. “My beloved works a lot. With the tour among us, it is much worse.”

“Then tell me—will I have the pleasure of seeing you on this tour?”

A blush colored her cheeks. “Oh, no, not me. My place is ’ere with the children. There are so many of them.”

“All yours?” he pressed, curiosity sharpening his smile.

Annaliese only shook her head, much to Perpetua’s dismay. He could see she would not give him much more.

He concocted an idea in his head, seeing how easily the girl was eating out of the palm of his hand. With deliberate slowness, he closed the distance between them, every step measured. Annaliese’s breath caught as the space shrank, and she instinctively pressed herself back until her shoulders met the wall. The cool stone at her spine only heightened the warmth radiating from him as he leaned in. “Regina, can I ask you a question?”

Her wide eyes stayed locked on his, unblinking, the innocence in them warring with the pulse quickening at her throat. She looked like a creature frozen between flight and fascination—startled, but unable to turn away. Still, she nodded.

“Does your husband please you?”

Her lips parted in surprise, the question knocking the breath from her chest. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered. “He is my husband. He… he gives me everything I need.”

Perpetua leaned in, his shadow spilling across the wall behind her. His mouth lifted at one corner as his gaze settled on her neck, watching the faint rhythm there.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate.

Annaliese blinked rapidly, her fingers knotting together at her waist. “Taste me? You mean—”

A dark chuckle slipped from him, rich with amusement. “Not that kind of taste, Regina.” His teeth caught the light as he smiled wider. “Although… that does sound appealing. Maybe another time?”

Color rose to her cheeks at his boldness, her breath uneven. He lifted a gloved hand, brushing the line of her jaw with the backs of his fingers. “It will hurt,” he told her softly, “but not for long.”

Her eyes darted away, shame and confusion plain in her expression. “That… that is what Papa usually tells me.”

Perpetua brushed her hair aside, tilting her head gently with one hand. His touch was careful, as though coaxing her trust rather than forcing it.

But then his fangs broke the surface of her skin, sharp as needles. The sting dissolved almost instantly. Heat spread from the wound, liquid fire curling through her veins until every nerve lit with feverish light. Her breath hitched, body arching against him, powerless to stop the rush that overtook her.

It felt like more than a bite—it was a spell unraveling inside her. Pleasure pulsed with each draw of his mouth, rhythm syncing with her heartbeat until she could no longer tell where the pain ended and the ecstasy began. He didn’t have to coax her, didn’t have to speak. Her body surrendered to him, answering his hunger with a release she could neither fight nor deny.

Not entirely supernatural, Perpetua’s bite worked no matter the heart’s intent. Attraction was irrelevant; the body betrayed itself under his fangs. Even if fear curdled in the victim’s veins, their muscles still quivered, their breath still broke, the orgasm still spilled from them just as automatic as breath.

But if desire already simmered, if they wanted him, the experience magnified until it was blinding. The climax became unbearable in its sweetness, like drowning in fire and begging not to be saved. It was how Perpetua discerned truth: who feared him, and who secretly longed for him.

As a vampire, the gift was innate. His fangs secreted a venom, a drug that flooded the body with euphoria. The orgasm was not the purpose, but the inevitable side effect. More than that, the bite forged a link—an open channel where he could project what he wished. Pleasure, pain, or both in equal measure, depending on his mood.

It made the act achingly intimate. Not just flesh against flesh, but will against will, sensation written into the body by his hand alone.

When Perpetua finally drew back, blood glistened on his lips and Annaliese’s head lolled against the wall. Every breath she took was shallow and her fair skin fever-flushed. Her legs trembled violently beneath her, much too weak to bear her weight. She sagged into his arms, helpless as a baby, her body still humming with the echoes of what he’d forced through her veins.

That was how he knew. Fear alone didn’t leave them like this—spent, trembling and undone. This was the aftermath of desire. The bite had dragged her longing into the open, exposed it as plainly as her quivering body in his grasp.

A slow, knowing smile curved his mouth. “Regina,” he murmured, brushing her damp hair from her face. “Your body speaks the truth. You want me, eh?”

Her lips parted, a faint, shamed sound breaking free, but no denial came. She was too weak to speak, her body betraying her even in silence.

Perpetua held her trembling figure effortlessly, his hand stroking down her back as though he meant to soothe. But his hunger was not sated. The taste of her, the way her body had buckled under his mouth, only sharpened his craving.

He tilted her head again, his lips brushing the damp heat of her skin just above the wound. She whimpered, weakly shaking her head. “No, not again. I cannot—”

“Shh,” he hushed, almost tender, though his voice thrummed with dark delight. “You can. You will.”

Before she could beg again, his fangs sank deep.

The response was instant, brutal even. Her frame snapped taut, legs giving way entirely as another orgasm ripped through her, more violent than the first. She cried out, the sound caught between a sob and a moan, nails clawing desperately at his shoulders as if she could anchor herself against the tide overwhelming her.

Perpetua groaned into her neck, drinking greedily, his body trembling with his own release as her ecstasy poured into him. He ground his hips against her, shuddering as it overtook him, spilling scorching and uncontrollable.

When at last he tore his mouth away, Annaliese was limp in his arms, tears streaking her flushed face. Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, her body utterly undone.

He cradled her chin once more, forcing her dazed gaze to meet his. “Regina,” he whispered, his voice low, rich with triumph. “This shall be our little secret. And when you want it again—” his thumb brushed across her jaw, “—you need only ask. I will accommodate you.”

Her only answer was a broken whimper… and the faintest bow of her lips. It revealed the satisfaction she didn’t dare speak aloud.

He shifted her more firmly in his arms, her body boneless against him. He chuckled low, his lips brushing her temple. “Now, if I carry you to your bedroom… maybe you can find me a different pair of pants, eh?”

Her trembling hands gripped the leather of his sleeve, as though grounding herself against him rather than pulling away. Half a smile formed over her lips, and she could not decide whether to fear what had just happened or crave more of it.

Perpetua saw it. The hesitation in her, the way temptation bled through her innocence despite her trembling. His grin deepened, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He had not only tasted her blood—he had tasted her weakness. And he knew she would return to him.

After changing and speaking further with Annaliese, Perpetua made his way to Sister’s office, where she was surely waiting for him.

The heavy door creaked open to reveal the familiar space. Sister sat behind her desk, papers neatly stacked though her fingers tapped against them with restless energy. A half-burned candle flickered at her elbow, its smoke curling into the rafters like a nervous thought she couldn’t shake.

In the corner lounged Nihil’s ghost, slumped as though the chair itself were weary of him. His milky eyes followed every twitch of her hand, every shallow breath. The faint hiss of his useless oxygen tank filled the pauses like a mocking metronome.

Perpetua hesitated in the doorway, the weight of their gazes pressing against him in different ways—her anticipation sharp as a blade, his disdain heavy as stone.

Sister straightened, folding her hands over the papers to still them. “Good. You’re here,” she said, though her voice betrayed the edge of relief. “Now we just need to wait for your brother.”

Sister exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose before gesturing curtly between them. “Papa, this is your son. Pepe—this is your father.” Her tone was clipped, irritated, as though the very act of making introductions was beneath her.

For a long moment the office hung in silence. Nihil’s cloudy eyes roved over Perpetua, taking him in from head to toe. Then the old phantom gave a wheezy laugh that ended in a cough.

“Well,” he rasped, lips curling into a crooked grin, “you’re sure better looking than the other one.”

Perpetua arched a brow, unsure whether to take it as an insult or a compliment. Sister only rolled her eyes. “Papa…”

Nihil waved his translucent hand. “What? I’m giving the boy credit. Doesn’t mean I like him. Not yet.”

Perpetua tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “If that’s your idea of starting on good terms, I’ll play along.”

Nihil chuckled again, this time less harsh. “Hah. Sharp tongue, this one. I like that.” It earned him a smile from Pepe.

Just then, the heavy door opened again and Copia stepped inside, his two children trailing behind him. Their voices tangled in the hallway, bickering in shrill unison.

“It should be me!” Elizabeth shrieked, stamping her foot. “I’m better in all ways!”

“You’re not better,” Kaisarion retorted. “I just don’t want to do it, and you can’t make me, Father!”

Elizabeth whirled on him, her face red. “He just said he doesn’t want to do it, Daddy!”

“Just take Eliza and let me stay home,” Kaisarion pleaded, tugging at Copia’s sleeve. “The tour is wretched!”

Everyone inside the office stared as Copia spun and slammed the heavy door shut, the echo drowning out the squabble in the corridor. The sudden silence was deafening.

His gaze swept the room, landing on the unfamiliar man beside his mother’s desk. For a heartbeat, there was no recognition—no instant mirror image, no eerie doubling.

Perpetua met his stare with equal measure, steady and unflinching. They shared the same blood, but time and choices had carved them into strangers. Copia’s features, reshaped by the surgeon’s knife, bore little resemblance to the brother fate had hidden from him.

“You took your time,” Nihil rasped, his words dry as ash.

Copia inclined his head, stepping further into the room. “I wasn’t aware there was a clock on me.”

His eyes shifted, narrowing at Perpetua, frowning faintly. “Are those my pants?”

Perpetua’s mouth opened, but before he could form an answer, Sister’s voice sliced in. She rose from her chair, her tone firm, as though commanding the air itself to still.

“Enough. Cardi—this is Perpetua. Your brother.”

The words stood like a pillar, menacing in appearance and impossible to topple. Copia’s breath stilled. A brother. A lifetime without knowing, and now here he stood, flesh and bone. His lips parted as though to speak, but Sister pressed on, determined to seize the moment before it spiraled.

“And there is more.” She stood tall as she clasped her hands before her as though delivering an edict. Her tone was brisk, businesslike, as if she were announcing choir rosters rather than rewriting lives. “This meeting is not simply a reunion. I brought you here to tell you that you will be sharing your duties with him on tour.”

The silence that followed was taut, stretched thin between them. Copia’s eyes flicked from his mother to the stranger at his side, and then to Nihil—who grinned, delighted at the unfolding events.

“Sharing my duties?” he said in a flat voice. “You spring a brother on me, and now you tell me I am to split my work with him?” He dragged a hand down his face, muttering under his breath.

Perpetua stepped forward, ignoring the venom in Copia’s tone. “I’m not here to take anything from you. Only to help.” He extended a hand toward his twin. “It seems we’re family, whether you like it or not.”

Copia glanced down at the offered hand but made no move to take it.

Nihil let out a wheezing laugh from the corner. “No surprise there. This one doesn’t want to share his toys.”

Sister smoothed her tone, her hands still folded in front of her like a schoolmistress trying to reason with a stubborn pupil. “Cardi, you cannot carry the weight alone. Share the tour duties with your brother. It will be better this way.”

“And what, precisely, do those duties entail?” his eyes narrowed.

Before Sister could answer, Perpetua stepped in, his voice even and earnest. “Brother, I only want to alleviate some of the burden you have.” He glanced toward the door, where faint thumps and muffled shrieks of Elizabeth and Kaisarion still bled through the wood, then turned back to Copia. “There is a lot on your plate at the moment, and Mother and I—”

Papa’s head snapped up, his words cutting like glass. “Oh, you’re calling her Mother now?”

Imperator’s words cut across before Perpetua could answer. “Yes, he is. And he has every right to. Blood makes him my son as much as you are, Cardi.”

Nihil gave a rasping laugh from the corner, his milky eyes glinting with amusement. “Careful, Seestor. Keep collecting sons like this, and soon you’ll need a roster to keep track.”

Sister shot him a glare sharp enough to silence most men, but Nihil only grinned wider, clearly pleased with himself.

Copia exhaled hard through his nose, his glare sweeping between them. “Fine. But I am number one. You check with me before you do anything else.”

Sister and Perpetua exchanged a glance, then both turned back to him and dipped their heads in quick agreement.

“More than fair,” she agreed half-heartedly, the words falling from her lips as though they were meant only to appease him.

“Absolutely, brother,” Perpetua added with a measured nod.

Copia’s jaw tightened. He stepped closer, his voice low and biting. “Don’t call me brother. I don’t even know you.”

Perpetua’s smirk returned as he bowed before the Cardinal. “As you wish… Cardi.”

Sister clapped her hands together softly, breaking the silence with practiced finality. “Enough. That is quite enough for today. We’ve said what needed to be said, and the rest can wait until the tour.”

Copia turned on his heel, muttering under his breath as he strode to the door. Perpetua lingered a beat longer, his eyes following him, before giving Sister a small nod. Then he, too, slipped out behind his twin.

The heavy door closed, and silence draped itself over the office. Sister lowered herself into her chair, her palms pressed against the cool wood of the desk. She had done what she believed necessary—brought the truth into the open, forced them together before the stage demanded it. But the cost of it… the tension, the bitterness already brewing between them.

Her stomach knotted. This was only the beginning.

From the corner, Nihil let out a long, rasping sigh. “You’ve unleashed a storm, Seestor. Two sons at each other’s throats, and a tour to fan the flames. I almost pity you.”

She closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself. “Almost?”

His grin was wolfish, his cloudy eyes gleaming. “Well, watching it unfold will be far too entertaining.”

*

Later that night, after Perpetua had returned home, Tempest was waiting. The heavy doors of the villa groaned shut behind him as he entered, his steps measured, regal as always. Yet Tempest sensed the shift immediately—something lingered beneath his composure.

“My lord,” she pressed, her voice low, “did you have a good visit?”

He froze where he stood, tapping his boot once against the stone floor before answering. “The one with the golden hair… she isn’t the prime mover.”

“Annaliese?” Tempest frowned. “But you said she is his wife.”

“I know what I said,” he countered. “Alas, the children are not hers. She has borne only one by my brother. The prime mover is someone else.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you…?” She let the question hang, knowing he would catch her meaning.

“Did I what? Take advantage of her?” Color warmed Tempest’s cheeks, though she didn’t look away.

“I did take advantage of the young lady, yes,” he admitted, almost amused, “Twice, actually, but I don’t believe she minded.”

Tempest laughed lightly, “So, did you see her then? The prime mover?”

Pepe moved past her, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly as he sank into his throne. Tempest followed, trailing behind like a faithful companion.

You see, Perpetua did not drink for release alone. His thirst was sharper and more dangerous. Blood gave him more than pleasure—it gave him knowledge. Every drop carried whispers of memory, fear, longing, and shame.

When his fangs pierced flesh, he didn’t just take sustenance; he fed on secrets. He could taste the shape of a lie, the weight of a hidden grief, the edges of desires never spoken aloud. What others locked away in silence came spilling into him, filling him with truths they never meant to give.

It was power unlike any other. With each taste, he gathered their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities—the kind of knowledge a clever man could wield as weapon or leverage. And Perpetua was nothing if not clever.

“I did see a small woman with dark hair,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t yet know who she is. But while I drank from Annaliese, I could feel it—her heart carries a deep disdain for this mystery woman.”

Tempest touched a finger to her lips, biting the tip gently as her head tilted in thought.

“It’s not for you to trouble over, vita mia,” Pepe said, patting his knee in invitation. She came to him at once, settling gracefully in his lap.

“Now,” he murmured, his hands circling her waist, “my siren… would you like some pleasure from your lord?”

Tempest gave a throaty laugh, draping herself across him like silk. “You offer me pleasure, but I think it is you who seeks distraction,” she teased, tracing the line of his jaw with her fingertip.

Perpetua’s smile deepened, though his eyes stayed dark. “You see too much. But you are right. She has unsettled me. The prime mover. The memory of her runs in my veins even now.”

Tempest leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. “Then let me drown it for you, my lord. Let me remind you of what is yours.”

Chapter Text

Perpetua’s earliest years were a blur, distorted not by time alone but by the sharp act of separation. He had been little more than a child when he and his twin were torn apart, and what remained of those first memories came only in fragments—the echo of another laugh mingling with his own, a shadow beside him in a cradle, the fleeting sense of a hand he once held. Nothing whole survived. Only the ache of something missing, something stolen before he had words to name it.

Marika spirited Perpetua away when he was still small enough to forget faces and voices but old enough for the wound of separation to leave a scar. She told herself she was protecting him from Sister’s bitterness, yet her brand of guardianship was hardly tender. Marika was a mercenary of revenge, cold, disciplined, and always on the move. Perpetua grew up with no cradle of comfort—his lullabies were whispered plans, and his bedtime stories were accounts of blood debts to be paid. He learned quickly that the world was cruel, and mercy was rare.

Unlike Copia, who carried with him traces of innocence and longing, Perpetua was taught to distrust and to strike first. Marika had him run errands in seedy alleys, watch her negotiate with killers, and learn how to read danger in every expression. He never knew what it was to be “home.” His only constant was Marika, whose lessons carved a hardened resilience into him.
Still, in quiet moments, he would press a hand to his chest, sensing the faint echo of something missing—another heartbeat that had once matched his own.

As Copia was molded within the Ministry under Sister’s hand, Perpetua was being sharpened into a blade by Marika. Their paths grew further apart, like twin stars pulled into different orbits. Copia grew into a performer, carrying with him wounds of neglect and shame but also a yearning to be loved. Perpetua grew into a weapon, carrying discipline, skill, and a cold sense of justice.

He knew nothing of brotherhood except that he had once had it, and it had been stolen. When he finally heard Copia’s name years later, something inside him snapped awake. Not longing but anger. That someone else had claimed his brother, while he had been abandoned to shadows.

By his teenage years, Marika had drawn him fully into her schemes. She trained him in knives, poisons, and disguises. He excelled in discipline and deception, traits Copia would never master. Yet Marika, for all her cruelty, refused to let him kill too soon. She told him he was meant for something larger.

The woman could sense that there was something different about the twin she had whisked away. Perpetua didn’t notice it at first. He only thought himself hungrier, thirstier, and more restless than other children. Marika would press bread into his hands, pour water down his throat, but it never touched the hollow gnawing in his chest. Then came the night he was about twelve, when she brought down a man who had once betrayed her. She slit the man’s throat and left him bleeding in the dirt, a lesson for Perpetua in loyalty and consequence. But Perpetua, drawn by something he couldn’t name, crawled toward the body. He pressed his mouth to the wound, and for the first time in his life, the hunger quieted.

Marika tore him away, horrified, but it was too late. His lips were red, his eyes alight with something inhuman.

Perpetua did not recoil from it. If anything, he embraced it. To him, it was proof that he was different. It was reassurance that he was chosen for something greater. The hunger became part of his identity and shame never touched him. He was not a boy cursed. He was a weapon sharpened by something older than any of them.

After that night, the changes came quickly. His wounds healed faster than hers, his skin stayed pale even under the sun, and his eyes burned brighter than the firelight. He stopped aging in the way other boys did—his face sharpening but never softening with adolescent roundness. When he touched holy relics in the homes they robbed, his skin would prickle as though burned. Marika realized then that Imperator’s sons were never meant to be ordinary.

To hide the fact that he did not age, Marika forced him to wear a mask. It was a cold, metallic visage that clung to his face like a second skin, forged in the grim outline of a skull. The surface gleamed darkly of polished steel, with bolts and leather straps locking it into place so it could never be easily removed. Its hollowed sockets narrowed his gaze, making his eyes burn with a ferocious intensity.

At first it was meant to be a disguise, but over time the mask became part of him. He would not go anywhere without it. It was no longer a prison but an identity—his armor, his warning, and the only face the world was allowed to see.

It wasn’t until his late adolescence that he discovered his bite held more than hunger. He had fed before—quietly, secretly, stealing from the dying or those Marika had already condemned. But one night, reckless with youth and boldness, he sank his fangs into living flesh.

The woman was a tavern girl, bold-eyed and daring, who teased him with lingering touches and flirted with him in the way women sometimes did, intrigued by his sharp eyes and restless charm. He pierced her shoulder expecting only blood, only the familiar rush of warmth filling his mouth.

What came instead shattered him. Her body convulsed against his, hips pressing desperately to his own, a strangled cry rising not from pain but from the molten center of pleasure. Her nails raked his back, pulling him closer as if she wanted to be devoured whole. Perpetua felt her climax ripple through him, her pulse hammering in rhythm with his, and in that instant the taste of her blood became something richer, darker and more intoxicating.

For the first time, he fed on ecstasy itself—hot and primal, a pleasure that burned through both predator and prey until he no longer knew where her rapture ended and his began.

When Marika found out, she was furious. She called it corruption, told him he was crossing a line that would make him more monster than man. But Perpetua couldn’t forget the way the woman clung to him, couldn’t shake the power of it. He couldn’t forget the way it made him feel. To him, it wasn’t corruption—it was revelation. Feeding could be more than survival. It could be control, worship, addiction.

From then on, Perpetua understood that his bite wasn’t just a hunger to be managed; it was a force that could unmake someone, body and soul. He began to experiment in secret, sometimes gentle, sometimes cruel, studying how the rush of his venom worked differently depending on desire, fear, or trust. Women whispered of him as something half-demon, half-lover. To Perpetua, it was proof that he had been born for something Copia could never touch—his body itself was an instrument of domination.

The years that followed scattered him across cities and villages. He moved like a specter, wearing the borrowed skins of noble, priest, beggar, lover. Everywhere he went, he fed—on blood, on memory and on truths. He left people hollow, not just for what he took from their veins but for what he revealed from their hearts. Secrets became his currency. Betrayals became his wine.

Perpetua drifted across continents, shadowing the noise of the world until he found himself in California. The women there were soft, sun-warmed and eager, sweet things who clung to him and followed him anywhere. He fed well—better than he had in years—but no matter how many throats he kissed open, no matter how many nights he drowned himself in their laughter, the gnawing inside him never eased. He wasn’t hungry, but he was hollow. He had no purpose.

That was when he heard whispers. A ministry formed in vengeance, a congregation unlike any other—built not in God’s name but in open defiance, a church that reveled in blasphemy and worshipped under the sign of the inverted cross. The details chilled him: the face behind it was a woman, cunning and ruthless, who had forged her empire from hatred of the faith that had once broken her. His blood knew before his mind did. It was her. His mother.

From that day on, Perpetua hunted every scrap of information he could find. He clipped newspaper articles, stole programs and flyers, hoarded memorabilia until his room became a shrine. He watched every interview he could get his hands on, memorized every word, every flicker of expression. Sometimes, cloaked in anonymity, he even slipped into their rituals, watching from the edges as the band thundered, the crowd screamed, and his brother—his twin—sang at the altar of their mother’s creation.

Every time, rage and longing twisted together inside him. Copia had been given what was his. The Ministry, the stage, the power—it should have been Perpetua’s to wield. He longed not only for Sister’s recognition, but for her crown. In his heart, he vowed he would not rest until he had carved out his rightful place as the head of the Ministry, the founder of a stronger, darker, and far more supernatural clergy. He would not settle for scraps. He would be the frontman.

But even with this new purpose, he still found himself lonely. It was during a short trip to Germany, following the trail of his brother’s performances, that he found Tempest. At first, she seemed like any other beauty with a sharp smile, but when she sang, the air itself shivered. She was a siren, cloaked in human skin, carrying her own hidden power. Perpetua felt the pull instantly—not just lust but hunger of another kind, the sense that if he kept her close, he could use her gift as a weapon, just as Marika had used him.

But over time, something shifted. She wasn’t just useful; she was intoxicating. When she sang for him alone, without guile or intent, he felt something strange stir in the hollow place inside him—something he had never known before. She was not afraid of him. She never flinched at his mask, his hunger, or the shadows that trailed his steps. She challenged him, teased him, even softened him in moments he would have sworn were impossible.

The lines blurred. Nights spent plotting became nights spent in laughter, in stolen touches, in something dangerously close to tenderness. He grew to love her—not the way he loved conquest or vengeance, but with a rawness that startled him. And Tempest, in turn, loved him back. Not for his power, nor for the monster hidden in his veins, but for the man who had spent his life searching for a place to belong.

For the first time since his childhood, Perpetua was not entirely alone. Tempest had slipped past his defenses, becoming more than an accomplice or tool. She was his equal, his anchor, and in her presence he was no longer just a predator, but a man who could finally feel.

He settled down with her in the villa that they now called home, far enough away from his brother to keep his distance but still close enough to carry out his ultimate plan.

One night, the villa lay silent but for the crackle of candlelight and the low sigh of the wind pressing at the shutters. Perpetua had fed—the copper tang of blood still lingered on his lips—but his body remained restless. He stalked the length of the room like a caged beast, his shoulders tight and his fingers twitching.

Tempest watched him from her seat by the balcony, bronze hair spilling loose as she swirled a glass Merlot. A sly smile played on her lips. “You seem unsatisfied, my lord.”

He stopped, letting his eyes flash toward her. “The bite is enough,” he said gruffly, but the lie was heavy on his tongue.

She rose, the silk of her gown sweeping the floor behind her as she crossed to him. “No,” she corrected softly, her hands sliding to his chest, “the bite cures hunger. I could show you more, if you’re willing.”

He frowned, puzzled. “What else is there?”

Far from innocent, yet still untouched, Perpetua had long sought release in the bite of his victims. The act was enough to make him spill his seed, but never enough to soothe the deeper hunger gnawing within him.

Her laughter was low and sultry, curling around him like smoke. “I’ll teach you.”

When Tempest’s lips first met his, nerves rattled through him, but he did not resist. For once, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. Her delicate kisses coaxed him gently, then grew bolder, more insistent, until he found himself yielding to her pace.

His mouth was clumsy against hers, eager and unpracticed, but she guided him with patience. She took his hands and steered them down along the curve of her body. He fumbled with uncertainty, yet the sounds that escaped her, the soft moans, pulled him further into discovery.

Tempest began on the first of the dozens of buttons at his chest, slipping each one free with deliberate slowness until his shirt gaped open. Perpetua let her peel it away, shoulders tense, his breath uneven, as though he was being stripped of more than just fabric. The garment fell aside, and his bare chest rose and fell in a frenzy of anticipation.

She stepped back just far enough to let her gown slide from her shoulders. The material slid down her body and pooled at her feet, leaving her bare beneath his gaze. His eyes widened, uncomprehending, but he knew he liked what he saw.

“This,” she murmured, reaching for his hand. She brought it to her breast, holding him there, teaching him without words. She kept it cupped until his fingers twitched, awkwardly kneading at her soft flesh. Her head tipped back with a low sound, and something in his eyes darkened at the reaction.

His other hand came up clumsily, mirroring the first. Both palms covered her now, rough and tentative, but when she arched into him with a breathless moan, he understood he was pleasing her and it ignited something inside him.

Tempest’s lips curved faintly as she felt him grow bolder. She caught his wrists gently, slowing the sudden urgency of his grip. “Easy, my lord,” she whispered against his ear, her breath hot, teasing. “It isn’t only hunger. It’s rhythm. It’s patience.”

She drew his hand from her breast, sliding it down over the curve of her waist until his palm brushed her hip. He followed her lead, mesmerized, his eyes locked on hers as she guided him lower still. Her body shivered beneath his touch, and the sound she made was unlike anything he had heard before—soft, aching, and meant only for him.

The sound drove him nearly frantic. He pressed harder, fumbling, and she gasped, her fingers tightening around his wrist to steady him. “Not so rough,” she murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth to soothe him. “Feel me, don’t consume me.”

For a heartbeat he froze, uncertain. Then, slowly, he adjusted, gentler now, his fingers moving with more intent than hunger. She rewarded him with another low moan, her head tipping back, golden hair spilling loose down her spine. The sight burned into him, more intoxicating than blood, and he realized with dawning wonder that this was what she had meant — the difference between feeding and being with her.

Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging him lower, urging him to explore in ways he had never thought to before. Perpetua hesitated, his breath shuddering against her skin, but the coaxing pull of her hands and the soft roll of her hips drew him down.

“Here,” she whispered, her voice thick with promise. “Taste me… learn me.”

The first brush of his mouth was clumsy and instinctive. He pressed too hard, his hunger rising as though this were another kind of bite. She gasped sharply and caught his head in her hands, steadying him. Her tone was patient but firm: “Slow. Gentle. Let it build.”

He obeyed, still uncertain but adjusting the way he touched her with lips, tongue, and teeth. Each time she moaned, each time her body quivered in approval, he learned. The roughness gave way to rhythm, to a careful pressure that had her trembling against him.

When she finally pulled him back up to kiss her, her lips were swollen, her eyes fever-bright. “You see now?” she whispered, guiding his hand once more between them. “I can do more than satiate your hunger.”

He groaned against her mouth, nearly undone by the ache coiled in his own body. The lesson was working, consuming him, and as she shifted, straddling his lap, he realized what she was about to teach him next.

Her hands drifted down, finding the edge of his trousers. She worked at the fastening, steady fingers undoing what his own clumsy hands might have fumbled. The fabric gave way, and she pushed it down just enough, freeing him at last. His breath hitched, his body twitching with unfamiliar tension, more powerful than the relief of any bite he had ever taken.

Tempest leaned close, her lips grazing his ear. “This is where I show you, my lord,” she whispered, voice molten. She shifted against him, guiding his hips with hers. He tensed, startled, but she took his length in her hand, positioning him, teaching him with the surety of experience.

“Let me… guide you inside me.”

When she sank down, the heat of her body enveloping him inch by inch, he gasped a ragged, desperate sound. His hands clutched at her waist, unsure whether to pull her closer or push her away from the unbearable flood of sensation.

She held steady, pressing her forehead to his. “Breathe with me. Match me. Don’t chase it, let it come.”

He tried, but every nerve screamed, every muscle burned. This was not like feeding, not the violent rush of venom and blood — this was deeper, slower, unbearable in its sweetness. His eyes fluttered closed, his mouth open against her shoulder as she rolled her hips, teaching him the rhythm, showing him how to move with her instead of against her.

For the first time in his long life, Perpetua felt something beyond hunger. He felt Tempest.

At first, he tried to match her rhythm, uncertain but eager, following the rise and fall of her body against his. Each shift, each squeeze of her warmth around him, dragged a raw sound from his throat.

But the longer it went, the more his instincts surged. His hips jerked upward too sharply, hands clamping on her waist as though she might vanish if he let go. He thrust hard, rough, chasing the fierce edge of sensation the only way he knew how.

Tempest gasped, clutching his shoulders, then caught his face between her palms. “Slow, my lord,” she breathed, kissing him fiercely. “Not just feeding. Not just taking.”

Her words pierced through the haze. He stilled, trembling, the tension vibrating in every muscle.  For the first time, he wasn’t taking—he was being taught to share.

She rocked against him deliberately, showing him again, the rhythm of give and receive, the building swell instead of the violent rush.

He followed, this time watching her face, learning from every moan, every flutter of her lashes. His pace steadied, the rough edge softening into something deeper, fuller and more consuming.

When release finally overtook him, it wasn’t like the bite—it wasn’t a violent drain, but a shattering surrender. His cry was muffled against her neck as his body broke open, pleasure ripping through him in waves he never knew existed.

And when it was done, when he collapsed against her, he realized with bone-deep clarity: it wasn’t just lust. It was love.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Tempest held him close, her fingers stroking slowly through his damp hair as he shuddered against her. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, the wildness slowly giving way to silence.

She kissed the side of his head, her lips brushing his temple, her voice soft. “There now. You see? There’s more than the bite. More than hunger.”

He swallowed hard, still clinging to her as though she were the only thing anchoring him to the world. When he finally pulled back enough to meet her gaze, his eyes burned with something unguarded, something raw.

“Tempest…” His voice broke, a ragged whisper. “I love you.”

Her smile was small but steady, as though she had been waiting for the words. She pressed her forehead to his, her breath warm against his lips. “I know, my dark one,” she murmured. “I’ve always known.”

He closed his eyes, collapsing into her embrace, undone in a way no battle, no bite, no hunger had ever managed. For the first time, he felt whole—not because he had taken, but because he had been given something he felt never thought he deserved.

Chapter Text

The hotel’s parking lot was buzzing with arrivals—luggage wheels clattering over uneven pavement, ghouls shouting to each other, headlights flashing as buses pulled in. The first to arrive were Perpetua and Tempest. They slipped in by way of a dark limousine.

Pepe leaned back into the shadows of the leather seat, one hand draped lazily over the siren at his side. He preferred to keep a low profile, if only for a few minutes, to observe. To listen. To breathe them in. He wanted their scents, their gestures, the tones of their voices—wanted to weigh their ties to one another before stepping into their circle.

Another car pulled up, and his gaze sharpened. A woman stepped out, striking in her appearance. There was something about her—so familiar he could almost swear they’d crossed paths before.

 She was short with black hair that fell sleek to the small of her back. Her eyes were just as dark, set against skin so pale she looked almost spectral beneath the yellow wash of the sunlight. Pepe half expected her to blister and crack under the luminous glare. He smiled faintly at the thought.

The driver of the car emerged next, a man, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence carrying a rough, rugged edge. A dark mustache dominated his face, thick and commanding, framed by the scruff along his jaw. His eyebrows were heavy and expressive, drawn into a furrow that made him look both serious and cautious as he surveyed the lot. His dark curly hair stuck out from beneath the brim of a cap, lending him almost unkempt charm. A sleeveless shirt clung to him, baring strong arms inked with hints of tattoos, his stance protective yet steady.

In his arms, he carried a child. The little one had a cascade of springy, dark curls that framed a round, angelic face. Wide, luminous eyes, deep and soulful, dominated his expression, watching the world with a kind of soft wonder. His small mouth was set in a gentle pout, his skin smooth and warm-toned, glowing against the pale gray of his shirt. He clung quietly, calm and trusting, his small body secure in the man’s grip as though he belonged nowhere else but there.

The woman walked around to the man, allowing a hand to brush his arm as she leaned close, whispering something Perpetua could not catch. From his shadowed seat in the limousine, he narrowed his eyes.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he cracked the window just an inch. The hum of the parking lot spilled in—voices, engines, the sharp tang of gasoline—but he was listening for something else. He drew a long breath, nose flaring as he savored the air, sifting through the scents like threads of silk.

Then he caught it. Subtle, buried beneath soap and sweat and road dust, but unmistakable.

His lips curved. “Pregnant…” he murmured aloud, his voice thick with satisfaction, as though he had unearthed a secret no one else knew.

He continued to watch the couple’s interaction with sharp, predatory interest.

The woman reached out with gentle hands as she tried to take the child from the man’s arms. But he only shook his head softly, adjusting the little one against his chest.

His refusal wasn’t sharp, nor stubborn—it was kind and almost protective. A quiet reassurance that said, it’s fine, I’ve got him. The woman’s hand lingered for a moment before she let it fall, her expression softening into something warm as she watched them together.

From his seat, Pepe inhaled the moment like smoke, studying every detail—not just the faces and the movements, but the delicate threads of affection binding them together. The way the man held the child, the way the woman looked at them both.

A faint smile tugged at his lips as the realization settled in his mind. Their son.

Another car pulled up, parking a generous distance from the previous one. Its sleek frame gleamed dully beneath the sunlight, tinted windows hiding the figure inside. The driver stepped out first—another chauffeur, tall in a dark suit, and with practiced precision he walked to the back, his gloved hand reaching for the door handle.

With a smooth pull, the door swung open.  A moment’s pause hung in the air before a polished shoe touched the pavement. Then the rest of him emerged.

The painted face was the first thing to catch the light, white as bone with black carved lines making him appear more specter than man. The chauffeur stepped back respectfully, bowing his head as if releasing something greater than himself into the daylight.

The figure wore a high-collared black shirt with voluminous sleeves, the cuffs gathered into ruffles at his wrists, giving him a regal yet archaic air. Over it sat a fitted leather vest, dark and gleaming, embroidered with elaborate copper-gold designs that ran in symmetrical lines down his chest.

His trousers were black but torn and frayed, the fabric hanging in distressed layers, as though each rip told a story. Despite their ruin, the way he wore them spoke of intention, a deliberate aesthetic of ruin made grand. The boots, heavy and worn, grounded him with the weight of someone used to carrying the burden of command.

Every detail—the sharp cut of his clothing, the grotesque face paint, the defiant set of his shoulders—marked him as a creature caught between pageantry and menace. Even without words, his very presence declared who he was.

My brother.

Out behind him shot a child, moving so fast she nearly toppled him over as her small shoes slapped against the pavement. She was striking, a curious little thing with long dark hair that framed her pale face like a curtain of silk. Her cheeks were flushed rose with the rush of movement, lips curling into the hint of a mischievous smile.

But it was her eyes that caught everything—one a vivid blue, the other a warm brown, each gleaming like polished glass in the daylight. They made her look almost otherworldly, as if some secret spark had been stitched into her at birth.

Her lace-trimmed blouse and delicate features stood in stark contrast to her wild energy, but together they made her seem both doll-like and alive with mischief—a child who could not be contained, even in the presence of ceremony.

A name slipped out before he could stop it, barely louder than a whisper. “Elizabeth…”

“Mummy!” the child screamed, her little legs pumping as she darted across the pavement. Addeline bent immediately, arms opened wide and caught her daughter against her chest. She lifted the girl with the utmost care, pressing her close, her face softening into a look that could only belong to a mother.

Pepe watched on, his expression unreadable. He took in every detail—the way Addeline’s arms curled protectively, the way the child burrowed into her with absolute trust.

Interesting, he thought.

Swiss caught Copia’s gaze across the bustle of the lot, and the ghoul gave a solemn, awkward nod. It was the first time the two men had laid eyes on each other since Addeline and Swiss had wed—a reunion both had quietly dreaded, but one they knew could not be avoided forever.

Addy and Swiss walked toward him, her pace steady though her pulse thundered in her chest. She didn’t pause to greet Copia, only cut him a piercing look as she passed. Heat rushed to her cheeks, painting her porcelain skin a shade of crimson. How could she forget? The last time she had been this close to him, his fingers had been inside her—a memory that still burned hot against her skin.

Clutching Elizabeth to her side, she brushed past him briskly, eager to escape the weight of his gaze. Better to leave Swiss and Papa to face the inevitable awkwardness of their first words alone.

Still watching from the car, Perpetua went utterly still. He licked his lip as his eyes narrowed, sharpening with hungry interest as they fixed on Addeline. Every line of her form, the sweep of her hair, the curve of her figure, even the way she carried the child, set something hot and restless alight inside him.

Tempest noticed at once. She glided closer, her lips curling into a sly smile as her voice purred just for him. “Would you like her for yourself, my lord?”

That was when it struck him. The flicker of recognition sharpened into certainty—he had seen that face before. Not with his own eyes, but through the haze of Annaliese’s memories as he drank from her.

“It’s her,” he breathed, his voice edged with triumph. “She’s the prime mover.”

The scene before Pepe soon drew Tempest’s attention as well, and together they watched. The young child with dark curls squirmed eagerly in Swiss’s arms, reaching out so suddenly for Copia that it nearly threw the ghoul off balance. Both men faltered, their hands meeting briefly on the boy before Swiss let go.

Meliora clung to the ghostly figure at once, pressing a fierce hug and a sloppy kiss against him before settling at Copia’s side. The boy tucked himself against the man’s hip as though it were the most natural place in the world, thumb slipping into his mouth in quiet contentment.

Peculiar… Perpetua’s eyes narrowed as his interest peaked. What bond did Copia share with the little one to command such unguarded affection? he wondered.

The silence between them was almost unbearable. Swiss cleared his throat while Copia shifted Meliora higher on his hip. At last, someone pierced the stillness.

“Swiss,” Papa said simply, the name tasting both familiar and foreign on his tongue.

“Emeritus,” Swiss returned.

For a moment they lingered there, two men bound by history and uncertainty, neither sure how to cross the gulf between them. Then Papa broke it again.

“Congratulations. Addeline tells me she is pregnant.”

Swiss’s mouth curved, but it was no smile of joy. It was a wry twist, almost boyish, as if he’d been caught in some mischief and was bracing for the scolding.

“Tale as old as time, huh?” Swiss managed, though the words sounded thin.

Copia exhaled heavily before pressing on. “I know Addeline is not my responsibility any longer, but I feel as though I need to tell you… she wishes to sing in the show.”

The words hit harder than Swiss expected. His face fell, disappointment flickering across his features, not anger, but the ache of being left out, of knowing she hadn’t told him herself. Beneath it all was the sharper truth: he knew it wasn’t safe.

Papa’s tone softened, though it carried weight. “Now, I don’t need to remind you of Addy’s history with pregnancies. You were there. It is not safe for her to stand for such long periods of time. She will overexert herself and—”

“Yeah… no, I got it.” Swiss cut in quickly, his voice low. “She, uh… she didn’t tell me that.”

Copia’s eyes furrowed, something almost pitying in the look he gave. “See? I am not such the bad guy after all, now am I?”

The memory tugged at him—how many times Swiss had chastised him for forbidding Addeline to sing while she carried a child. Back then, it had seemed controlling, almost cruel. But now, with Addeline carrying his own child and the risk so perilous, Swiss finally understood. Perhaps the frontman’s rules had not been tyranny at all.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said at last, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not going to be pretty. You know how she is.”

Copia nodded slowly, his hand tightening on the edge of his sleeve. “Sì, I do know how she is. Stubborn. Reckless. She thinks herself invincible until she is not.”

Swiss gave a small huff of a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Guess we’ve both learned that the hard way.”

For a fleeting moment, the air between them eased—two men who loved the same woman, bound by the same fear for her safety. Then Copia straightened, clearing his throat, the softness gone.

“Good. Speak with her. Convince her if you can. Because if she overreaches, if something happens to that child, I will not be the one to blame this time.”

Swiss met his gaze, eyes steady. “Understood.”

From the shadowed interior of the car, Perpetua watched the exchange play out, his sharp eyes following every gesture, every strained smile. The child’s sudden affection, the stiff handshake, the words he couldn’t hear—all of it stoked his curiosity.

Beside him, Tempest tilted her head, her lips curling faintly. “What do you suppose they’re saying?” she asked, her voice soft as velvet.

Pepe’s gaze lingered on the two men, now retreating together into the hotel, the door closing behind them. He hummed low in his throat, more predator than man. “Something worth knowing. That much is certain.”

Tempest’s fingers brushed his sleeve, deliberate, teasing. “And you mean to find out?”

“Soon enough,” he murmured, his smile slow and deliberate. The door had shut, but secrets had a way of seeping through cracks.

Only once the lot was quiet again did the car doors open. Perpetua and his siren stepped out at last, Tempest gliding close at his side—no longer a hidden companion but his ghoulette, ready to take her place in full view.

Perpetua offered his arm, and Tempest slipped hers through it with practiced ease. Side by side, they strode toward the hotel doors beneath the bright daylight.

Even in the sun, they drew stares. A pair of tourists with shopping bags slowed their steps, whispering behind their hands. A businessman waiting for his cab stopped mid-sentence on a phone call, his gaze snagging on the gleam of Tempest’s golden hair. The bellhop, usually unflappable, fumbled the luggage cart before snapping to attention.

The lobby’s glass doors reflected their figures back at them—him, tall and commanding, her shimmering like fire spun into flesh. The murmurs followed in their wake, hushed and uncertain, though none dared speak too loudly.

Tempest’s smile widened, drinking in the attention, while Perpetua only let his mouth curl faintly. Each step forward was deliberate. This was not just an arrival. It was a statement.

Daylight spilled across the polished floor of the lobby, catching in Tempest’s hair, gilding her in fire as they crossed the threshold together. Conversations stuttered, heads turned, and whispers rippled through the air like a current.

Neither of them spared the onlookers a glance. Arm in arm, they stepped into the hotel as if it already belonged to them.

And with that, the game truly began.

*

At the top of the stairs, Elizabeth went wild. She could hardly believe it—another country, a hotel, on tour with her father. For once she hadn’t been left behind. The thrill of it all spilled out in her every move. Meliora squirmed until Papa set him down, eager to follow his sister.

Elizabeth darted from door to door, knocking with both fists, leaping to slap the framed pictures on the walls, shrieking nursery rhymes at the top of her lungs. Meliora trailed after her, his laughter bubbling over as he copied each antic. He pounded on doors, smacked the walls, and jumped with all the might his little legs could manage. He stumbled more than once, but his giggles never stopped.

“Elizabeth, stop!” Addy snapped, but the girl barreled on, heedless. Addeline’s eyes cut to Copia, sharp enough to wound, as if to say: your daughter, your problem.

“Eliza. Meliora. Cease this at once,” Copia barked, his tone carrying more weight, but still the children paid no mind.

Swiss sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then, filling his lungs, he unleashed a roar that shook the hallway, his voice dropping to a rumbling octave.
“KIDS—KNOCK IT OFF! NOW!”

Elizabeth froze, eyes wide at Swiss’s booming command. Meliora, oblivious, kept charging forward until he crashed into his sister, sending them both tumbling in a heap of limbs and laughter.

“Thanks,” Copia muttered dryly as he strode toward his door.

“Hey—can you take them for a minute?” Swiss asked, a hesitant edge in his voice. “I need to talk to Adds about that thing you mentioned… and it’s probably gonna get heated.”

“Oh, right, yes—of course.” Copia quickly corralled the two children, ushering them down the hall with a sweep of his arms. “Good luck,” he tossed over his shoulder before disappearing into his room with them and shutting the door.

Swiss glanced at their room and felt a rush of warmth. It was strange to think, the last time they’d stayed here, Addy had only been sneaking into his bed. Now, it was hers as much as his. The thought made him smile, a small comfort before the harder talk he knew was coming.

He paced slowly toward the open door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him with deliberate care. Addeline was already unpacking a few things, getting herself ready for the soundcheck that night. Swiss hated to bust her bubble, but he knew she wouldn’t make the right decision. When Addy wanted something, the consequences be damned. That stubborn streak was one of the reasons she was pregnant now, even after he told her it wasn’t a good idea.

But now that she was, it fell on him to protect her, to tell her what was best. She murmured to herself while laying clothes across the bed, then glanced up and spoke to him.

“You’re going to need a different pair of shoes… I noticed one of your boots flapping like an alligator jaw. That’s dangerous when you’re moving on stage.”

“Addy…” he started.

“And we need to go round everyone up, see who’s here. Papa’s brother, whom we have yet to meet, brought some new girl and she’ll need a place on stage.”

“Adds—”

“Oh, and Elizabeth wants to be at soundcheck too so she can—”

“ADDELINE! Would you shut up for a second?”

Her head jerked up, eyes wide. “What?”

For a moment, her heart seized. The air caught sharp in her lungs, because she was certain Swiss was about to name the thing she’d barely had time to process herself—that reckless tangle with Papa in the ministry hallway, the feel of it still clinging like sin on her skin.

“You can’t…” He lifted a hand, shaking his head as if the words themselves were hard to swallow. Finally, they came out sharp: “You can’t be a ghoulette tonight, Addy.”

Relief set in instantly, but it was quickly replaced by frustration. “He told you?”

“What—did you think I wouldn’t notice? What was your plan? Sneak up on stage after we were already playing?”

“We’ve gone through this before. I can do a few songs near the—”

“Addy, are you out of your fucking mind?”

She flinched at the sharpness in his tone, stepping back. Her eyes snapped shut, then flew open again, blazing. If looks could kill, Swiss would have dropped where he stood.

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

He moved closer, careful not to back her into a corner. He’d learned the hard way that trapping her only ever made things worse.

“Goddamn it, Addy—I’m not trying to tell you what to do!” His voice climbed, every word edged in desperation. “I’m trying to protect our baby!”

His fist slammed into the wall, the sound reverberating through the room. She flinched, swallowing hard, her lips pressed tight as though holding back tears.

“I’m starting to wonder who the instigator was in your mess with Copia,” he bit out, yanking her closer.

She shoved at him, straining against his grip as her voice broke into a sob. “You think I don’t know what’s at risk? You think I don’t wake up every night terrified of losing this baby too?”

“Listen—” his voice cut over hers, low but edged like steel. “You can be mad if you want, but you asked for this.” His hand pressed firmly against her belly. “You wanted this, Addy, and now you’ve got it. So don’t be reckless. Don’t be stupid. Because it won’t just be yourself you’ll hurt if you lose it.”

In another room, Tempest and Perpetua were dressing for soundcheck. Pepe hadn’t bothered with a costume, but Tempest, newly welcomed as a ghoulette, needed to wear the uniform of the new era. The suit was skin tight, its dark fabric etched with skeletal motifs that gleamed under the light. When she drew the silver metallic mask over her face, the world narrowed to her eyes, the veil falling around it in the shape of a nun’s habit, lending her an eerie solemnity.

Across her torso, a ribcage shimmered as though stitched from starlight, every line picked out in sequins and embroidery that caught and scattered the glow. From her arms unfurled great black wings, long spines and webbing stretching outward with a gothic, demonic grandeur. In that moment, she was no longer only herself—she was something otherworldly, both terrifying and beautiful, a creature born of ritual and spectacle.

When Tempest emerged, fully clad in the ghoulette’s uniform, Pepe went still, his mouth parting as his eyes swept over her. For a beat, he almost forgot to breathe. The skeletal shimmer across her chest, the veil falling like a dark habit, the great black wings stretching out—she looked like something risen from ritual, half demon, half saint.

A shiver rippled through him, and his first instinct was to fall at her feet in worship. But then, true to himself, his lips curved faintly. “Sweet Satan,” he muttered, voice low but tinged with a grin, “you look like you’re about to either bless me or drag me straight to hell.”

The words carried his usual humor, yet his eyes betrayed him—lit with awe, caught somewhere between worship and want.

Tempest tilted her head at Pepe’s words, the veil shifting like a curtain of shadow. A sly smile touched her lips beneath the mask.

“Who says I can’t do both?” she purred, letting the dark silk brush over him.

Perpetua’s firm hand caught her wrist and he pulled her close, the force of it erasing any space between them. He lowered his head and pressed a brief, searing kiss to her lips, a silent claim before they faced the world together.

“Come, my love. Let’s make our grand appearance.”

Her heart quickened as he released her only enough to lead her on, wings and veil trailing in his wake, Pepe following with a crooked grin that couldn’t quite mask the awe still written across his face.

*

Elizabeth and Kaisarion darted across the stage with Papa trailing after them like an exasperated shepherd. The ghouls and ghoulettes had all gathered, taking their places as they tuned instruments and tested sound. Cirrus lingered over her keyboard, Sodo, Aether, and Rain clustered with their guitars, while Swiss stood on his platform with his own. The platform in front of him was meant for Tempest, and across the way another platform stood for—”

“Hello you,” Aurora called up from the ground, her voice bright.

Swiss looked down and, for a moment, his breath caught. He set his guitar aside and vaulted from the platform, landing neatly on his feet. Tugging off his mask, he grinned.

“Impressive flying skills, Batman,” she teased with a laugh.

“Hi, Liv.”

“Jutty.” The way she said it carried warmth, memory, and just the faintest ache. The last time he’d seen her, he’d told her the truth—that his heart belonged to Addeline. For a while, he’d tried with Aurora, believing Addeline had chosen Copia. He had wanted to be happy, and he had loved her. Just not enough to make him forget the mother of his child.

So he had avoided her, the way he avoided Copia. And he hadn’t expected she’d be here on this tour. But here she was.

She stepped into him and hugged him tightly, as though embracing an old friend. “How have you been?”

“Good, good,” he said awkwardly. “Addy’s pregnant.”

Aurora burst out laughing. “Of course she is.” When the laughter ebbed, she tilted her head. “I heard you two got married. I’m sorry I didn’t come. I thought it might be a bit—”

“No, don’t mention it,” Swiss cut her off gently. “There wasn’t a ceremony anyway. We didn’t want a public announcement. Out of respect for Emeritus, we just… eloped.”

“That’s noble of you. How’s Meliora?”

Swiss turned, spotting his little one darting after Elizabeth, curls bouncing as he giggled. His expression softened. “He’s great.”

Aurora smiled, shaking her head. “Wow, he’s so big now. And little Elizabeth is here too?”

“She insisted,” Swiss chuckled. “From what I hear, Copia didn’t have much of a choice. Now that his kids are older and have minds of their own, they’re really letting him have it.”

“That’s great.” A silence fell between them, heavy with everything unsaid, before she broke it. “Is Addy here?”

“She is… she’s pissed at me right now because I won’t let her sing in the show. But I’m only trying to—”

“Protect her,” Aurora finished for him, her voice softer now.

He nodded.

Her lips curved into something halfway between a smirk and a challenge. “Well then, bring your A-game, because I’ll be singing as loudly as I possibly can. They won’t even hear you under my vocals.”

Swiss’s laugh was low and unsteady, but his eyes lingered on her, caught between old affection and the weight of everything that had changed.

From across the stage, Addy’s eyes tracked the pair. She’d been speaking with Rain about his set-up, but her attention drifted, inevitably, to where Swiss stood with Aurora.

They were laughing—Aurora with her head sloped back, Swiss with that grin he always tried to stifle when he was nervous. Addy’s stomach tightened. She remembered the stories, the months he’d tried to love Aurora when he thought she was gone. She didn’t fault him for it, not truly, but seeing them together now stirred something sharp.

Aurora’s hand brushed Swiss’s arm as she made another remark, and Addy’s lips pressed into a thin line. She told herself not to read into it, not to let her temper rise, but the sight felt like a thorn under her skin.

Swiss must have sensed it, because he glanced up mid-laugh, eyes locking with Addy’s across the stage. The grin faltered. For a heartbeat, guilt flickered there, naked and plain, before he quickly looked back at Aurora.

Addy turned away and forced herself to breathe evenly. She wouldn’t make a scene. Not here, not now.

“Your husband?” she heard a voice from behind her.

Addy turned sharply, her pulse quickening, and found herself staring at a man she’d never seen before. The mask, the elaborate clothes—he carried himself with the same theatrical flair as Copia.

“Perpetua?” she guessed.

The man inclined his head in a single, deliberate nod.

“It’s… uh… nice to meet you.” She extended her hand, forcing politeness into her voice. “I’m Addeline, but everyone calls me Addy.”

His gaze flicked past her shoulder to the stage. “And the ghoul up there?”

She followed his eyes, and a small smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “You’re right. He’s my husband.”

“You don’t seem pleased with him,” Perpetua observed lightly, “the way you’re shooting daggers at him with your eyes.”

Addy’s smile faltered. She shook her head. “It’s a long story.”

His eyes softened, though his next question made her stiffen. “The children. They are yours?”

She blinked, unsettled by the weight of his curiosity, and studied him properly for the first time. Something about his presence set her on edge. “They are…” she answered, hesitation creeping in.

“They don’t resemble one another at all,” he remarked, almost idly.

“What’s your point?”

He raised a hand, a gesture of placation. “I mean no disrespect. Truly. It was only an observation.”

But the damage was done. The intrusion into her most fragile secret pressed like a bruise, and she found herself wary—unsure if this man’s questions came from innocence, or something more calculating.

From across the stage, Copia saw the way Addy’s shoulders stiffened under Perpetua’s gaze. Unease radiated from her, and before she could unravel further, he moved. In a single sweep he was at her side, an arm slipping firmly around her waist, his other hand enclosing hers as he drew her back from the conversation with practiced intimacy.

Addy’s eyes flared, her voice low but sharp. “You told him?”

Papa blinked, genuinely startled. “I didn’t tell him a thing. Do you think I am insane? That I would tell a man I’ve touched his wife?”

“No—not that,” she hissed. “You told him I was singing in the show.”

His hand moved instinctively, settling protectively over her belly as he bent closer. “I did it for you. You’re a stubborn ass who doesn’t know when to stop. You shouldn’t even be pregnant right now—”

“—That is not your business!” Her face hardened, fury flashing across her features. “You don’t get to dictate my life anymore.” She shoved him away.

Before either could speak again, Pepe approached, his arrival breaking the taut thread between them. “Sorry for interrupting,” he said smoothly, “but it appears everyone gets a stage name.” He gestured toward Tempest, who had taken the stage in front of Swiss’s platform, warming her voice with practiced scales—careful, controlled and not yet dangerous enough to enthrall.

Without looking away from Addy, Copia gave a small nod. “Yes. The musicians receive new names when they join the band.”

“I didn’t get a new name,” Addy shot back, defiant.

“Oh, but you did, Mrs. Emeritus.” His words landed with weight, heavy with ownership that hung in the air.

Perpetua’s head tilted, his thoughts sharpening like a blade. Mrs. Emeritus. So, she was his ex-wife. He tucked the revelation away, his curiosity now doubled. What were the circumstances surrounding their divorce? What had broken them apart? Was there something in their history or something about the prime mover that he ought to know? He kept his silence, content to observe, ears tuned for anything more they might let slip.

But for now, the conversation ended there, the tension unspoken but thick as smoke between them.

“Haze,” Papa said at last, his voice carrying across the stage. “Her new name is Haze.”

Perpetua’s eyes narrowed with interest. “And what of my name, brother?”

“What of your name?” he scoffed. “Are you not satisfied with Pepe?” His tone dripped with mockery.

But Perpetua was unshaken. “I was thinking… Papa Perpetua the Fifth. You are IV. It’s only natural I’d be V, no?”

Copia’s jaw tightened. “My son will be Papa V.”

“He doesn’t even want the spotlight, for crying out loud,” Addy snapped, folding her arms.

“Then how about just V?” Perpetua countered, his grin sly.

“V?” Copia repeated incredulously. “Fucking V? Like the letter?”

“Yes. Why not?” Pepe shrugged. “It has a ring to it, does it not?”

Copia rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Fine. V it is. But don’t think for one second you’ll be stealing my spotlight.”

“I thought Mother said we would share, Cardi?”

“You will call me Papa Emeritus,” Copia barked, “just like everyone else.”

“I can’t call you Papa,” Perpetua shot back, his composure finally cracking. “That’s perverse! For Satan’s sake, your wife calls you Papa.”

“How do you know what my wife calls me?”

Perpetua pointed toward Addeline, “Well your ex-wife certainly calls you that—"

“—You will call me what I tell you to call me!”

“It’s sexual in nature! I won’t do it!”

Their voices climbed higher, each word louder than the last, until they were shouting over one another. The mask of civility had dropped—what stood in its place was raw, ugly, and unmistakable: the chaos of true brothers finally baring their teeth.

Just then, a voice rose above the clash of instruments, so clear and angelic it cut through the brothers’ shouting like light through smoke. The opening melody of Mary on a Cross threaded its way across the stage, but it wasn’t the familiar growl of Papa or the seasoned resonance of a ghoul—it was lighter, higher, and astonishingly pure.

The tone was childlike, yet uncannily precise, every note falling in perfect place. There was no strain, no hesitation—only a natural clarity, sweet and bright, that wrapped itself around the melody and made it new. It was the sort of sound that could silence a room, not through power but through its sheer, effortless beauty.

Heads turned, and then all eyes found the source.

Elizabeth stood at the edge of the stage, small hands curled around the microphone, her eyes wide but fearless as she sang. The innocence in her voice didn’t diminish the song—it transformed it. What was once heavy with longing became something strangely pure, as if she had cracked the hymn open and revealed its heart.

On the floor, Addy and Copia both froze. First they looked up at their daughter, then at each other, their mouths parted in shared astonishment. Slowly, inevitably, their expressions softened into smiles—genuine, unguarded, and full of pride.

For a fleeting moment, all their battles, all the bitterness, fell away. They were just two parents, struck dumb by the wonder of their child.

Perpetua’s head tilted as the melody filled the air. For the first time since his arrival, his sharp, prying questions fell silent. His masked face angled upward, transfixed, as though the child’s voice was something he had never quite believed could exist. Awe softened the hard edges of him, if only for a heartbeat.

Addy pressed her hand to her chest, her throat tight as she looked from Elizabeth back to Copia. Without a word, he slipped an arm around her and drew her close, their bodies pressing together as the proud, impossible sound of their daughter washed over them.

Across the stage, Swiss caught it too—the small girl commanding the room with nothing but her voice. He looked past her, across the lights and instruments, and found Addy. A mischievous grin curled his lips, and he gave her a slow, deliberate wink.

Addy blinked, caught between laughter and tears. The music kept pouring flawlessly out of Elizabeth, and for a moment all of them—parents, brothers, ghouls, even V—were bound together in the wonder of it.

Elizabeth’s clear voice soared on the final note, holding steady until the last echo of the melody faded into silence. For a long, breathless moment, the stage was utterly still. No instruments, no chatter, no bickering brothers.

Then the spell broke.

Copia was the first to react, his chest heaving as he let out a shaky laugh and hugged Addy tighter, pressing a quick kiss into her hair. “Madonna mia,” he whispered, his voice thick with pride.

Addy’s lips curved into a trembling smile, eyes never leaving her daughter. She reached up to clutch Copia’s hand against her shoulder, the shared astonishment between them wordless but complete.

Perpetua stood rooted, his masked face slanting toward Elizabeth as if he were gazing at a vision. His usual calculation was absent, replaced with something rawer—wonder, and perhaps the sting of envy.

Swiss leaned lazily on his platform, but his grin gave him away. He caught Addy’s eye across the stage once more, this time raising his brows with a wink that said what words didn’t: that’s our girl.

Elizabeth lowered the microphone with both hands, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright as though she couldn’t quite believe what she’d done. But the hush that hung over the stage was answer enough. She had silenced them all.

Copia couldn’t contain himself. He broke away from Addy and rushed across the stage, his robes billowing as he closed the distance. With a laugh that was half disbelief, half joy, he swept Elizabeth off the ground, spinning her high into the air.

“Piccolina! How did I not know you could sing like that?”

Her little legs dangled as he turned, her laughter bubbling out as her dress flared in a wide circle around her. When he finally set her back down on steady feet, she tilted her chin up with mock seriousness, eyes sparkling.

“I’ve been telling you all this time what a talent I am,” she declared. “Tis not my fault nobody listens to me.”

Copia barked out a laugh, ruffling her hair, utterly undone by her confidence.

Elizabeth’s laughter still rang in the air when Addy caught the tilt of Perpetua’s mask. He was smiling—at least, it seemed so—but his stillness made her shiver. Even in their daughter’s light, the shadow of his curiosity lingered.

Chapter Text

The venue was dark, a low hum of voices buzzing through the crowd. A ripple of sound stirred as the house lights dimmed, replaced by the glow of crimson spotlights warming the velvet curtain. The silhouettes of ghouls shifted behind it, instruments already in hand, the scrape of tuning lost under the swell of anticipation.

Then, without warning, the first notes broke free—deep bass rolling like thunder, the guitar cutting sharp and sure, the percussion pounding like a heartbeat amplified through the cavernous space. The curtain held, a wall of mystery between audience and stage, while the music swelled larger, brighter, undeniable. The crowd clapped and hollered, thousands of voices fusing into one, and when the song hit its stride the roar only deepened.

At last, the curtain dropped. Lights blazed white and gold, revealing the full stage: ghouls masked and relentless at their instruments, the stage dressed in ritual symbols and smoke curling up in waves. The audience surged forward in a tidal wave of noise, voices breaking into screams and chants.

And then he stepped out. Papa, robed and resplendent, strode into the light as though it had been conjured for him alone. The sound from the pit to the rafters doubled, tripled, until it was a wall of adoration crashing against the stage. Hands shot into the air, the entire arena bowing not in silence but in ecstatic, unrestrained noise.

Papa lifted a gloved hand in blessing, and the crowd answered with thunder.

This was where he felt the most loved. Bathed in stage light, wrapped in the roar of the crowd, he was no longer just Copia—he was something exalted. The swell of voices, the chanting of his name, the endless sea of hands reaching for him filled every hollow space inside him. Here, on this stage, he was untouchable.

From the wings, Perpetua lingered. His gaze stayed fixed on Haze, her voice shimmering above the music with a clarity that seemed to snare every soul in the arena. Even the air felt altered when she sang, vibrating with her lure woven into each note. He felt pride, fierce and possessive pride, that she could hold an audience in her spell with nothing more than breath and tone. But it tangled with envy.

Because despite the magic of her voice, despite the way the crowd leaned unconsciously toward her, their eruption of love was not for her. It was for Copia. Always Copia. His brother drank in the adoration as though it had been poured for him alone, and Perpetua, cloaked in shadow, could not decide if it was admiration or resentment tightening in his chest.

Something his brother had said before taking the stage gnawed at him still: “My son will be Papa V.”

The words rattled around in his skull, sharper with each echo. Stability. Tradition. That was what the people craved, wasn’t it? A clean line of succession, heirs to reassure them that the Church would not falter. Copia had provided that in abundance—children enough to weave a net of safety and continuity, children adored almost as much as he was.

Perpetua, though… what did he have? No son to promise as the next in line. No legacy to dangle before the faithful as proof of his worth. He could already hear how they might whisper in the shadows: unfit, unstable, a pretender who could not even produce an heir. The thought made his jaw tighten as he stared out at the thunderous devotion his brother commanded.

If not for those offspring, Perpetua knew, Copia might have been discarded long ago. Killed off, replaced. But his children tethered him to the Papacy, a legacy too rich to sever. And it left Perpetua in the wings, with nothing but his siren’s song to lend him weight.

Elizabeth wriggled free from her mother’s watchful eye and darted away. That’s when she noticed him—Perpetua, half-hidden in the shadows, watching the stage with an intensity that didn’t belong to an ordinary onlooker. Without hesitation, she marched up to him and tugged at his sleeve.

Startled, he looked down at the small hand, then at the child herself. “Well, hello, Elizabeth.”

“Hello, Pepe,” she said brightly, though her eyes studied him with unnerving seriousness. “I heard Sister say you’d be traveling with us.”

“Yes, you heard right.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, scrutinizing him with all the suspicion a six-year-old could muster. She was no fool—she had the uncanny knack of reading people as though born with it. “She said you might be singing as well. Are you trying to steal my spot as heir?”

Perpetua chuckled, but there was a faint edge in it. “No, my dear. By the time it’s your turn, I’ll be far too old to sing.”

“But what about your heirs?” she pressed, frowning up at him. “Do you intend to have them take my spot?”

“I haven’t got any.”

Her eyes went wide, scandalized. “No heirs? How can you be the frontman with no heirs?”

He tried to make it light. “Why don’t you be my heir?”

Elizabeth gasped as if he had uttered something outrageous. “Me? But I didn’t come from your wife. Have you even got a wife, Pepe?”

“I do not,” he admitted simply.

Elizabeth tapped her chin, considering bargaining with the man. “Then I could be your wife. Like a queen in a monarchy. I’d take over for you.”

Perpetua laughed softly, though his chest ached at the innocence of it. He bent to her level, shaking his head. “You are such a clever little thing. But you’re much too young—and besides, I’m your uncle.”

Her brow furrowed as if she found this rule inconvenient. But then she smiled, triumphant at having gotten him to admit the truth aloud. “Still… no heirs, Pepe. That’s not good.”

His smile lingered, but for a fleeting moment the words stung sharper than she could ever know.

Back in the safety of their room, away from judging eyes, Tempest and V prepared for bed. Perpetua usually preferred to sleep through the day and wake at night, but he had begun shifting his schedule to match the tour’s demands. As they settled, he told Tempest how proud he was of her, and she leaned in eagerly, hungry for every detail he had gathered.

“Well, Addeline is certainly the prime mover,” he said. “She and my brother divorced only recently.”

“Recently?” Haze asked.

“Yes. There’s still fresh animosity between them, along with some unresolved feelings. My brother still seems to care very much for her well-being. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s still in love with the woman.”

“You’re very observant, my lord.”

He chuckled. “Thank you, my beauty.”

“What else did you learn?”

“I know for certain Elizabeth is Copia’s child. But the little one? He must belong to her current husband—the singing ghoul.”

Tempest’s eyes narrowed as she pieced it together. “The child looks every bit of three years old. Yet you said she and Papa divorced only recently?”

“Ah, and now you are the perceptive one.” V smiled, though distaste flickered across his face the instant he registered her calling Copia Papa.

Tempest noticed at once and rushed to explain. “Forgive me, my lord. I was instructed that, as a new ghoulette, I am to address our frontman as Papa Emeritus.”

“Yes—well,” Pepe continued smoothly, “I suspect the child was born to the ghoul while she was still married to my brother. For a time, the little one must have believed Papa to be his true father.”

“That would explain why the boy went to Pa—” she caught herself and corrected quickly, “to Copia earlier.”

“Indeed.” Pepe leaned back, thoughtful. “In any case, it tells me Addeline is an adulteress—likely a woman easily swayed by temptation.”

Though it was a conversation they had had before—a surrogate, a vessel to carry a child for Perpetua—Tempest couldn’t help but feel devastated each time the subject arose. Her body ached with the knowledge that she could not give him a child of his own. They had tried several times over the years to conceive, each attempt ending in heartbreak.

She lowered her gaze. “I have failed you again, my lord.”

Perpetua reached for her chin, tilting her face up. “Failed me? Never. You have given me loyalty, companionship, satiation of my deepest hunger… all that I could ever desire.”

“But not an heir,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

For the longest time, Tempest tried to give him what he wanted—a child born of his own flesh and blood. Seeing how many children his brother had, he longed for the same—an heir who might one day take his place. Unfortunately, their unions never produced such a thing.

His eyes softened, though his tone remained steady. “An heir is flesh. You, my Tempest, are spirit. I would sooner bind myself to your soul than any mortal lineage.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Still, I cannot keep from wishing it were mine to give you.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, his voice dropping low. “Then let us not dwell on what cannot be. If a surrogate must be found, she will be nothing more than a vessel—never my beloved. The child will be ours in every way that matters.”

*

Papa lay sprawled across the wide bed, but it felt smaller than ever. He stared at the ceiling in the dark, listening to the distant hum of the city outside, each sound reminding him he was alone.

His hand drifted absentmindedly to the empty space beside him, as though muscle memory still expected Addeline’s warmth. He remembered when that place belonged to her. He could almost see the curve of her body turned toward him, the scent of her hair lingering on his pillow, the steady rhythm of her breathing lulling him to rest.

She was carrying Swiss’s child, swelling with life that should have been his to protect. And worse than that, she wore Swiss’s ring, bore his name, belonged to him in ways Copia had once thought unshakable.

A sigh escaped him, neither bitter nor mournful, just a quiet acknowledgment of how much had changed. He turned onto his back, eyes tracing the ceiling as he let the ache settle. Addeline had chosen another life, and though part of him still felt the sting, another part accepted it.

His thoughts shifted, softer, to the woman who was his now. His wife. The one who lay with him most nights, who steadied his heart in ways different from Addeline but no less true. And, although she wasn’t beside him tonight, the thought of her steadied him. He was not abandoned entirely, not unloved.

Still, as sleep tugged at him, he couldn’t help but run his fingers across the cool sheets one last time, remembering the ghost of what once was.

Across the hall in a different room, Addy lay curled against Swiss’s bare chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat both comforting and tormenting. The weight of his body should have comforted her, yet her body ached with a need that had gone unanswered for nearly a month. It gnawed at her in the quiet dark.

She yearned for release, for the warmth of her husband spilling inside of her. She let her mind drift back to that afternoon in the hall with Copia. She remembered too vividly the way his nearness had nearly undone her, how the feel of his fingers inside of her had lit her nerves like a fire she could barely contain. She hated that she had wanted it, hated that she had teetered so close to giving in. And worse still she hated that part of her was thinking about it right now.

Pride whispered she had been strong enough to resist him but the door to his room was only a short walk away, and she knew he would not deny her if she appeared there. She clung tighter to Swiss, willing herself to silence the pull of memory and temptation, yet knowing deep down how fragile her resolve truly was.

Yet another thought crossed her mind—she should probably check on Copia. Addy told herself there would be no harm in it. After all, he had just finished his first ritual of the tour. He would be tired, perhaps even unsettled. Surely it was only right that she, as the mother of his children, should see how he was. They could talk about Elizabeth, about how sweetly she had sung at soundcheck, about how she was adjusting to life on the road—small things only a parent would notice.

She repeated the thought as she lay against Swiss, his warm skin grounding her even as her mind wandered elsewhere. Slowly, carefully, she lifted the sheets and slipped free, her gaze flicking toward his face. He slept soundly, blissfully unaware that she was leaving his bed.

It was exactly how she had once left Copia’s bed… only then, it had been to come to Swiss.

Her bare feet touched the cool floor. She hesitated, clutching the fabric in her hands, almost willing herself to lie back down. But the pull was too strong. Addy tiptoed across the room, pausing at the door as though expecting Swiss to stir. When he didn’t, she slipped out into the hall, heart hammering in her chest as she turned her steps toward Copia’s room.

The corridor was hushed, save for the faint hum of machinery and the occasional creak of pipes. Addy drew the door shut behind her with painstaking care, holding her breath until the latch clicked softly into place. Her heart hammered against her ribs, every beat loud enough she feared it might wake Swiss even from a dead sleep.

She stood still for a moment, bare feet on the cold floor, the air cooler here than in the warmth of the bedroom she had just left. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as she told herself again there was no harm in this—she was only checking on him. A mother and a father talking about their children, nothing more.

Step by step, she made her way down the hall. The closer she drew to his room, the harder it was to ignore the pull in her chest. It was foolish, dangerous, but familiar, too—this was the same path she had once taken in reverse, slipping from Copia’s side into Swiss’s arms.

Now she paused at Copia’s door, her hand hovering just shy of the handle. For a heartbeat she considered retreating, crawling back under the covers before anyone noticed. But her palm pressed to the wood instead, warm from her touch, and she knew she would not turn back on her own.

She wasn’t alone though. Perpetua had not slept. A creature of the night, he lingered long after his Tempest had drifted into slumber, his restless mind refusing to quiet. When he caught sight of Addy moving silently through the corridor, his first instinct was to melt deeper into the shadows and simply watch. Curiosity gnawed at him—what would she do, where would she go, when she thought no one saw her?

But he couldn’t resist.

He stepped out from the dim recess, his voice low but sharp enough to startle. “And where, little bird, are you going at such an hour?”

Addy froze, hand hovering over Copia’s door, her pulse leaping to her throat. Slowly, she turned, caught like a thief in the act.

Perpetua closed the distance with easy strides, his expression unreadable but his eyes alive with a gleam of mischief and suspicion. “To your ex-husband’s bedroom?"

“I was only going to talk to him,” she said quietly, her voice thinner than she meant it to be. “About Elizabeth. About the tour. That’s all.”

The corridor was drafty, and Addy shivered as the chill swept over her. Her nipples tightened against the thin fabric of her nightdress, the shape of her breasts rising sharply against the cold.

V saw it instantly. His eyes darkened, dragging over her with deliberate slowness, like a beast circling prey.

She quickly folded her arms across her breasts, clutching herself as though she could hide from him. Her eyes dropped to the floor, too flustered to meet his.

“So modest, all of a sudden,” he murmured, his tone more observation than jest, but edged with amusement at her discomfort. “I wonder,” he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. “if you realize that lies told to yourself cut deeper than lies told to others?”

She averted her eyes, unable to meet his stare, but the air between them only seemed to thicken.

“Well, carry on. Don’t let me stop you from… whatever it is you were doing. Your secrets are safe with me.” His smile sharpened as he straightened. “In fact, my door is always unlocked in the middle of the night. And you see, I enjoy ‘talking’ too.”

Addy’s stomach turned. Disgust prickled through her chest at the insinuation, as if he had just invited her to his bed like she were nothing more than a free-for-all buffet to be sampled at will.

With that, he turned and drifted down the corridor just as quietly as he had slipped through it a minute before.

The woman stood frozen, her pulse hammering, her hand trembling inches from Copia’s door. The weight of Pepe’s words lingered, foul and heavy, until she let her hand fall. Quietly, she backed away and returned to Swiss’s room.

When she slipped beneath the sheets, he hadn’t stirred. She curled against his warmth, but the chill of the hall—and Pepe’s predatory invitation—stayed with her long after.

*

Perpetua slipped out of the hotel, intent on finding a nightclub with fresh, young blood. Hunger gnawed at him. When desperation struck, Tempest usually offered herself to him. It wasn’t as though she came away empty-handed. The sting of his bite was a small price to pay for the overwhelming release that followed. So fierce were the climaxes that came from his venom, it left every other pleasure in her life pale and empty by comparison.

But he did not wish to drain her dry, nor turn her into a meal whenever his insides felt hollow. He had learned early that there were consequences to feeding on the same body too often. Before he understood the weight of his power, before he could control it, several had died at his hand. He had taken too much, driven in too much venom, shocked their bodies beyond endurance. It was a blissful death, yes, but still a death. And he would never allow such an end for his Tempest.

He stepped out into the night, still burning from his encounter with Addeline. The urge to taste her blood flickered through him, but it was far too soon. Their bond was fragile, and she remained wary of him. He did consider doing it anyway, having Tempest erase the memory from her mind but that would do him no good in the future.

At times, when he wanted his prey to forget, he’d have Tempest sing to them, her voice lulling their minds into believing nothing had happened. Most, however, never wished to forget. It struck him as a cruel jest—to grant someone such shattering ecstasy, only to strip it from their memory in the next breath. No, V liked his victims to remember, he liked to linger in their minds. Some had even come back for seconds, begged for his bite even. She would know it soon enough he thought.

He moved through the streets of Lyons, a city he knew well. He had walked these avenues before—sometimes trailing his brother, sometimes for his own pleasure. Tonight they were crowded, alive with bodies still dressed in costumes from the concert earlier. The scent of iron clung to the air, each heartbeat around him a pulse he could almost taste.

He turned down a narrow street and came upon a warehouse-like building. The graffitied exterior displayed layered murals and even a few political stencils half-faded by time. It looked raw, almost abandoned, the kind of place you'd expect to find boarded windows or makeshift skate ramps. But once he pushed the door open, everything changed.

Inside, the space was sleek and modern with neon strips lining the ceiling, a clean bar glowing like a runway and sound equipment polished and professional. The graffiti outside felt like a disguise, a mask to keep out those who didn’t know what was really pulsing within.

He ordered a drink and carried it with him as though it mattered. The liquid did little to ease the gnawing in his stomach, but it gave him a prop, a way to appear ordinary among the crowd. He settled at a shadowed table in the back, where the music throbbed through the walls and the dance floor lights flashed across his face only in brief, fractured intervals.

From there, he watched. He always watched. His eyes scanned the room with practiced patience, measuring the sway of bodies, the tilt of heads, the weight of half-closed eyelids. He’d learned long ago to look for the same kind of people, the ones drowning themselves in drink until yes and no blurred together, or those whose breath caught at the mere sight of him, leaving them pliant before he even spoke. Both were easy to reel in, though for different reasons.

He lingered with his glass in hand, letting the façade hold, letting them believe he was just another man nursing a drink and waiting for the night to unravel.

It didn’t take long. Across the room, a woman paused mid-step, her friends still laughing and pulling each other toward the dance floor. She lingered, eyes caught on him as though some invisible thread tugged her closer. He didn’t move, didn’t beckon—he never needed to.

The hesitation melted into a smile, tentative at first, then bolder as she broke away from her group. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, her drink sloshing lightly in her hand. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the kind of nervous gesture people make when they want to appear composed but are already ensnared.

When she reached his table, she leaned in just slightly, enough for her perfume to mingle with the faint scent of his untouched glass. “Mind if I sit?” she asked, though her body was already angled toward the empty chair.

He glanced at the seat, then back at her, the corner of his mouth curving with confidence. She eased herself into the chair, just like that, believing it was her idea all along.

She crossed her legs under the table and let her knee brush his as though by accident. “You don’t look like you belong back here alone.”

He tilted his glass, letting the light catch on the rim before taking a slow sip. “Maybe I was waiting,” he said smoothly, the words carrying more weight than their simplicity suggested.

Her smile widened, emboldened. “Waiting for what?”

His eyes lingered on hers, steady and unflinching, as though he could peel back her defenses with the silence alone. When he finally spoke, his tone was low, intimate despite the chaos of the club around them. “For you.”

The flush that rose to her cheeks had nothing to do with the alcohol in her system. She laughed softly, almost disbelieving, but she stayed exactly where she was, leaning closer, caught already in the orbit he created without effort.

She toyed with the straw in her glass, swirling the ice as though it gave her something to do with her hands. “You don’t waste time, do you?” she teased, though the nervous edge in her laugh betrayed that she was already intrigued.

He leaned back slightly, giving her space, but his gaze never wavered. “Time has a way of wasting us,” he replied, the words simple but sharpened with suggestion.

“You talk like someone out of a book,” she said finally, shaking her head but smiling. “Or like someone who already knows how the night’s going to end.”

His smile deepened, small but certain. “Maybe I do.”

That hooked her. She shifted in her seat, angling her body fully toward him now, abandoning any pretense of casual interest.

She let her hand rest on the table between them. The gesture wasn’t bold, not yet, but it was an opening. He let the silence stretch, then set his glass down and shifted his hand just enough for his fingers to graze hers.

The contact was feather-light, casual enough to pass as chance, but she drew in a breath all the same. Instead of pulling back, she turned her hand so their fingertips brushed again, lingering this time.

“What’s your name?”

His thumb traced a slow line along the side of her hand, nothing overt, just deliberate enough to make her pulse jump. He smiled faintly. “It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t know me even if I told you.”

Her knee pressed more firmly against his under the table and her hand turned so that her palm now rested against his. It was small, subtle, but it said everything.

She let her fingers thread lightly with his, testing the give in his touch. He didn’t squeeze it right away, just let the connection build until the air between them hummed as strongly as the bass from the speakers.

She leaned closer, close enough for her hair to brush his shoulder, her perfume warm in his senses. “I don’t usually do this,” she murmured, though the words sounded more like an excuse than a protest.

He angled toward her, his breath grazing her ear. “Neither do I.”

That was enough. She tilted her face toward him, and his lips met hers in a kiss that was unhurried but unyielding, a slow claim that left her melting against him. Her free hand found its way to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as though anchoring herself.

The dim corner of the club offered them shadows, but the intensity of the kiss made the world shrink to just the two of them. Almost instinctively, her hand slid down, slipping past the edge of his shirt and lower, until it found its way beneath the waistband of his pants.

Pepe pulled back and the girl’s lips parted as though she meant to chase his. He smiled, brushing his thumb over her knuckles as if sealing some unspoken agreement. “It’s too crowded in here,” he said softly.

She nodded quickly, almost eagerly, and rose with him when he stood. Her friends on the dance floor were lost in the music, unaware as he led her through the crowd and toward the heavy doors, her hand secure in his.

Outside, the night air was cool against her flushed skin, and the street’s graffiti walls framed their escape as he guided her away from the thrum of lights and sound toward darker, quieter corners where no one would interrupt.

“This is much better,” he said smoothly, “Don’t you think?”

She laughed nervously, tugging her jacket tighter. The shadows here seemed to bend around him, as though the streetlights themselves recoiled.

Perpetua stepped closer, close enough that she could smell something faintly metallic beneath his cologne. He braced a hand against the wall behind her, caging her in without force, only presence. His eyes held hers, pupils dilating unnaturally, pulling her into stillness.

“You shouldn’t be afraid,” he murmured, though the words had the opposite effect. “I’m going to make you feel very good.” The promise in his tone was undeniable. Her grip on him only tightened, her body yielding as though the choice had already been made for her.

A single car passed at the end of the street, headlights sweeping by as his hand slid to her jaw, tilting her throat into view. The moment stretched with anticipation sharper than fear, before his lips brushed her skin. Then came the bite.

The pressure of his bite deepened, and with it came a surge that left her clinging to him, her body caught between fear and intrigue. The rhythm of her pulse under his mouth matched the low, steady pull he drew from her, each beat leaving her weaker yet wrapped in waves of pleasure she could not resist.

Her gasp broke into a cry, her body tightening around the moment as if every nerve in her skin sparked at once. The hand she’d pressed against him gripped harder, grounding herself against the rush that overtook her.

He held her steady through it, his arm firm at her back, his other hand sliding along her side in a gesture both possessive and reassuring. When the release finally tore through her, it was as much his as it was hers, her surrender feeding the hunger that had driven him all night.

Slowly, he lifted his mouth from her throat, his lips tinged with the evidence of what he’d taken. She slumped against him, quivering and drawing ragged breaths. He stood calm and composed as though he had known all along exactly how it would end.

A wet spot bloomed between her thighs, slipping lower as body fluid soaked her jeans.

It wasn’t unusual for women to lose control over their muscles when he stripped them of their strength but it never failed to amuse him.

His grin sharpened as he bent close, “Ah, va bene. Don't worry. I won’t tell.”

When her eyes finally opened, they were glazed and unfocused, but her confusion was laced with the aftershocks of pleasure.

“What… what was that?”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face with surprising gentleness, his thumb lingering at her cheek as if to calm her. “Exactly what you needed,” he said.

Her brows knitted as though she wanted to press further, but her body betrayed her—too weak, too dazed to question. She melted back into him, trusting him even when instinct should have told her otherwise. “I can’t walk.”

He savored the sight, the taste still on his lips, and the power of her surrender warming him almost as much as the blood itself. She had been his from the moment she crossed the room inside the club; now, she was marked in ways she couldn’t yet understand. “Nor would you have if I had fucked you, love.”

He steadied her with one hand at her waist, as if he were the only thing keeping her upright. For a heartbeat, she thought he might kiss her again, seal whatever strange spell he had woven. Instead, he leaned close, his breath warm at her ear.

“You’ll remember me.”

Her lashes fluttered as though she were fighting sleep. “Will I… see you again?” she asked, the words fragile, clinging to the remnants of what he’d made her feel.

He tilted her chin, his gaze locking hers with a quiet intensity. “If I want you to.”

The promise—or the threat—hung heavy in the night air. He let her go then, gently enough that she slid back against the wall without collapsing, her hand reaching out as if to catch him but finding only empty space.

By the time she steadied herself and looked up, he was already gone, swallowed into the veil of the night. For her, the evening had changed with an encounter etched so deeply into her body she would ache for it again without knowing why.

Chapter Text

Tempest stirred at the quiet click of the door. She blinked into the light, her ears sharpening before her eyes found him. V slipped into the room, moving with the slow heaviness of a man who had been up all night.

“Did you eat well last night, my lord?” she asked softly.

“I did,” he replied, pulling her closer. “A very willing young lady allowed me to feed on her.”

Her lips curved, though the shadow in her eyes betrayed her. “I would have fed you, my lord.”

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb across her cheek, “but you already understand the danger of doing that too often.”

Her fingers traced lightly along his chest as she studied him, a sly glimmer in her eyes. “Did she get you off, my lord?” she asked, the question edged with challenge as much as curiosity.

He gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “She did not, unfortunately.”

Her lips curved into a satisfied smile, though she tried to hide it. “Good,” she murmured, leaning in closer. “Then perhaps I still serve a purpose.”

Tempest leaned in, her lips grazing his throat as her teeth teased at his skin. She tasted faint traces of blood where the woman’s fluid splattered onto him. Her fingers tangled in his dark curls, pulling him closer even as her mouth trailed lower.

With deliberate slowness, she began unbuttoning his shirt, pushing the fabric back off his shoulders, baring him to her touch. Her lips followed the path of exposed skin, wandering down the strong line of his chest and abdomen until she sank gracefully to her knees before him.

V regarded her with a detached sort of amusement, as though she were a loyal creature performing exactly as he had trained her. She reached for his belt, her hands steady, working at the large silver buckle shaped like a skull. It clicked apart with a sharp snap, easier than the usual peg and hole, and the sound seemed to echo in the quiet between them.

His fingers threaded firmly through her hair, massaging her scalp as he leaned back with a wry smile. “Do you think this is what the rest of these fools do while on tour?”

Tempest laughed against him, “Oh, I’m sure of it, my darling.”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his hands slid beneath her arms, gripping her with sudden strength. In one swift motion, he hauled her up from the floor and drew her against him, her breath catching in surprise.

For a long moment, he simply studied her face, holding her there, their eyes locked as though he were deciding whether to punish or reward. Then, with a sharp pull, he crushed his mouth against hers. The kiss was merciless, consuming, stripping away any illusion of control she thought she had.

With a sudden display of strength, he tore the dress from her body as though it were nothing more than fragile cloth. The fabric shredded in his hands, and before she could draw breath, he flung her onto the bed. She landed hard on her chest, the sound of the impact muffled by the mattress, but fear never crossed her face.

V stood over her, his chest rising and falling, the torn fragments of her dress still clutched in his fist before they fell away to the floor. Any other woman might have cowered beneath the weight of his strength, but Tempest only arched slightly against the bed, her smile curling wider.

She had seen this side of him before—the feral edge, the unrestrained power that made others shrink back in terror. But she also knew the man beneath it, the way his violence could turn into devotion when it was her body he claimed. She pushed herself up on her elbows, twisting just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder.

“You’ll have to try harder if you mean to frighten me,” she teased, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest.

For a moment, his expression hardened. Then, with deliberate slowness, he climbed onto the bed, his weight sinking into the mattress as he loomed over her. His body pressed over the top of hers, caging her in without ever needing to pin her wrists or force her down.

The air between them grew heavier, charged, every inch of him a reminder of the power he carried. Yet she did not flinch. Instead, she turned her head just enough for her lips to brush his cheek.

“Better,” she whispered, daring him still.

His chest rumbled with something between a growl and a laugh, the sound vibrating through her as he lowered his mouth toward her neck.

He shoved his hand between her thighs, sticking his finger in the folds of her naked center. He followed the line of her folds up between her round ass cheeks, then trailed higher along her back until his hand rested at the top of her spine. She moaned at his touch, and Pepe knew she was beginning to lose her inhibitions.

He let his hand roam to the front of her neck and closed it around her throat, forcing her to arch up off the bed. She tilted her head just enough to catch his mouth with hers. He liked to press close, to breathe hot against her ear when he fucked her.

Just like his brother, he was well endowed, but she had taught him how to use his length to pleasure rather than hurt her — or any woman, for that matter. Though theirs was something of an open relationship, Pepe usually saved penetration just for her. He hadn’t wanted it with anyone else. Not yet.

He teased her first, pressing the head of his cock against her entrance. A dark laugh slipped from him — the kind of sound one might hear at midnight under a full moon. She tried to hold a smile, but her body betrayed her; she knew exactly what came next. She loved this part.

“Are you ready for it?”

She managed to breathe out a soft, trembling, “I’m ready.”

The sound tempest made when he pushed into her was unlike a normal moan and more of a song.

His hand slid up her side, gripping her breast as he eased deeper. He began to move, slow and steady, dragging himself almost all the way out before sliding back in just as carefully. Each stroke made her whimper into the pillow. His chest pressed harder against her back, his breath steady at her ear.

“You feel every bit of me like this, don’t you?” he murmured, voice low and rough. His hips rolled in a measured rhythm, never too fast, never too deep, keeping her pinned under his control.

She moaned softly, arching as much as the weight of him allowed. The sheets twisted in her fists, her body trembling with every slow thrust. “Yes… I feel it,” she managed, her words breaking with a gasp.

He smiled against her skin, satisfied, his pace unhurried—every movement dragging her closer. His thrusts steady, each one slow enough to make her feel the stretch, the drag, the heat of him inside her. He wanted her to take it all, to know exactly how he was moving her body.

Her moans rose an octave, though muffled against the sheets, her hips pressing back to meet him even when his weight kept her pinned. She tried to move faster, but he held her in place with a hand firm on her hip, forcing her to take him at his pace.

“Easy,” he whispered, voice thick, his lips brushing her ear. “I want to feel you come slow for me.”

The words alone sent a tremor through her. Her body tightened around him, her breath coming in sharp, broken gasps as the tension coiled tighter and tighter.

Her orgasm unfurled inside her, heat searing through her core until it felt like her whole body was burning up. Her nails clawed into the mattress as she cried out beneath him, her frame shaking under the weight of his control. Every pulse of release was stretched out by his steady rhythm, leaving her breathless, undone.

“Oh God, I’m on fire—I’m burning—what’s happening?” Her voice cracked, half pleasure, half panic.

He stilled immediately, gathering her against him, his lips brushing her ear. “Sshh,” he whispered, blowing cool air across her damp skin. “You are fine, my love. It is only me. Only what I do to you.”

But she shook beneath him, her body still quivering with aftershocks, confusion written in every shudder. It had never felt like this before—so hot, so consuming, almost too much to bear.

Her chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath, panic flickering in her wide eyes. “It burned… it’s never been like that before.”

He pulled her tighter against him, one hand smoothing down her back, the other cupping the side of her face to keep her turned toward him. His lips brushed her temple, soft where moments ago they had been rough.

“It was only the heat of your release, Stellina. You gave yourself to me so completely, your body must have felt it stronger than ever before.”

Her trembling began to ease, her breathing slowing as he whispered to her again and again. Each word settled her further, her body melting into his hold until the fear was gone, leaving only exhaustion and the afterglow of his control.

Now calmer, she managed to find her voice. “I don’t think it was the way I feel for you. I believe it was your… your…” Her words faltered, her lips trembling around the thought she couldn’t quite name.

His eyes gleamed as he leaned in closer, “My seed?” he supplied, savoring the way she shivered at the word.

He tilted her chin up with a finger, studying her face with a flicker of amusement. “You think I’ve developed some type of molten seed?”

“I… I don’t know—” she stammered.

He laughed then, low and wicked, his lips grazing her temple as though in comfort. “Well, that might make the task more difficult now, won’t it? Perhaps, I can test it on someone else. Copia’s wife would be a nice test subject.”

“You like her, don’t you?” Tempest murmured as she fell back onto the bed, golden hair spilling across the sheets.

Pepe dropped beside her with a heavy breath, his eyes still dark with the hunger she’d stoked.

“She does turn me on in ways other strangers have not been able to. I think it’s her nature. She is docile, and much like I was when you first found me… inexperienced. She doesn’t like it rough. When I was feeding from her, I could see that she is self-conscious about not being able to surrender to Copia’s full dominance. Something I suspect Addeline did well considering the number of children they share. You don’t conceive that many times by fearing intercourse.”

“Perhaps Copia did not give her a choice,” Tempest said lazily, her eyes half-lidded. “She was his chosen prime mover. Maybe he told her it was her duty — that she had no say in the matter.”

Pepe chuckled low, shaking his head. “Oh, I don’t think so… I caught our little prime mover trying to sneak into his bedroom last night.”

“Oh? And what for?” her lips curved into a sly smile.

“I don’t believe it was to tell bedtime stories,” he said, voice rich with amusement. “I could have found out for sure, but I could not help myself. I had to interfere… to tease the girl.”

“My lord, you must learn how to control that,” she laughed, eyes glittering.

“And how did you know I liked Annaliese?” he shot back, half-defensive, half-teasing.

“Well…,” her smirk widened, “you did come home in a different pair of pants.”

He barked out a laugh, rolling onto his side to tug her close. “Ah, Stellina, you notice everything. Remind me never to try and keep secrets from you.”

Tempest pressed a kiss to his jaw, still smiling. “Good. I’d find them out anyway… especially if they left a stain.”

*

In another room, Swiss woke with a long stretch as sunlight spilled into the hotel room. Muttering, he rose to tug the curtains closed, then slipped back beneath the covers. The shift

stirred Addeline, who had barely slept at all—her mind still caught on the strange encounter she’d had with V the night before.

Swiss slid an arm around her belly, drawing her close. She smiled at the familiar touch, a reminder of how he used to hold her the same way when she carried Meliora—back in the days when being with him had been forbidden.

He buried his nose in her hair and breathed her in. “Good morning, babe.”

She turned to face him, her growing belly pressing gently between them. “Good morning,” she whispered back. His morning arousal was unmistakable, pressing firmly between the woman’s thighs. And though the temptation to reach for it tugged at her, she knew he would only stop her.

She pressed her forehead to Swiss’s chest. That first time came back to her in fragments, the way his hand shook when he asked if he could touch her, the sound of his zipper coming undone, the breathless moment when she realized there was no turning back.

She remembered how different it had felt from Copia, less command and more reverence, as if every sigh and every shiver from her lips was something he had been waiting his whole life to hear. Even now, the memory of how he made her lose herself sent a pang through her.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice low against her hair.

Addy hesitated, the memory still hot in her mind. “Our first time,” she admitted softly, her fingers curling against his chest.

Swiss stilled, then let out a quiet breath, pulling her closer. “I think about it too,” he murmured, as though the memory burned him just as sharply.

She looked up just enough to meet his eyes, and the memory between them pulsed like a live wire.

For a moment he looked ready to give in, his eyes dark and restless, though some last thread of control still held him back. Addeline figured she would push him a bit further. Her hand slid up his chest, grazing the wiry hairs there. She kissed at his jaw line, soft and slow.

He froze for half a second, his whole body rigid against hers. Then the dam broke. With a low, guttural sound, he crushed her closer, the kiss deepening until the line between memory and present was gone.

His hands seized her, rough and frantic, dragging her hard against him like a man starved. She gasped into his mouth and he answered with a bruising grip, fingers digging into her ass, kneading with desperate force.

“Addy…” he groaned, his voice frayed, the words slipping out between kisses. “You know what the doctor said.”

Her hand stilled against him, and her eyes lowered. The faintest smile ghosted across her lips, but it was threaded with disappointment. “I know,” she murmured, withdrawing slightly, though the ache in her voice betrayed how much she longed for him.

She looked at him, breathless. “Can you just get me off? Please? You don’t have to put it in me.”

“I…” His jaw clenched, torn between reason and the ache in his chest. Every nerve screamed yes, but concern pressed the word back down his throat. His hand hovered at her thigh, trembling with want he could barely leash.

But her eyes begged him, broke him. With a curse under his breath, he gave in.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of her dress, skimming over the thin fabric between them. She gasped, her hips jerking up to meet his touch. He pressed harder, circling slowly, deliberately, even as his hand shook with the force of his own need.

“Goddamn it, Addy…” he muttered, his breath hot against her ear. His thumb dragged over her clit, rough and steady, and her desperate cry tore through the air, spurring him to move faster. He kissed her hard, swallowing her sounds as though they might undo him too.

Her hands clawed at his shoulders, clutching like she might fall apart without him. Each stroke built sharper, her body trembling, thighs quaking around his hand as he drove her higher. She broke from the kiss with a ragged sob. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

“I’ve got you,” he rasped, teeth gritted against his own unraveling. His fingers worked faster, sliding inside her now, curling just right while his thumb kept its relentless rhythm although he was careful not to drive too deep.

Her cry cracked into a scream as it hit her, every muscle tightening before breaking loose. She convulsed against him, the climax ripping through her in fierce, shattering waves. He held her through it, grinding his palm into her as she bucked against his hand, riding out every last tremor until she sagged, boneless, against his chest.

Her breath came ragged, hot against his neck, her body still twitching with aftershocks. He pressed his mouth to her temple, his hand easing only when she whimpered at the sensitivity.

“There,” he whispered, with a hoarse and unsteady voice, his own need still raw and aching inside him. He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Don’t ask me to do that again for a while. And if you feel any cramping or have any bleeding, you need to tell me. Don’t try to be brave.”

The words barely registered before her body gave out. Addy’s head lolled against his shoulder. Her thighs still trembled, and she was too spent even to hold herself upright.

“Christ…” he muttered, catching her as she slumped sideways. He pulled her fully into his arms, steadying her like she was made of glass.

“Satisfied?”

Her lashes fluttered, and she managed to make the faintest nod. He pressed his lips to her hair, holding her against him, listening to the uneven stutter of her breath until it began to steady in his arms.

Swiss pushed himself up with a grunt, tugging on a pair of pants without bothering to glance back. The mattress dipped as his weight left it, and Addy recoiled instinctively into the nest of blankets, drawing them tight around her still-shaking body.

“Guess we should think about breakfast,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair as he glanced toward the half-open curtains. “Maybe see if the kitchen’s got anything decent—eggs, toast, that kind of thing. Me and Aurora had the best omelets the last time we stayed here.

The name slipped out as casually as breathing, but it hit Addy like a slap. Her stomach knotted, and her fingers tightened on the sheets. She didn’t lift her head; she only stared at the ceiling, heart pounding harder than it had moments ago for an entirely different reason.

Swiss, oblivious, kept fiddling with his belt.

“I’m certain I would have remembered that…” she said, her eyes narrowing as she propped herself against the pillows. Her knuckles whitened around the blanket she held to her chest. “Exactly where was I?”

The casual talk of breakfast evaporated. Swiss turned slowly, his expression a mix of guilt and defiance, lips parting as though an easy answer might come—but nothing did.

She waited for an answer, eyes locked on him like a blade pressing for blood.

“You… had gone home. Remember?” He finally said, forcing a shrug that looked heavier than it should. “I begged you to stay, ya know.”

Addy’s jaw tightened. “I had just found out my husband had cheated on me.”

Swiss gave a dry, humorless laugh as he reached for a shirt. “You were cheating on him.” He yanked the fabric down over his head, the words muffled but cutting all the same.

Addy remained expressionless, “Did you fuck her after I left?”

The smile that had lingered on his lips drained away, leaving something harder in its place. He sat down on the edge of the bed, back turned slightly, pulling on his socks with deliberate slowness.

The silence stretched until it threatened to break her. “Swiss, I asked if you—”

“—Yea.” At last he spoke, his voice quieter and stripped of bravado. “I did.”

Addy didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. She only sank deeper into the pillows, her fingers tightening around the blanket until her knuckles blanched. Her face remained perfectly still, the kind of stillness that made the room colder.

Swiss glanced over his shoulder, waiting for the storm, for the sharp tongue or the tears she would normally give him in true Addy fashion. But she gave him nothing.

That emptiness unsettled him more than rage ever could. He pulled his boots toward him, fumbling with the laces, the silence wrapping tighter around his chest with every second she stayed quiet.

When he finally risked another look, her gaze was fixed on the wall, eyes glassy but unyielding. It was as if he’d vanished, as if he was no longer worth the effort of acknowledgment.

“Addy… you left me in a very vulnerable position when you left. I was—I was fucked up. You had just told me you might be carrying my child again and then the whole fight with Copia happened. You were inconsolable, and I tried—I tried so hard to be there for you and you wouldn’t let me. You ran from me.”

His words hung in the air, half-plea, half-accusation. He rubbed a hand down his face, shoulders slumping as if the weight of it all was too much to carry.

Addy didn’t move, didn’t look at him. Her breathing was steady, but her silence was absolute, like a wall he couldn’t scale.

Swiss’s throat worked around the next words, but they came out anyway, hoarse and raw. “And when you ran… I fell into her. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”

Her grip on the blanket eased, and for the first time she managed to admit it to his face—she was sorry for that day. Her voice was quiet but clear.

“It’s not your fault. I’m… I’m glad she was there for you.”

“Adds.” Swiss rushed to her side and cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. She wasn’t yelling, wasn’t crying, but he could see the way the admission had carved into her.

“Guess what?” he whispered.

“What?” she asked, her voice small but steady.

“We’re married now.”

Her lips curved into a smile. “Yeah…”

He swept her into a bear hug, swaying her against his chest. “And we’re having another baby.”

This time her smile widened, her whole face softening with it, “Yes.”

He pressed his forehead to hers, his voice breaking with the force of it. “And I love you, Addeline.”

Her eyes closed as she leaned into him, a quiet breath slipping from her lips. “I love you too.”

*

Swiss had already gone down to breakfast, leaving Addy to take a quick shower. The steam was still clinging to her skin when she stepped into the hallway, smoothing her dress into place.

She didn’t even have time to breathe before Elizabeth barreled out of nowhere, colliding into her with enough force to nearly knock her over. Addy caught the girl by the shoulders, steadying them both.

“Elizabeth!” Copia’s voice chased after his daughter, harried and apologetic. He arrived just as Addy let out a laugh.

“Sorry, about that,” he murmured, half-embarrassed.

“You don’t have to apologize for our daughter,” Addy said softly. “She’s a free spirit.”

Copia nodded, but instead of stepping back, he lingered—close, too close. His body caged hers against the wall, one hand braced above her shoulder. For a heartbeat, his eyes dropped to her lips. His other hand slid down, finding her waist, palms instinctively framing her baby bump, sandwiching the curve between them. Addy inhaled sharply at the touch, her pulse quickening at how natural it felt.

She cut through the charge with a quiet question. “Where’s Meliora?”

His thumb brushed unconsciously at her side. “Swiss came by to get him,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.

Addy steadied herself, then offered gently, “We can watch the children tonight.”

A faint smile tugged at Copia’s mouth. “It’s fine. Truly—I don’t mind,” he replied, though his hands lingered a second longer before falling away.

The moment hung in the narrow corridor, fragile and unfinished, before Addy slipped past him toward breakfast, leaving Copia to watch her go.

Tempest strolled up behind the man and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Ah, good morning, Haze,” Copia greeted, offering a small smile.

“Good morning, Papa,” she returned.

They walked together down the dim corridor, silence pressing close around them. Copia cast her a sidelong glance, curiosity gnawing at him.

“How is my brother this morning?” he asked, still tasting the strangeness of the word brother.

“He is well enough,” Tempest replied, her tone smooth, unreadable.

“Then why is he not with you? Will he not be joining us for breakfast?”

“But he does not like to eat in front of others,” she said simply. “He prefers to dine alone.”

Copia blinked, unsettled by the thought. “Strange,” he murmured. “Well… perhaps I will learn his ways in time.”

Tempest offered nothing more, her face composed, her footsteps steady beside his.

Chapter Text

Papa Perpetua arrived at soundcheck later than everyone else, his presence filling the room with an ease that grated on Copia. Even Tempest was already there, rehearsing with the others. Copia caught sight of him and let out a quiet scoff as he approached.

“Do you think you are exempt from arriving on time, brother?” Copia asked, his voice edged with irritation.

Perpetua flashed a wide, sarcastic smile. “Oh, I see we are calling each other brother now.” He remembered all too well how the Cardinal had bristled at the word not long ago.

Copia’s shoulders stiffened, but he lifted his chin. “I suppose I am… getting used to the idea. Though I remain the superior sibling.”

“I wouldn’t dare think otherwise, Papa,” V interjected with a grin, trying to cut the tension.

Copia ignored him, turning back to Perpetua. “Nevertheless, you are expected to show up on time. Just like everyone else.”

Perpetua shrugged, unfazed. “I was thinking, brother, that I might contribute some songs. Perhaps you would consider adding them to the lineup.”

“Addeline and I have already finalized the setlist—” Copia began.

“Just look at them,” Perpetua pressed, holding out a folder. “I think you’ll find them more than adequate.”

Copia’s patience snapped. “And how, pray tell, do you expect these musicians to learn new music at this stage?”

The room quieted, all eyes flicking between the two men as the tension thickened like storm clouds.

“I’ve already handed out the sheet music,” Perpetua said, his tone smooth, assured. “They’ve had time to practice outside of soundchecks.”

Papa Emeritus let his expression remain perfectly neutral, though beneath the mask his anger roiled. The words struck deeper than he wanted to admit. His ghouls and ghoulettes—his—had accepted this, had rehearsed without his knowledge. It felt like betrayal, a quiet conspiracy that had unfolded behind his back.

His eyes swept across the room, lingering on each face just long enough to make them shift uneasily in their seats, their instruments suddenly so very interesting. None of them dared look back at him.

“Fine,” Papa said at last, his voice flat. “We’ll do the two songs, but—”

“Great!” V cut in before he could finish. “One as the opener, and the next will follow.”

“I didn’t say that—” Papa snapped, but it was too late. V was already clapping his hands, ushering the ghouls and ghoulettes to their places, barking instructions as if he were the one in charge. Instruments stirred, voices rose, and the rehearsal shifted without Papa’s word.

“Swiss,” Papa called, his tone sharper than the music starting up.

The multi-ghoul glanced up from his platform, hesitated, then hopped down. He shuffled across the stage to where Papa stood, his shoulders tight. “Yea?”

“Swiss, did you know of this?” Papa asked, eyes narrowing.

Swiss winced, scratching the back of his neck. “I… yeah. I knew. But I thought you approved it.”

Papa shook his head slowly, disbelief simmering under his skin. “Did Addeline know?”

“I mean… she’s probably heard me play the songs. But I don’t think she thought anything of it. Addy’s in her own world right now.”

Papa’s jaw clenched. He lowered his voice, the words meant for Swiss alone. “Can you believe this guy? Fucking V… trying to steal my spotlight, little by little, right in front of me.”

Swiss swallowed, shifting uncomfortably under Papa’s stare. “They’re good songs, man,” he said carefully, his tone somewhere between placating and earnest. “Give them a chance before knocking them. It could be good for the band, ya know?”

Papa’s eyes narrowed. The words stung more than Swiss probably realized. Good for the band? As though he wasn’t already what was best for them. His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, but it was thin and humorless.

“Good for the band,” he echoed softly, testing the phrase on his tongue as though it were bitter. His gaze skimmed back toward the stage where V was already rehearsing with the others, acting as if he had every right. “And what about good for me, Swiss?”

The multi-ghoul shifted again, rubbing the back of his neck. “C’mon, Papa… it doesn’t have to be a competition.”

But Papa wasn’t convinced. His silence hung heavy, darker than any outburst, and Swiss knew he had said too much.

He lingered a bit longer before giving Papa’s shoulder a firm pat, the kind meant to reassure without words, before turning back toward the stage. He slipped back into place among the others, picking up his instrument as though nothing had happened.

Papa watched him go, the weight of that casual touch lingering longer than it should have. It was meant as comfort, perhaps even loyalty—but to him it felt like dismissal, a quiet reminder that his trusted ghouls and ghoulettes were already moving on with the rest, falling in step with Perpetua’s lead.

The music swelled as practice resumed, filling the room with the sound of songs he had not chosen. Papa stood apart, the still point in the chaos, his hands tightening behind his back as his fury curled inward. They played for him still—but in this moment, it did not feel like they were playing his music.

His concentration snapped when he heard Elizabeth’s high voice ring out across the room.

“Daddy, Daddy! Mummy, Meli, and I are going to see another ritual!”

He blinked, confused, until Addeline appeared, waddling carefully behind Elizabeth with Meliora’s small hand tucked in hers. She came to stand before him, steadying herself with both hands on Elizabeth’s shoulders.

“What is this she speaks of?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “Will you not even stay to watch me perform?”

Addeline’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Oh, I’ve seen you perform plenty. And besides,” she added lightly, “I don’t care to see Pepe open anyway.”

His brows shot up. “Open? Who said he will be opening?”

A pause. Addeline’s gaze wavered, and she stammered, “Uh… nobody. No one.”

The denial came too quickly, too unconvincingly. His stomach turned, suspicion already gnawing at him.

Papa’s eyes narrowed. “What ritual are you taking my children to, anyway?”

Addeline hesitated only a moment before answering, “Uh…Sleep Token.”

His expression hardened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“They are the best, Daddy!” Elizabeth piped up eagerly, bouncing on her toes.

He looked down at her, his anger warring with disbelief, then turned his gaze back to his ex-wife, “And does your husband know about this?”

Her mouth opened, but no words came. Meliora clung to her hand, wide-eyed, and Elizabeth looked between her parents, clearly oblivious to the deeper weight of the question.

Just then, Swiss appeared behind Addeline, his presence looming like a shadow. “Do I know what?” he asked, his eyes flicking between Copia and his wife. His tone sharpened. “Do I know what, Addy?”

Addeline turned to him, but not before shooting Copia a scalding glare for forcing her hand. Her voice came steady, though her fingers tightened protectively around Meliora’s. “I’m taking the kids to see the concert right across the street.”

Swiss’s brow furrowed. “Concert?”

“Yes,” she said, looking him square in the eye. “Elizabeth loves Vessel. And… since I’m the former wife of Papa Emeritus, their stage manager said we could meet the band.”

Elizabeth bounced beside her, grinning wide, clearly delighted by the idea, while Copia stood a step back, his jaw tight, watching the storm he had stirred unfold.

“That’s fine,” Swiss said slowly, though skepticism lingered in his tone. “But where are your seats? You don’t think you’re standing in the pit, do you?”

“No, babe,” Addeline replied quickly. “We have front row seats right behind the pit. I’ll sit the whole time, I promise.”

Satisfied, Swiss leaned down and kissed her.

Copia looked away. The sight of Addeline’s lips on another man still gnawed at him, a wound that time hadn’t closed. Once, when they were still married, he had walked in on the two of them together—Addeline’s body tangled with Swiss’s, her passion spilling out in ways Copia could never erase from his memory. Now, even the smallest display of affection between them dragged that memory back, sharp and vivid, stoking a jealousy he could never quite swallow.

Addy started to walk off with the kids, but Swiss reached out and caught her arm. His voice dropped, firm but laced with worry. “Take a cell phone with you. And if anything happens, get Elizabeth to find the paramedics.”

She softened, smiling as she caught his wrist in return, giving it a gentle, affectionate squeeze. “Alright, alright,” she teased, humoring his concern.

But as she turned, her eyes flicked back to Copia. She gave him a smug grin of satisfaction, her lips curling in playful triumph as though she had just claimed some invisible victory over him.

Copia’s jaw tightened, the gesture slicing deeper than words. To her, it was nothing. To him, it was another reminder that she was no longer his, that she belonged to another man’s embrace. It was all made worse by his brother’s shit-eating grin, paired with a mocking thumbs-up as he warmed up his voice, every note ringing like a challenge meant for Copia alone.

He seethed, praying his brother would trip over his own arrogance, that he’d fall flat on his smug face before the very crowd Copia had bled to win over. Every cheer, every ovation Copia had earned came through years of sweat and patience, clawing his way into the hearts of the masses. And now this pretender thought he could waltz in and claim it? V would learn soon enough. Let the fool humiliate himself, he thought. Let him choke on the silence when the crowd refused him.

*

It was showtime, and despite Copia’s protests, Perpetua was set to open.

The lights dimmed as the choir backing tracks cut through the thunder of cheers, solemn and haunting: “Pieces of what could have been… pieces of a shattered dream…”

Backstage, Perpetua stood just behind the curtain, gripping the microphone in his gloved hand until his knuckles whitened beneath the leather. His eyes were closed, his breath steady but deep, like a predator waiting for the precise moment to strike. Each note from the choir washed over him, sharpening his focus. He had dreamed of this moment for years, rehearsed it in silence, lived for the promise of stepping into the light.

The voices swelled toward their final refrain: “Your love will be born again…”

The first notes of Peacefield rumbled through the speakers—low, heavy and haunting. The music swelled like a storm breaking loose, drums pounding with ritualistic precision, guitars grinding in layered waves that shook the bones of everyone in the arena.

Perpetua’s chest rose with the line as though the words were drawn from his very blood. The instant the final note fell, his eyes snapped open. His grip tightened on the mic as his shoulders squared, and he stepped into the silence that followed.

His voice broke the air, raw and alive. It was richer, deeper and more commanding than any recording could capture: “The dawn of prosperity, a faded scar, and in the calamity, a slaughtered tsar.”

His face blazed onto the massive screens on either side of the stadium. He was not the Papa the people expected, but the crowd was no less enthralled: “This is what dreams are made of. This is what they’re afraid of…”

The arena erupted. The force of thousands of voices rose like a tidal wave, yet none of it drowned him out. This was no mere song. This was resurrection, and he was the one chosen to deliver it.

When the first chorus crashed into silence, he knew it was time, “A black moon over the Peacefield. Oh, child stay close to me…”

The curtain dropped.

The stage exploded in white light, searing through the smoke, and there he stood—an icon conjured from fire and shadow. The audience answered with deafening screams.

And then his voice came again. “Every new generation hails a grand usurpation…” Low and resonant at first, almost intimate, then soaring with sudden, unrelenting power. His words rolled over the masses like an incantation, and every eye fixed on him as if they had been waiting their whole lives to hear him speak.

The song surged toward its climax, the instruments rising in a frenzy of sound that rattled the rafters. Perpetua’s voice soared above it all, “We are legion, join us. One day fate will find a way through the marches of death and right back to the bearer of light.”

The choir swelled again in the backing tracks, ghostly and grand, echoing his words like the voice of judgment itself.

Perpetua’s voice crashed over the final line, powerful enough to feel like it split the air. Then, suddenly, the music cut.

Silence—just for a second.

The arena erupted. Thunderous applause, screams, fists thrown skyward. The stadium shook with the sound of thousands chanting his name, though he hadn’t needed to speak it once. He stood center stage, chest heaving, bathed in blinding white light and drifting smoke, his silhouette larger than life on the screens.

For him, it was more than the end of a song. It was vindication. Years of waiting, of silence, of living in the shadows—obliterated in a single eruption of sound and light. He had arrived.

He didn’t bow. He didn’t thank them. He simply stood there in the wash of light, letting the sound of their devotion crash against him like waves against a cliff. His chest rose and fell, his gloved hand still tight around the microphone, but his expression was calm—almost smug. This was not surprise. This was destiny fulfilled.

From the wings, Copia watched, his mouth a hard line. His crew stood beside him, their faces pale with awe, caught up in the power of it. Even they couldn’t hide their astonishment at how swiftly the crowd bent to Perpetua’s will.

But Copia saw more than their excitement. He saw the threat. The way the audience clung to every word, the way his brother commanded them with ease—it twisted like a knife in his gut. The cheers weren’t just for a song. They were for a rival who had just announced himself to the world.

And the worst part was… they loved him.

Backstage, the ghouls and ghoulettes buzzed like live wires. Sodo was the first to break, his eyes wide, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “That was… holy shit. Did you hear them? They went insane for him.”

Cirrus clapped her hands together, breathless. “They knew nothing about him before tonight, and still—he had them in the palm of his hand.”

Even Mountain, usually the quiet one, nodded slowly, still processing. “That voice… I didn’t expect that.”

Copia stood among them, silent, his expression taut as he adjusted his coat. Their awe only deepened the sour taste in his mouth. He could feel their excitement tilting, the way their loyalty wavered without meaning to. In an exaggerated huff, he spit, “Hmph, he’s not that great! He’s an imposter. He just ripped off all my moves out there. And he’s wearing my jacket.”

Swiss leaned casually against a flight case, arms folded, his smirk infuriatingly calm. “Guess we’ve got two Papas now,” he quipped, though his tone carried no humor. His eyes flicked to Copia, watching, measuring.

The backstage air was heavy, charged not with celebration, but with the unspoken realization that everything had just changed.

*

Addeline had just returned from the venue across the street, the echoes of the concert still ringing in her ears. It was late, and the hotel hallways were hushed. Most of the band had not yet come back to their rooms. She slipped into the suite she shared with Swiss, ushering the children inside after her.

“Go on, off to your rooms,” she said gently, brushing a hand over Elizabeth’s hair as she passed. “It’s been a long night.”

Elizabeth started toward her room but stopped short, her eyes widening. “Mummy!” she cried, turning back in distress. “I left my doll in Daddy’s room!”

Addeline’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, Eliza…” She pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment, exhaustion weighing heavy on her. Swiss wasn’t back yet—something she would have words with him about later—but for now, the children came first.

“Alright,” she said firmly, smoothing her daughter’s cheek. “You go get ready for bed. I’ll fetch it for you.”

Elizabeth nodded reluctantly, dragging her feet toward her room.

Addy waited until Elizabeth and Meliora disappeared into their room before stepping back into the quiet hallway. The muffled hum of the city outside pressed faintly through the windows, but the hotel itself was still. She pulled her dress down over her knees before starting down the corridor.

Her steps echoed softly on the carpet as she made her way toward Copia’s room. The number on the door came into view, familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten. She paused just long enough to exhale, steadying herself, before lifting her hand.

She rapped lightly on the door once, then again, waiting. Silence. No shuffle of movement inside, no voice calling back.

She pressed her lips together, hesitating only a moment before testing the handle. It gave easily beneath her hand.

The door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit room. It smelled faintly of the leather polish he always used. She stepped inside, leaving the door slightly open behind her.

Her eyes scanned the room for the abandoned doll. She felt uneasy as she searched over the unmade bed. This wasn’t her territory anymore, it was Papa’s and she was no longer his. She felt almost like an intruder as she bent to look beneath the mattress.

She hadn’t expected anyone to come in but the door opened without warning. Copia slipped inside silently, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of her moving around his bed. For a moment he simply watched, hunger flashing in his gaze, before desire urged him forward. He crossed the room in quick strides, closing the distance before she could even notice he was there.

He grabbed her from behind, startling her so badly she nearly jumped out of her skin, “Papa!” she gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding. “You scared me!”

“Shh,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear, “it is only me.”

His body pressed against hers and she panicked when his grip didn’t loosen. “What are you doing?”

Copia held her steady, burying his nose in her hair, inhaling her as his hand trailed higher beneath her skirt. “I want you, amore,” he growled, voice thick with need.

“Papa?” she whispered, the word trembling out of her like a plea as she kicked him, the playfulness gone. “Please—stop.”

The moment she squirmed again, he caught both her wrists easily in one hand, his strength pinning her in place. With a sly grin, he tugged her skirt higher, exposing her thighs to the cool air.

With his free hand he worked at his belt, the sound of metal catching sharp in her ears as she listened helplessly.

While her mind scrambled for an escape, Papa was already shedding his pants and boxers, forcing her legs apart as he pressed her down against the bed.

She thrashed, “Papa, I can’t!”

“You run from me,” he murmured, driving her wrists harder into her spine, “but I know you want me to catch you.”

His rigid length pressed against the curve of her bare ass, sending a shudder racing through her. She had to stop him. This wasn’t just about morality anymore. For her, for the child inside her, it was a matter of life and death.

Perpetua was on his nightly walk, bound for the city in search of blood, when the sound of a woman’s cry reached him. It was faint but urgent enough to draw his attention. He slowed, slipping into the shadows, careful not to reveal himself as he traced the voice to its source—a door left slightly ajar.

The sight that greeted him was startling. Addeline was bent over the bed, her posture strained and exposed, while his brother loomed above her, his frame pressed in close as though ready to force himself upon her. To an outsider, the scene left little room for innocent interpretation.

A slow smile curved across Perpetua’s lips, his dark amusement sharpening as he observed. “I didn’t know my brother had it in him,” he thought, watching in silence, hunger momentarily forgotten as curiosity took hold.

Addy flailed beneath him, twisting against his grip, voice breaking as she cried, “Papa, stop!”

His jaw tightened, breath hot against her ear as he snapped in a harsh whisper, “Addeline—calm yourself. If you do not want me to take you then you only need say so. But say nothing…” He lingered above her, the weight of his presence pressing harder than his hands, “Say nothing, and I will fuck you like I own you.”

V shook his head. Pathetic. My brother calls himself Papa, but he has no control, no restraint.

She gulped as the blunt tip of his cock found her entrance, hovering on the edge of breaking past her resistance. If she didn’t speak now, if she didn’t stop him before it began, she knew she would lose her chance. “No—Papa, I can’t!” she cried.

 “Why can’t you?”

“Because of the baby!” she blurted, words tumbling out in a frantic rush.

He only laughed, low and careless, brushing her cheek with his mouth. “That’s never stopped us before.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the words out in a trembling rush. “If I let you—or him, for that matter—I’ll lose the baby. Dr. Sullivan… she had to sew my cervix shut so I could carry this pregnancy. You’ll break my stitches if you…” Her voice faltered, the rest swallowed before she could bear to say it.

Pepe’s eyes narrowed, watching her with growing fascination. Such fire. Such loyalty. She would protect the seed of another man against my brother himself. How far would she go, I wonder, if it were me pressing her down instead?

Copia released her at once and stepped back. She couldn’t see his face, but his eyes had fallen with that old, familiar sadness. Gathering herself, she rose to her feet and turned to face the father of her other children. He reached for her gently, his palm resting over her belly as though in benediction, like a priest giving the last rites.

“Oh, Addeline,” he murmured, his voice thick with sorrow. “I am so very sorry.”

Addeline’s throat tightened, and for a moment she almost broke under the heaviness of his voice. Tears stung her eyes as she pressed a hand over his, holding him there against her belly. “Then don’t make me sorry too,” she whispered.

Copia’s hand lingered against her belly, heavy with regret, before Addeline gently pulled away. She gathered herself, her breath shaking as she smoothed her hair and turned for the door. Without another word, she opened it and stepped into the dim hallway.

The latch clicked softly as she closed the door behind her, but she froze at once.

V was standing there, not far off, his posture casual but his eyes sharp. He tilted his head, as though weighing whether to speak. The look on his face was unreadable—half-curious, half-knowing—and it made her stomach tighten.

For a beat too long, neither of them moved. Addeline forced herself to meet his gaze, her own expression calm though her heart hammered.

“Pepe,” she said at last, her tone carefully neutral.

He arched a brow, his mouth twitching with the ghost of a smirk. “Quite the scene in there,” he said smoothly, his tone casual but dripping with implication. “The cries, the pleading… sounded like my brother was about to take something that was not his to take.”

Addeline’s chest tightened and heat rose to her face. She forced herself to meet his gaze, refusing to flinch.

V gave a soft, mocking laugh. “Don’t worry, little bird. I won’t tell—unless, of course, I feel like it. Secrets can be… useful.”

He pushed off the wall, brushing past her so close she caught the faint scent of smoke clinging to his clothes. Over his shoulder he added, “You should be more careful where you cry out. You never know who might be listening.”

Addeline’s hands curled into fists at her side. She spun on her heel, her voice sharp and steady despite the tremor in her chest. “And you should be more careful with what you think you hear, V. Twist my words, twist the truth, and you’ll find out I bite harder than you bargain for.”

The grin faltered for just a second before he recovered, turning back with a mock bow. “Ah, there she is. Fire in her throat even when she’s trembling.” His eyes glinted with amusement. “I like that. Maybe I’ll keep your little secret closer… just to see how long before you break.”

Addeline held his gaze, unflinching now. “You’ll get nothing from me,” she hissed.

For a moment they stood locked in the hallway’s dim light, a silent battle of wills. Then V laughed, soft and dark, before sauntering away, leaving her seething in the quiet.

Addeline hurried down the corridor, her pulse still racing from the encounter with V. By the time she reached the door to her suite, her cheeks were warm, her breath shallow. She slipped inside, closing the door quickly behind her.

Swiss was already there, loosening his tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He glanced up the moment he saw her, brow furrowing. “Addy? You look rattled. What’s wrong?”

She froze, her hand still on the door handle, every nerve screaming to spill the truth. But the last thing she wanted was for Swiss to know what V had implied. She knew her husband all too well and he would confront him. If there was a face off, Perpetua would surely confess what he’d seen

So instead, she let her shoulders hunch, her tone sharpening as she turned it on him. “You’re back late. Where were you?”

Swiss blinked, surprised. “Where was I?”

“With Aurora?” she pressed, her voice rising. “Or some other woman you were off talking to while I was here with the kids?”

His jaw dropped in disbelief before he let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That’s ridiculous, Addy.” He stepped closer, reaching for her arm. “You know that’s not me. Don’t start imagining things.”

She looked away, flustered, hiding the real tremor in her chest behind the mask of jealousy.

Addeline pulled her arm back, her voice breaking sharper than she intended. “Well, you can’t fuck me. You have to be getting it from somewhere.”

The words hung heavy between them, harsher than she meant, but she didn’t take them back.

Swiss’s face hardened, his usual easy expression stripped away. He stared at her as though she’d struck him. “You really think I’d do that? To you?” His voice was low, wounded. He stepped in closer, eyes searching hers. “The mother of my kids? Is that what you think of me—that I just need that one thing?”

Her throat tightened, the flare of anger that had shielded her a moment ago faltering under the weight of his words.

Her throat tightened, shame creeping in as quickly as her anger had flared. But before she could speak, Swiss reached for her again—this time firmly, without hesitation—pulling her against his chest.

“Addy,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to her hair. “Don’t ever think that. Don’t ever think you’re not enough for me.” His arms wrapped around her, steady and sure, as if he could squeeze the doubt right out of her.

He tilted her chin up, making her meet his eyes. “I love you. All of you. Not just when we’re in bed, not just for what we can’t have right now. You’re the mother of my kids, the woman I want beside me every damn day. That’s more than enough.”

Her breath shuddered, and the tears she’d been holding back finally spilled as she clutched at him, burying her face in his chest.

“Don’t cry,” Swiss whispered, tightening his hold on her as though he’d never let go. He kissed the top of her head, then her temple, lingering until her trembling softened against him.

His lips found hers next, gentle but certain, sealing his words with the warmth of his mouth. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice steady and low. “Always.”

Wrapped in his arms, Addeline let herself breathe again, her tears quieting as the storm between them finally eased.

Chapter Text

Addeline woke with a heaviness in her body, the kind that made her pull the blankets tighter around her. For a moment she lay still, watching the light creep in through the curtains, trying to hold on to the fragile warmth of Swiss’s arms still lingering from the night before.

She could already hear the children stirring; they never slept long. It was one small blessing of having them bunk with Copia—he was usually the first to rouse. Elizabeth padded into the room and planted herself beside the bed, fixing her mother with a stare so sharp it felt like an interrogation. A moment later, Meliora appeared, dragging his blanket behind him as he climbed up onto the mattress and nestled against his father, the weight of him instantly stirring him awake.

Swiss pulled the boy close, his hand moving in slow, affectionate circles across his back. He cherished moments like this—precious time that once depended on Copia’s permission but now was his by right. Custody belonged to him, and with it the choice of when and how often he could hold his son. “Hey, bud,” he murmured, his voice low with pride. Meliora pressed a kiss to his forehead and grinned, that bright, familiar smile that never failed to undo him.

Elizabeth stood her ground, chin lifted. “Mummy, you didn’t retrieve my doll last night like I bid you to.”

Addy pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry, Eliza. I completely forgot.”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, her tone cutting. “How could you forget when that was the one thing you went to Daddy’s room for?”

Swiss’s attention snapped to Elizabeth’s question, suspicion in his eyes as he turned to Addy, waiting for her reply.

“Well, uh…” Addy stumbled, “Daddy wasn’t in his room last night, so I couldn’t ask him. I looked everywhere for it. I can go now—I’m sure he’s in there.”

Elizabeth stayed silent, her steady stare fixed on her mother as though she could see right through her excuse. Addeline met Swiss’s questioning gaze and rolled her eyes before slipping from the bed. Swiss answered with two firm pats on her rump, a wordless gesture of affection and dismissal, as she set off on her quest to find her daughter’s doll.

She knocked on his door and waited, heart picking up at the sound of heavy footsteps drawing closer. Instinct made her step back just slightly. When the door cracked open, it revealed his face—stripped clean of the paint he’d worn the night before.

“Ah, Addeline, good morning, my sweet. Do come in—I need to speak with you.”

“I’m looking for Eliza’s doll.”

“Doll?” His brow arched. “You mean that dreadful thing that looks like a skin-walker and has no face?”

“Yes,” she laughed softly. “That’s the one.”

Copia moved to retrieve it, still faintly surprised Eliza had managed to fall asleep without it. “Here.” He placed the doll in Addy’s hand with a grimace. “She adores this despicable thing.”

“Our daughter is… unconventional.”

“She fits right in with my family.”

Addy turned, taking a few steps toward the door, but his voice caught her before she could leave. “Addeline.”

She stopped and stood stiffly in the room, her arms folded across her chest as Copia shifted uneasily a few steps away. His voice was low and weary.

“I should not have pressed you, my dear,” he admitted, his eyes downcast. “Last night… I let myself go too far. I am sorry.”

She swallowed hard, the words she wanted to say tangling in her throat. The memory of his body pressing against her still burned hot on her skin. Guilt twisted through her chest at what she had nearly allowed just nights ago when V had caught her. She couldn’t tell him that, though—because if she gave him even the faintest hint that she still burned for him, he might seize it without hesitation.

As she shifted her weight, a sudden warmth slid down her thigh. Her stomach dropped. She looked down and saw the thin line of red trickling past her knee, staining her skin.

Copia’s face drained of color. His eyes widened in horror. “Cazzo…”

She froze as he reached out, his gloved hand trembling before brushing her hips, his fingers stopping just shy of the blood. “You’re bleeding,” he whispered. Then his hands were on her, steadying her, catching her as her knees buckled.

“No, no, no,” he muttered, frantic, pulling her upright against his chest. His earlier sorrow was gone, swept away in terror. “We must call for help—subito! I will not let anything happen—”

Addeline pressed her palm against her belly, her eyes wild with fear, “Papa, the baby—”

Flashbacks rushed into Copia’s head of all the times he found himself in this same situation with the woman. “I know,” he said desperately, clutching her tighter. “I know, Addy. Hold on. Just hold on.”

His arms tightened around her as he headed for the door. He cradled her against his chest as though she were fragile porcelain already cracking in his arms.

“Stay with me Tesoro,” he urged, his breath ragged as he moved swiftly for the door.

 Her head lolled against his shoulder, her hand still pressed protectively to her belly.

The corridor stretched before him, dim and endless. “Swiss!” Copia’s voice rang out, sharp and desperate. “Swiss, where the hell are you?”

Other doors cracked open as ghouls and crew members poked their heads into the hallway, startled by his shouting. But he paid them no mind. His only focus was finding the one man who could not be absent now.

“Swiss!” His voice broke this time, hoarse with urgency. He tightened his grip on Addy, holding her close as if he could shield her from the blood seeping between them. “Your wife—your child—”

A door slammed open ahead of him, and Swiss staggered out, half-dressed, his face flashing from confusion to horror in an instant.

“Addy!” His voice split the air as he lunged forward.

Copia nearly thrust her into his arms and the words came tumbling out in a rush. “She’s bleeding—Dio santo, Swiss, she’s bleeding.”

Swiss caught her, holding her tight against him, his own panic erupting to the surface. “No, no, no, not now,” he muttered, his voice cracking as he pressed his cheek to hers. “Stay with me, Addy. We’re getting you help—right now.”

The two men locked eyes for a fraction of a second, their shared fear raw and unguarded. But then Swiss turned, carrying her toward the stairwell with single-minded focus.

Copia trailed Swiss down the corridor, his breath ragged, Addy’s faint moans tearing through him. Shouts rang out as doors opened, ghouls and crew spilling into the hall, their faces pale with alarm.

Elizabeth and Meliora stepped into the hall just in time to see their mother being carried away. Elizabeth’s eyes dropped to the floor where her doll lay abandoned; she snatched it up quickly, clutching it to her chest before taking Meliora’s hand. The boy trembled beside her, wide-eyed with fear.

Aurora came rushing over and dropped to her knees in front of them. She rested a steadying hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder and another on Meliora’s back. “Hey, you two,” she said gently. “Why don’t we go see what they’ve got for breakfast, hmm?”

Among the confusion, another presence stirred.

Perpetua froze mid-step at the far end of the hallway, nostrils flaring. The copper tang hit him like a jolt of lightning—sharp, intoxicating and undeniable. Blood. Fresh and potent, spilling from a source that carried the scent of life.

His eyes narrowed, his body thrumming with instinct as his gaze fixed on the crumpled form in Swiss’s arms. Addeline.

A slow, hungry smile curved across his lips. Of course. Even in crisis, she bleeds beauty. And my brother… His gaze flicked to Copia, frantic and pale, and then to Swiss, clutching her with desperate ferocity. …my brother has no idea how close he walks to feeding me himself.

Perpetua lingered in the shadows, unseen by most, savoring the scent, his hunger gnawing at him like fire. Every instinct screamed to move closer, to taste.

But the hallway was an eruption of chaos with Swiss rushing Addy toward the stairwell, his brother close on his heel and ghouls scattering after them.

He waited.

Then, just as quickly as it had flared, the commotion ebbed. The corridor emptied, the sound of footsteps and shouts fading.

Silence settled—except for the faint drip of blood trailing along the carpet.

From the far end, Perpetua stepped out of obscurity. His eyes followed the crimson smear, the sharp scent curling into his lungs like smoke. Slowly, he knelt. His finger brushed a still-warm drop from the floor.

He lifted it to his lips.

The taste bloomed across his tongue, metallic and sweet, thick with vitality. His eyes fluttered shut, savoring it. A shiver ran down his spine, hunger gnawing deeper now that it had been teased awake.

When he opened his eyes again, they glinted in bright light. He licked the last trace from his fingertip, his smile thin and cruel.

“Addeline,” he murmured to the empty hall, his voice almost reverent. “Even your suffering is exquisite.”

Then, with the grace of an apparition, he melted back into the gloom.

*

The ride to the hospital was chaos. Addy was pale, clutching the sheet Swiss had thrown around her legs, the blood soaking fast enough to make his stomach drop. He kept one hand on the wheel and the other on her knee, murmuring, “It’s going to be alright, kid. You got me? Everything is going to be fine.”

When they reached the maternity ward, nurses rushed her into triage. Swiss was forced to hover at her side while they took vitals, started an IV, and slid a fetal monitor over her belly. The room was a storm of beeping machines and urgent voices.

“BP stable. Fetal heart rate strong,” one nurse announced, and Swiss almost sagged with relief. But the bleeding hadn’t stopped, and the sight of it had his chest tightening with dread.

The obstetrician arrived quickly, gloved and brisk. “Addeline, I understand you have a cerclage in place?”

She nodded weakly.

“Alright. I’m going to examine your cervix. We need to rule out dilation or stitch disruption. You may feel pressure.”

Swiss held her hand, squeezing tight as the doctor worked. After a tense moment, the doctor’s voice came steady and calm. “The cerclage is intact. Cervix closed. That’s good news.”

Swiss blinked at him. “Then why—why is she bleeding this much?”

The doctor stripped off his gloves. “Likely cervical irritation. With a cerclage, the tissue is very sensitive. Intercourse, penetration, or an orgasm can put pressure on the stitch and cause significant bleeding. It can look dramatic, but the baby is safe and the pregnancy remains viable.” His eyes flicked between them. “Have you two done any of that? Your physician should have told you whether or not it was permitted.”

Addy’s face burned, shame flooding through her. Swiss bowed his head, guilt crashing down heavier than the doctor’s words. He knew exactly what they’d done. He had given her what she begged for, against every warning.

The doctor continued, matter-of-fact. “We’ll admit you for monitoring overnight. IV fluids, pelvic rest, no sexual activity until we reevaluate. If the bleeding slows and the baby stays stable, you can go home tomorrow.”

Addy’s eyes brimmed with tears. “So the baby’s okay?”

“Yes,” the doctor said firmly, softening his tone. “The heartbeat is strong. The bleeding isn’t from the uterus. It’s from the cervix itself, which is fragile right now. But you’ll both need to be careful.”

Swiss’s hand trembled around hers. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers, voice breaking. “I did this to you. I couldn’t say no.”

She shook her head weakly. “I asked you—”

“I should’ve been stronger,” he whispered, eyes wet. “I should’ve protected you. Protected him.”

The nurse adjusted the monitor, the steady thrum of the baby’s heartbeat filling the room, a reassurance Swiss didn’t feel he deserved.

He hovered by Addy’s bedside, his hands trembling as he brushed damp hair from her face. The fetal monitor beeped steadily, that tiny heartbeat a lifeline. He kept whispering apologies, guilt carving his words raw.

From the corner of the room, Copia leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes half-shadowed. He hadn’t spoken much since they arrived, only watched with that inscrutable stillness he carried so well.

When the doctor finally left, silence stretched, broken only by Addy’s uneven breaths and Swiss’s whispered promises. Then Copia exhaled sharply, a sound too sharp to be a sigh and too quiet to be a laugh—but it was close.

Swiss’s head snapped up. “What the hell is so funny?”

He pushed off the wall and left them with that bitter parting gift, the echo of his low laugh trailing behind him.

Copia’s smirk was razor sharp, his eyes glinting as he leaned off the wall. “At you, fratello. Making the same mistake I once did. Thinking your love could outweigh a doctor’s orders. Thinking your touch was worth the risk.” He gave a low, humorless chuckle. In the past, the ghoul used to chastise him for being intimate with Addy when the doctor’s said it was too soon. Now, here he was being scolded for it too. “You see? Even the best of us fall to temptation.”

Swiss flushed, his shame laid bare under the weight of Copia’s words. Copia only shook his head, still amused. “At least the baby is fine. Learn from it, and keep your cock in your pants.”

Addy’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing in disdain. She wanted to lash out, to remind him that only last night he had nearly shoved himself inside of her. He had stopped when she told him of her condition, yes, but the way he now scolded Swiss in front of her made her blood boil. She bit her tongue, unwilling to bring it up in front of her husband.

“I didn’t put…” Swiss began. “It wasn’t my… I used my—”

“Please,” Copia cut in sharply, waving a hand. “Spare me. I don’t care what you two do in the privacy of your chambers. But I am thankful the little one is safe.”

Swiss swallowed hard, then managed a solemn nod. “Thanks for… caring about her. For being here.”

Copia inclined his head and turned on his heel, the soft rasp of his sweatpants the last sound he left behind as he walked out of the room.

Chapter Text

Elizabeth fluffed Addeline’s pillow with care. “Would you like me to fetch you a drink, Mummy?”

“No, Eliza, darling, but thank you so much.”

Swiss stepped into the room just as the girl kept chattering.

“It was probably Vessel, Mummy,” Elizabeth said matter-of-factly. “He must have excited you.”

Swiss barked out a laugh. “Excited, Mommy, huh?”

Addeline only smiled faintly. “Yes, it was quite magical.”

Swiss arched a brow. “Maybe I should’ve gone to this magical concert.”

“I hear your concert was quite magical, Swiss,” Elizabeth teased.

Addeline sighed, catching her husband’s eye. She knew Copia had not been pleased with Perpetua opening for him.

“It was… different,” Swiss admitted.

“Pepe has talent, no doubt. Daddy is very displeased with it.”

Addeline tilted her head. “And how do you know that, Eliza? Did he tell you?”

The young girl only stared at her mother with an odd intensity, as though peering straight through her, like she was laying out tarot cards no one else could see. Then she broke into a high, bright laugh and dashed from the room.

Swiss shook his head, smirking. “Your kids are weird, Addy.”

Addeline laughed softly. “That one is.”

Swiss handed her a cup of coffee. “Don’t worry, I still adore her,” he said, leaning in to brush a kiss against her lips.

Elizabeth’s words echoed in Addy’s mind, though, tugging at her thoughts. “Maybe I should go check on him. He did seem really upset about the way everyone took to Perpetua.”

Without protest, Swiss leaned back and lifted his hands in a suit yourself gesture. He had no intention of being the one to confront Copia about the matter. “Alright, well… if you don’t mind, I’ll take the kids down for some breakfast.”

Addy kissed him once more, savoring the warmth of his lips and the tickle of his mustache against her skin. “I don’t mind. Oh! Will you bring me some bacon? Pleaaaase!”

Swiss chuckled, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Alright, I’ll bring you the greasiest, crispiest bacon they’ve got.”

With a grin still lingering on her face, Addy lifted her coffee and set off down the hall toward Papa’s room.

*

Copia was sitting down at a small table in his room overlooking the city, the morning paper folded neatly in half beside his cup of cooling coffee. He opened it with a sigh, the rustle of the pages louder than the silence that filled the room. His eyes caught the headline first, bold black letters bleeding across the page: Perpetua Steals the Show.

He lingered on the words, though they blurred as if the ink itself mocked him. The article beneath was glowing—praise stacked upon praise, column after column exalting his brilliance. He read on, each sentence pressing heavier against his chest. A knot tightened in his throat, but he swallowed it down, forcing the bitterness into the pit of his stomach where so many other disappointments had already settled.

The coffee had gone cold before he realized his hands were trembling. He set the cup down carefully, as though it might shatter with the same fragility he felt in that moment. There was no mention of him, not even a passing note, and in that absence he felt the sharpest cut.

With a quiet exhale, Copia folded the paper shut. He sat there for a long while, staring at the front page as if hoping the words might change, though knowing they never would.

The phone rang, and he snatched it up just as Addeline stepped through the door. She caught the faint rise and fall of a woman’s voice on the other end, punctuated by Copia’s weary reply. “Yes, he did do well… I’d prefer he not open again, but… alright, alright, if he must. Yes, Mother. Goodbye.”

As he set the receiver down, Addy noticed the tightness in his jaw and the clipped way he exhaled, the irritation still clinging to him like smoke.

“Everything alright?” she asked gently, tilting her head as she studied him.

“Ah, good morning, Addeline. Won’t you join me?” Copia gestured toward the chair.

She sank down with her coffee in hand.

“Will you not join the others for breakfast?” he asked.

“No. Swiss is bringing me something.”

His brow furrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

“I’m so tired of resting,” she muttered. “I’m always being told to rest.”

“Your body is weak, amore. You should be kinder to it.”

She shrugged off his advice and took another sip of coffee.

“You really shouldn’t be drinking caffeine—”

“Goddamn it, I’m so sick and tired of everyone telling me what’s best for me!” She slammed her fist down, coffee sloshing over the rim and splashing across her hand. “Shit!”

The hot liquid clung to her skin before she could wipe it away. “Ouch.” Tears sprang to her eyes from the sting.

Copia shot to his feet, eyes wide as he caught sight of the angry red mark already blooming. He hurried away, returning with a bandage and salve. Without protest, she let him tend to it, his movements surprisingly gentle as he wrapped the gauze around her hand.

“See?” he said softly. “You just need to calm yourself. We are all only trying to help you.”

She scoffed, looking away. “I don’t know about all of you…”

His brows lifted. “Ah?”

“Your brother’s a pain in the ass.”

Copia’s face split into a grin, his eyes bright with relief. “Yes! Finally, someone agrees. A pompous ass, eh? A thorn in my side every waking moment.”

Her lips quirked despite herself, and for a fleeting second the tension between them eased.

“And now Mother is delighted at his success and I must share the spotlight,” Copia went on, voice threaded with sour amusement. “She even floated the idea of letting him do an entire show on his own.”

Addy glanced at the paper’s headline on the table. “The crowd did take to him—effortlessly, didn’t they?” she said.

“It’s maddening. I’ve worked my whole life for this. I am good at it; people love me, my music, my songs.” He studied her, a small, rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And what does this young man have? A nice smile, perhaps. Maybe he’s a touch thinner than I am—”

Addy reached up and cupped his cheek, her smile tender though the thought nagged at her—how easily the audience had cheered for Perpetua, how natural his presence on stage seemed. She pushed it aside and spoke with conviction, hoping he wouldn’t hear the doubt behind it. “You’re very handsome, Papa. Don’t fret. They still love you.”

Her words seemed to soothe him, at least for the moment. His shoulders sagged as though the fight had drained out of him, and she pressed a final kiss to his cheek before rising.

“I’ll let you have some quiet,” she said gently, lifting her coffee. “Swiss will be back soon with breakfast.”

Copia gave a weary nod, and she slipped out into the corridor.

The hallway was dim, voices muffled behind closed doors. Addy kept her gaze forward, intent on returning to her room, but the sound of a door opening stopped her in her tracks.

Perpetua leaned casually against the frame of his doorway, arms folded, a knowing smile curving his lips. “Addeline,” he drawled, his dark eyes sweeping over her. “How fortunate. I was just thinking of you.”

She stiffened, clutching her coffee tighter. “What do you want?”

His smile widened, wolfish. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Step inside with me.”

Addy glanced down the hall and her pulse quickened. She shook her head. “I should be getting back.”

He tilted his head, feigning disappointment. “Ah, but I insist. You wouldn’t deny me a moment, would you?”

Against her better judgment, Addy felt her feet move, carrying her past him and into the darkened room. If anything, she told herself, she might use the chance to tell him to ease up on Copia—anything to stop the constant strain between them.

The door clicked shut behind her, the soft scrape of the latch far too final for comfort.

Perpetua lingered by the door a moment longer, watching her with that unsettling smile, before stepping closer. “There now,” he murmured. “Not so difficult, was it?”

Addy set her coffee on the nearest table, her hand trembling just slightly. “Say what you have to say,” she pressed, keeping her voice firm even as her stomach tightened.

He circled her slowly, like a predator measuring its prey. “You defend him,” he began. “You comfort him when he sulks. Yet we both know the crowd’s adoration is fickle. They crave something new. Someone new. You felt it too, didn’t you? The way they looked at me.”

Addy drew in a breath, summoning steel into her voice. “You wanted me here just to gloat?”

“No,” he whispered, leaning close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath against her ear. “I wanted you here because you understand what it is to burn.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Perpetua’s smile only deepened, as though her denial was the very answer he’d expected. “Oh, but you do. You just don’t want to admit it.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the shift in the air around him.

She tried to back away, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist with unnerving gentleness. “Don’t be afraid, Addeline. I don’t want your blood…” His mouth curved into something dark. “…not all of it.”

She shoved him hard enough that he stumbled back, clutching his chest as if affronted rather than hurt. “What is wrong with you?” Her hand hovered where his grip had been.

He surged forward once more, seizing her by the arms. In one swift motion he twisted her against the wall, pinning her there as easily as if she were made of paper.

She gasped, struggling against his grip. “Get the hell off of me!”

His hand shot up to the side of her face, tilting her chin so her neck was exposed.

“Let me taste you,” he whispered, close enough that his breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. “You’re starving, and I can give you release.”

“You think I’d actually let you—”

He didn’t let her finish. His mouth closed over her neck, fangs sliding in with a sting that brought her to her knees. But the pain bled instantly into heat, flooding her veins in a rush that stole her breath. A strangled sound tore from her throat, half a moan, half protest.

The more he drank, the more it built—pressure mounting, sparking across every nerve until her body yielded to him. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, meant to push him away, but instead dragged him closer. She was unraveling.

Her hand shot down between her legs, clutching herself tightly so that she didn’t lose control of her bladder.

When release crashed over her, she cried out as though it were Swiss’s hand on her, a perfect echo of the voice she used when her husband brought her to her peak. A sound that even Copia knew all too well. “That’s it,” he growled, voiced muffled by her thin skin.

As his fangs sank deeper, she felt something else being drawn from her, something far more intimate than blood. Images sparked behind her eyes: her children’s laughter, the warmth of Swiss’s embrace, the ache of Papa’s absence.

Pepe’s breath shuddered as he drank, his grip on her tightening. He wasn’t just feeding, he was savoring. Each memory that flashed through her mind left her weaker, emptier, as though he was pulling her life out thread by thread.

She gasped, jerking against him. “Stop—”

But he groaned against her skin, drunk on what he was taking. “So sweet,” he murmured, voice thick. “You… you’ve lived so much.” His tongue darted against the wound, lapping at what spilled. “You don’t know how rare you are, Addeline.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “Get out of me,” she choked, realizing in horror that he wasn’t just stealing blood. He was stealing her.

When he finally pulled away, his lips glistened red, his pupils blown wide. He looked dazed, intoxicated, as though he’d drunk far more than blood. “Mmm. Memories,” he breathed. “They’re richer than any vintage.”

Tempest’s voice wound tighter around her, a silken thread pulling her down. Addy’s knees buckled, the world tilting sideways as darkness rushed in. The last thing she registered was the soft floor beneath her palms before everything slipped away.

When she opened her eyes again, harsh white light glared overhead. The sterile smell of the ward clung to the air, and the steady beep of a monitor marked the passage of time she’d lost. She was in a hospital bed with a blanket tucked neatly over her legs, wires trailing from her arm.

Turning her head with effort, she caught sight of a figure slumped in the chair beside her, shoulders bowed as though they’d kept vigil for hours.

She was disoriented, and for a moment Addy wondered if she’d ever even left the hospital the day before.

When Swiss looked up and saw her stirring, he shot to his feet. “Dear God, Addeline, you scared the shit out of me.”

She blinked at him, shaking her head. “What? I don’t… how did I get here? What happened?”

“What happened?” Swiss echoed, his voice cracking. “I found you knocked out cold in the hallway. You were bleeding again. They said your hemoglobin levels were low and your blood pressure was crazy. We had to give you a transfusion.” He tried to laugh but it came out shaky. “I had like five different people ask me if we were Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

Addeline ignored him, “Swiss, I think… I think Perpetua did this.”

His brows lifted, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You—,” he drew the word out, teasing, “—think Perpetua somehow compromised your cervix, knocked you out cold, and left you bleeding in the hallway?”

“Did Copia tell you to say that?”

“I know how it sounds, but I swear I remember him… just vaguely.” Her eyes widened, horror flashing across her face. “I think he drank my blood.”

Swiss barked an incredulous laugh. “That’s a little perverted, Adds—”

“No! Not like that!” she cried, cutting him off, her voice breaking. “I mean from my neck.” She pressed her fingers against the tender spot at her throat, as though to prove it.

“Like a vampire?” Swiss’s chuckle deepened. “Addy, the blood loss must’ve scrambled your head.”

Addy nodded slowly though with uncertainty. Part of her wanted to believe he was right, that it had all been a fevered hallucination; another part knew the memory felt too raw to be only a dream.

Before she could answer, the door opened and the attending physician stepped in with a chart in hand. He gave Addy a practiced smile as he approached the bedside.

“Miss. Addy, you gave us quite a scare. We ran your labs, and they showed significant blood loss. Your hemoglobin was well below safe levels, so we gave you a transfusion to stabilize you. Both you and the baby are stable now, but you’ll need to be very careful.”

She swallowed hard. “Careful how?”

“Strict bed rest,” the doctor said firmly. “No exertion, no unnecessary movement. You’ll remain admitted for monitoring until we’re confident the bleeding has resolved, and I’m recommending you continue bed rest for the remainder of your pregnancy. It’s the best way to protect both you and your child.”

“BED REST?”

Swiss sank back into the chair beside her, his hand tightening around hers. “You hear that? No more running around, no more scares like this. Keeping you safe is a 24/7 job.”

*

Perpetua sat alone in the empty theater of their hotel, letting the velvet darkness settle around him. Bright daylight had always been his enemy—its sting burned his skin, pricked at his eyes, and forced him to wrap himself in layers just to endure it. But here, in the cool stillness of room, he was at ease. Sleep was a small thing to him; so long as he fed, he endured. And Addeline, unwilling though she had been, had left him brimming with energy.

Soon, they would leave for the next city, the next show. Pepe was almost giddy at the thought—Sister had finally entrusted him with an entire performance, and he was eager to bask in the stage’s glow, to unleash something new on the crowd.

A soft hand grazed his shoulder. “My prince, I’ve looked all over for you.”

He didn’t need to glance up to know it was Haze. “Ah, my sweet. Tell me, did you have anything to do with how much the crowd loved me?”

Haze shook her head. “I did nothing. They loved you all on their own.” She slipped into the red-cushioned chair beside him, her presence as soft as her touch.

“I hear Addeline and Swiss will be driving separately, meeting us tomorrow. Something about blood loss.” A quiet laugh escaped her. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

Perpetua smiled. “I couldn’t help myself. I believe I may have taken too much from the woman.” His hand slid casually to her knee. “Fortunate for me, you appeared just in time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you see anything of use?”

He leaned back, his gaze fixed on the blank screen ahead, though the only reel playing was the string of visions he had plucked from Addeline. “She was a singer once—good enough to sing with the band for years. But she had to stop because of her subsequent pregnancies.”

“Devastating,” Haze murmured. “To have such a gift and be unable to use it.”

“My brother met her at a concert,” Perpetua continued, “Introduced himself at a meet and greet, and had her in his bed that very night.”

Haze gave a sharp sniff, almost judgmental. “Hmph. An easy girl.”

“Oh, it gets better. She was content as their prime mover at first, but soured quickly on bearing children. And yet—” his grin widened, “—pregnant with her eighth, she seems delighted.”

Haze’s hands settled on his shoulders, her chin resting lightly atop them, curiosity tugging at her despite her tone.

“It was true love,” Perpetua went on, his voice almost reverent. “Strong, but soon buried beneath duty. Tragic, really.”

“And how did she end up with…” Tempest’s voice faltered, softening as her cheeks flushed, “…the dark, tall ghoul?”

Perpetua turned, “Dark and tall, eh?”

Haze reddened further and withdrew her hands. “The affair began on tour, behind my brother’s back. A line crossed that resulted in the child traveling with them.”

“Anything else?”

Perpetua’s eyes darkened, a gleam flickering in them as if he could still taste the memory. “Yes. Copia was not pleased when he discovered it, but she persisted. She loves the ghoul deeply. I felt it—it was strong, rich, nourishing. Yet…” he paused, his lips curling into a dangerous smile, “…she still carries my brother in her heart. She is teetering.”

“Teetering, my lord?”

“She is on the edge of crossing that line again. And I do believe Copia will seize the chance when it comes. If I am there, if I witness it, I can use it. A wedge between them, deep enough to splinter her marriage. Deep enough for her to yield to me, perhaps.”

Haze drew back slightly, her brow furrowed as though she were weighing the edges of his words. “That is a dangerous game, my lord,” she said carefully. “To meddle with love so strong… it can burn you as easily as it feeds you.”

Perpetua chuckled, low and amused, never taking his eyes from the blank screen. “Ah, but fire is meant to be played with. And tell me, my dear—have you ever known me to shy from danger?”

Her lips parted as though to answer, but no words came. Instead, she looked away, tracing the ornate carvings on the armrest of her chair, her silence betraying the conflict he knew stirred inside her.

“I see your doubt,” he said softly, leaning closer until his breath brushed her ear. “But doubt is wasted on me. The woman is already breaking. If I place myself at the fault line, all that’s left will be ash—and from ash, I thrive.”

Haze shivered, though whether from unease or fascination even she could not say. She finally whispered, “And if she resists you?”

Perpetua’s smile widened, cruel and patient. “Then that’s where you come in.”

Chapter Text

It was the final night of the tour, and though reluctant, Copia had allowed Perpetua to take the reins. It would be his brother’s first show alone. Copia wanted everything to be perfect, so he fussed over him like a mother sending her child off to school for the first time.

“Make sure you move all over the stage—you cannot just stand in one spot. And Aurora, she is your main female singer. You must interact with her. Give her the cowbell when the time comes. Oh, and make sure to talk to the fans. You cannot just sing at them; you have to get them in the mood.”

“In the mood?” V echoed with a smirk. “Am I entertaining them or am I fucking them, brother?”

“Ah! Yes, exactly. You must promise to line them up in the parking lot, tell them you’ll bang them one at a time.”

“I cannot bang all of these people in one night—”

“It is not the point, imbecile. You must say it regardless! Then remove the promise and replace it with a kiss, sì?”

“A kiss? You’re mad!”

Copia threw his hands up, exasperated. “Santo cielo, you are impossible. Just—be charming, sì? Say what they want to hear. Make them believe you love them, even if only for one night.”

Perpetua smirked, tugging on his gloves with deliberate slowness. “I think they already believe that.”

“Then prove it,” Copia snapped, though there was more nervous energy than anger behind it. He had spent his whole life coaxing crowds into devotion, and the thought of his brother stepping into his spot troubled him.

The stage manager, Kevin, popped his head in. “Five minutes.”

Copia smoothed his robes with a sharp breath, glancing once more at his brother. “Remember what I told you. Keep them in your hand, don’t let them slip.”

Perpetua tipped his head, that smug smile curling his mouth. “Oh, I’ll keep them. You’ll see.”

Swiss passed by with his guitar slung over his shoulder, but Copia reached out and caught his arm.

“Where is your wife?” he demanded.

Through the mask came Swiss’s muffled reply. “Addy? She’s in bed. Doctor’s orders—strict bed rest.”

“She’s at the hotel? Alone?”

“She’s on the bus with the kids…” Swiss adjusted the strap of his guitar, already half turned toward the stage. “I mean, you’re not in the show tonight. Why don’t you go keep her company?”

He didn’t wait for a reply before darting off to take his place on stage. Good for nothing ghoul…

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and the roar of the crowd rose up like thunder. Copia could only stand in the wings hoping his brother would stumble and prove to everyone exactly what a fraud he was.

But when Peacefield began to play again, Copia knew the night would be a success. He had no desire to linger and watch his brother bask in it. Slipping away, he made for the parking lot.

He climbed the steps of the tour bus and opened the door. His chest eased when he saw his children sitting on the floor, crayons scattered around them, happily bet over their coloring books as though the chaos of the tour didn't exist at all.

He let the faintest smile tug at his mouth but didn’t break stride. Moving quietly past them, he made his way toward the back, where his ex-wife lay resting.

The narrow hall creaked beneath his boots as he slipped toward the back of the bus. He paused at the door, letting his hand hover over the latch. Inside, a small lamp cast a warm glow across the bunk where Addeline lay propped against the pillows, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.

She stirred at the sound of the door, eyes heavy but soft when they found him.

“Papa!”

He eased inside, careful to shut the door behind him so the children’s chatter wouldn’t carry through. For a moment he simply stood there, drinking in the sight of her—pale, fragile, yet so achingly familiar it eased the knot in his chest.

He lingered by the door, his gloved hand resting on the frame. “May I sit?”

Addeline shifted against the pillows, patting the empty space at her side. “Of course.”

He crossed the small space with careful steps and lowered himself onto the edge of the bunk. For a long moment he said nothing. He simply watched her, the rise and fall of her breath seemed steadier than it had been in days.

“I hear this is your fate indefinitely.”

“Yeah, and you of all people know exactly how much I adore bedrest and abstinence.”

“It’s for the best. And I know exactly how much you love hearing that,” he muttered.

Addeline gave him a faint smile. “What brings you here?”

“I’ve been thrown from my own show, it seems.”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she said gently. “But it’s just one night. He’s done a few openers, and now he gets his moment. So what?”

Copia’s mouth twisted, the words tasting bitter. “So what? You say it like it costs me nothing. Like it’s not my name, my stage, my blood he walks on.”

She saw the way his shoulders stiffened and knew she had offended him. “I… I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean it like that.”

His gaze softened, though the edge in his eyes lingered. “Perhaps not. But words cut, cara mia. Especially when I already bleed.”

Addeline reached for his hand, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “I only meant that one night can’t take away everything you’ve built. Not from you.”

She traced the back of his glove, the touch setting something taut between them. The bus hummed faintly around them, but in that small pool of light everything else fell silent. Copia leaned just enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“You are too close to me, tesoro,” he teased.

“You’re the one who sat down,” she countered, a dare in her smile.

He could feel himself growing underneath his robe, “You make it very difficult to be good.”

She smiled, “I wasn’t asking you to be good.”

“Don’t play games with me, Addeline, unless you’re willing to pay the price.”

She swallowed, fearing she had pushed her teasing too far. The glint in his eyes was no longer playful but edged with longing.

He leaned in before he could think better of it, intent on her lips. But Addeline turned her head at the last moment, and his mouth brushed her cheek instead.

Papa withdrew from her, the weight of his gaze lingering even as he pulled back. He knew very well that even if she had wanted to make love to him, she could not. The doctor’s orders were unyielding, and the children were only a few steps away in the next room.

“I think I will go now,” Copia said, rising to his feet. “I need to make sure that blundering idiot isn’t ruining my show.”

Addeline only nodded, watching as he slipped through the door.

Something caught his eye as he passed through the narrow hall. A sheet of paper lay half-forgotten on the seat, colors scrawled boldly across it. “Eliza, what is this?” he asked.

But his daughter was already busy with another toy and paid him no mind.

Copia stooped and picked up the drawing. The childish lines were unmistakable, yet the image they formed chilled him. It was Perpetua—or close enough—but rendered in a way that stripped away all charm. Fangs jutted from his mouth, a blood-stained purple blazer hung from his shoulders, and his eyes glowed a sickly red.

The picture sent an uneasy shiver down Copia’s spine. He let it fall from his hand, dismissing it with a shake of his head. Just his daughter’s wild imagination, nothing more.

*

The European leg had finally ended, and with it came the heavy breath of relief Copia had been holding. He couldn’t wait to be rid of his long-lost twin. He was eager to return home to his children, his bed and his wife.

Elizabeth and Meliora darted past him, squealing with joy as they raced through the doors of the Ministry. At the entrance, Annaliese waited. Her smile was wide, practiced, as though she’d been rehearsing this moment. She reached for his bags the minute he stepped across the threshold.

“Sorella,” Copia murmured, lifting a hand to stop her. “You are not my servant anymore. You are my wife. It is not your job to carry my bags.”

“Oh, Papá, I do not mind at all. As your wife, it is my job to make your life easier.”

He tapped her nose lightly, almost dismissively. “Nonsense, my dear. Now, be so kind as to fetch Sister Christine.”

Her smile faltered, just slightly, but she nodded and fell in step behind him. The halls stretched ahead, familiar twists and turns leading toward the inner sanctum. Copia’s stride was purposeful, but Annaliese trailed after him, her skirts brushing the marble.

“Papá, surely you do not need Sister Christine at once. Surely what you need most now… is me.”

He stopped suddenly; the echo of his boots stilled in the corridor. He turned and looked deep into her eyes. They were as blue as Addeline’s were black. His two wives had been complete opposites, one hungry for approval, the other defiant; one loyal to a fault, the other dishonest; one content to bend to his will, the other wary of making her life about pleasing anyone but herself.

Life had been much easier with Annaliese; he had to admit. She never tested his patience, never needed punishing, and never left him weeping from heartbreak. With her, the path was always smooth and predictable. Yet even as he thought it, he felt the echo of the fire he had lost—the chaos, the ache, the raw defiance that had once made his heart race.

He thought back to the day he asked Annaliese to marry him, the same day he decided it was time to let Addeline go. He had grown weary of fighting for her heart, weary of living in the shadow of another man. He was tired of her unhappiness, and in the end, all he wanted was to give her the life he thought she deserved—even if that life could never be with him.

He had approached her that day in the hall, just before addressing the congregation. He could still hear her voice, light with nervous humor, when he told her she was no longer the prime mover. “So I’m no longer a handmaid?”

It pained him to think that was how she truly felt, bound in chains she had never asked for. And yet, there was relief in knowing he was about to free her from them. He remembered asking her bluntly, “Do you still want him?”

She had been skeptical of the question, wary of a trap, but answered only after he promised her it wasn’t. He had never seen anyone move so quickly out a door. A part of him had wished she might stay, but he wasn’t worried. He knew there was still someone who cared for him. Sister Annaliese.

He knew exactly where to find her. After getting her pregnant, he had bought and maintained a residence for her and their child. Now that place was useless. I’ll bring her home, where she belongs, he thought. He had long blamed himself for her being shunned, cast out from one of the only homes she had ever known. It gave him peace to believe he could make it right now.

He still remembered the shock on her face when he told her it would be his honor to have her hand in marriage. The tears she shed could have filled an ocean, and she ran to him just as quickly as Addeline had run away.

She had remained at his side in the Ministry ever since. Remembering that moment softened him in his exhaustion, and he gathered her into his arms, holding her tightly. “I am so happy to see you, fragolina,” he murmured. “I have missed you. My bed has been cold.”

“I will make sure it is warm tonight,” she teased, her hand slipping boldly between his legs.

Copia startled, stepping back with a sharp inhale. He lifted a finger in warning, a half-smile curving his lips. “Careful, dolcezza.”

She laughed, light and triumphant, as she looped her arm through his and let him guide her down the corridor. Copia was all smiles when he pushed open Sister’s office door. “Hello, Mother—”

But the words froze on his tongue. Standing at Sister’s side was the very soul he had longed to escape, the one he had counted the days to be free from.

“What in the hell is he doing here?” Copia nearly screamed, storming across the room until his finger was pressed against V’s face.

“I thought for sure you’d be happy to see me, brother.”

“Happy to see you?” I was praying you’d die in a plane crash! And now you’re standing in my house, talking to my mother about Satan knows what!”

Papa Nihil’s hazy figure sat beside Sister. His milky eyes shifted between the brothers as a crooked grin tugged at his lips. He was overly entertained by Copia’s fury, “Well, well,” he rasped, voice thick with age and phlegm, “a family reunion at last.”

“Cardi, calm down,” Sister cut in firmly, rising from her chair. “You should be thanking your brother. Record sales have gone up since we pushed his new songs out.”

V smirked, leaning back as though Copia’s rage only amused him. “You hear that, brother? The people love my songs. One might say they prefer me to you.”

Copia’s hands curled into fists. “Shut your mouth.”

“Why should I?” V shrugged, smug as ever. “You prayed I’d die, yet here I am—saving your ministry.”

“Saving my ministry,” Copia turned on Sister, his voice shaking. “What is he talking about?”

Sister’s face went rigid. “Oh, Cardi, the ministry’s coffers are nearly empty after last year’s debacle. The halls need repairs, the chapel demands upkeep, venues require deposits, and there are legal matters we cannot ignore. There is payroll to meet, children to provide for. His records filled those coffers overnight.”

Copia’s eyes blazed. “At what cost, Mother? You sell the ministry’s soul for a handful of coins? You let him waltz in here and stake a claim as though he owns the place?”

Then Sister’s voice cut through the shouting, firm and unyielding. “He’s my son, Cardi!”

The words slammed into him like a blade between the ribs. For a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe. His rage faltered, swallowed by a hollowness that spread through his chest. He nodded, “Yes, Sister. He is.”

Pepe’s eyes flicked past Copia to Annaliese who was standing idly by. She smiled faintly and lowered her head.

“Don’t look at my wife,” he snapped, stepping into his line of sight. “Don’t look at my ex-wife either, for that matter. And while we’re at it—don’t look at me. I don’t want to see your stupid face.”

Copia grabbed his wife by the arm and stormed out, his cape snapping behind him.

“C!” Sister called after him.

“Oh, let him go,” Nihil rasped with a wheeze of laughter. “It’ll do him good to know he isn’t Satan’s gift around here.”

“What can I do, Papá?” Annaliese asked as they rushed down the hall, her hand clinging to his sleeve.

He looked at her then, her face turned up to his, a soft heart in the middle of the chaos and betrayal that consumed him. For a moment his anger cracked, and what bled through was weariness, longing, the desperate need for someone to stand with him.

“You stay by me,” he said hoarsely. “That’s all I ask. Stay by me.”

He swept her up into his arms and carried her swiftly to their bedroom. It had been over a month since he’d felt the warmth of a woman, and every part of him ached to bury himself deep into her. He didn’t want to think of the past, or the uncertain future, and he especially didn’t want to think of Perpetua. All he wanted was the solace of her body and the fleeting mercy of forgetting.

He laid her down on the mattress and let his travel clothes fall in a heap at his feet. They carried the scent of two days’ journey, but she didn’t mind. She pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it aside, then rose quickly to her knees, hands sliding around his neck. She wasted no time, stealing his mouth in a deep, wet kiss that burned with pent-up hunger.

He wrapped his hand around her, and before their kiss had even broken, he had her face pressed down against the bed. His grip was rough, urgent, as he seized her skirt and yanked it off with such force she nearly slid off the mattress herself.

He slipped her panties off with more care. While she lay flat against the bed, he slid his hand between her thighs, pressing forward to feel the heat of her. His fingers paused when he noticed she had rid herself of her usual hair.

Dolcezza?”

She chuckled, glancing back over her shoulder. “I thought you might like it.”

He let out a low laugh and stripped off his boxers in one swift motion. Gripping her hips, he lifted her ass into the air and wasted no time burying his face deep between her cheeks.

She whimpered, the sound only spurring him on. He pulled back, spreading her open as his mouth trailed lower. His tongue pressed against her, rimming her until her nails clawed at the sheets.

“Papá?” she gasped, the word breaking under the weight of her need. She continued to cry out as his tongue teased places no one else had dared touch.

Now that he had her where he wanted her, he pressed a pinky into her tight rim, teasing her with the smallest intrusion. Annaliese stiffened at once, a sharp gasp leaving her lips. It was unfamiliar, strange, a kind of pressure her body seemed to resist even as her mind urged her to stay open to it.

“I want to try something with you,” he said.

Annaliese’s breath caught. She already knew what he meant before the words even left his lips, and the thought made her stomach twist. A flicker of fear passed through her—he was well endowed, already so much to take when he claimed her in the usual way.

Her body tensed, torn between dread of discomfort and the desire to please him, to prove she could endure it for him.

“Papa caught the hesitation in her eyes and let a small smile tug at his lips. His hand slid down her spine in a slow stroke, both soothing and commanding.

“Shh, dolcezza,” he murmured. “I know you’re afraid. But you’ll take me—because you’re mine, and I’ll teach you how. It will hurt a little at first, sì, but then… you’ll crave it.”

She trembled as her fingers knotted in the sheets. Then, with a tiny, shaky nod, she let him lead.

“That’s my girl.”

She faced forward and braced herself as he eased into her, stretching her inch by inch. It burned at first, sharp and overwhelming, but the ache blurred into heat until she was rocking back against him.

“Ti voglio, Papa…” she whispered, throwing her head back as she arched further into him.

“Ah, you like that, eh?” Papa teased, driving deeper. “Let’s see how you take another inch.”

She cried out, “Ti sento, Papa… Dio, sì…”

“You feel it, eh? Can you take even more?”

She was already past her breaking point, trembling on the edge—yet the sheer rush of being taken like this flooded every nerve she had with pleasure.

“Push, Papa. Harder, faster!”

“ah, my delicate flower isn’t so delicate after all…” he growled, gripping the small of her back as he slammed the rest of his length inside.

“Ahhh—ahh!” she cried out, the shock colliding with pleasure. He felt her clench around him, tight and desperate, as if her body couldn’t take anymore. The sound she made was half-sob, half-scream, breaking apart for him completely.

Her release dragged him under with her. He groaned, driving into her tight hole one last time before he broke, shuddering hard as he spilled inside, “Ah, fuck, Sorella!”

His body jerked through the last waves, and he dropped heavily onto her, sweat dampening her skin. When he finally slid out, she went limp, every muscle giving way as if she’d been wrung dry.

Copia brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb lingering there as he searched her eyes. “Brava, dolcezza,” he whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

Her lips trembled into a tired smile as she nestled against him, letting the weight of his words soothe her more than any touch could.

His praise had always meant so much to her. Even as a young girl, she had cherished every word, glowing whenever he told her he was proud. Back then, of course, it had been for things far simpler, far more innocent. Now, though, she felt she had finally given him something she had longed to offer for years. Intimate satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Swiss and Addeline made it home late. He went around to her side of the car and carefully lifted her out, cradling her against his chest.

“Swiss, I can walk just fine,” she protested weakly.

“I know you can,” he said with a grin. “But you don’t have to. I’ll carry you to bed.”

She clung to his shoulder, wearier than she realized, and whispered in his ear, “I’d fuck the life out of you right now if I could.”

He threw his head back in a loud laugh, eyes shining as he looked at her. “Jesus, Addy—this is why you’re on your eighth kid.”

She chuckled, kicking her feet out playfully as he carried her over the threshold and into their home.

He remembered carrying her over the same threshold not long ago, when she had finally come to him at last. He could still see her car rolling up into his yard, still hear his own stunned words as he asked what the hell she was doing there. She had been hysterical, terrified that she was too late—that he had already promised himself to Aurora. But he hadn’t. Aurora had left him, weary of the endless push and pull games.

Addeline had leapt into his arms so fiercely she nearly knocked them both to the ground. And he had been so happy. He had given up hope that she would ever be his, clinging only to the fading memory of how she once felt in his embrace—until suddenly she was there again, real, trembling, and his.

He remembered what it was like making love to her again for the first time since Papa had caught them in bed together and dragged her out of his house. That day had shattered him. But when she returned, when she was finally back in his arms, he felt as though he had everything he had ever wanted at last.

Now, as he carried her into their house, into their room and placed her in their bed he couldn’t help but think back to that day and how good it had felt to be inside her again. He slipped into bed next to her, saying to himself that the luggage could wait until tomorrow. The quiet hum of her breathing soothed him as he draped his arm lazily around her belly.

Then he closed his eyes and reminisced. Since he couldn’t have her presently in her fragile condition, his mind had to be enough.

When he was sure she was sleeping, he eased his trousers down and freed himself with a quiet breath. His hand curled around his length, stroking slowly, as though the memory of her body was already guiding him.

His fist moved lazily over himself, but his mind was nowhere in the present. His mind took him back to that day, the feel of her skin under his lips, kissing along her neck, tugging her gently onto her back.

He swallowed hard, his grip tightening as the memory deepened.

Her mouth under his, soft at first, then opening to him as his hand cupped her breast.

He stroked himself faster, chasing the sound of her moan, the way her hips had shifted against his palm.

He could almost taste her still, the heat of her breast against his tongue, her gasp when he flicked her nipple, the slick warmth that had met his hand when he pushed her dress higher.

His body trembled, caught between past 1and present, every stroke dragging him back into this memory he cherished.

His hand worked faster, hips lifting with every stroke as the recollection swallowed him whole. He could almost feel her—the press of her body opening for him, the sound of her gasp when he pushed deeper.

Her voice was in his head, her nails in his skin, the phantom heat of her drawing him in. It was so vivid he swore he could lose himself in it, bury himself in her all over again.

The thought alone undid him. A rough cry ripped from his throat as he shuddered hard, spilling into his own hand. Breathless and shaking, he fell back against the mattress, her name tumbling out on a whisper.

The tremors eased, and he sagged back into his pillow, his hand falling away. Turning his head, he drank in her soft features, her face eased into a peace she so rarely allowed herself when awake.

A small smile tugged at his lips. She was here—warm, real, his. Whatever storms had torn them apart before, whatever ghosts still lingered, none of it mattered in this moment. He let the sound of her breath carry him down into sleep, content just to know she lay beside him.

*

Addeline woke sore and aching, only to find the space beside her empty. Downstairs, breakfast was waiting—set out neatly with a note in his familiar scrawl that read, Help yourself. She smiled, warmth blooming in her chest as she wondered how she had gotten so lucky to have someone who cared for her this much.

She sat and took a few bites, then noticed the pile of dishes in the sink. With a soft laugh and a shake of her head, she imagined him rushing out the door, too busy to finish the job. Rolling up her sleeves, she slipped her hands into the warm water, humming to herself as she washed them. Even in the smallest things, she thought, it felt good to share a life with him.

Soap suds clung to her hands, catching the morning light. She rinsed the final dish and set it into the rack with a small sigh of satisfaction, drying her palms against the clothes she wore the night before, just as Swiss’s shadow filled the doorway.

“You’re not supposed to be on your feet,” he said quietly, his tone carrying more weight than reprimand.

Addy turned, a tired but warm smile breaking across her face. “It was only a few plates,” she murmured, stepping toward him as though the simple act of greeting him meant more than the work she’d just finished. “I was careful.”

Swiss shook his head, meeting her halfway. His hand brushed her elbow. “Careful isn’t enough. You know what the doctor said.”

The faint smile faltered, her eyes darting down toward the gentle curve of her belly. She had heard the warning so many times, the words now burned into her: bedrest, no strain, let the stitch hold. Still, standing there in the quiet kitchen, the ordinary rhythm of life had tempted her into pretending she was just like before.

“I just… needed to feel useful,” she admitted, her voice small. “And besides, how did you expect me to find your note if I didn’t come in here?”

Swiss’s grip softened, “You’re useful, Addy. You’re literally growing a human being.”

She leaned into his touch, feeling a temporary moment of safety before a strange warmth slipped down her legs. Water pooled at her feet, soaking her toes. For one wild moment she thought it was blood, and her heart stopped in her chest. But then the wetness kept coming, hot and steady, and she knew it was much worse than that.

She was oddly calm when she pressed her hand against the swell of her belly. Swiss too looked, lips tightening, his expression resigned, as if he had dreaded this very outcome.

“Swiss…” Her voice was barely a whisper, yet it shattered the air between them. “It’s too soon.”

The faucet still hummed behind them, water spilling uselessly into the sink. The smell of soap and the faint trace of her singing still hung in the kitchen, but the world had shifted in an instant.

Swiss slid an arm around her waist, “We don’t have time to think about it. We need to go, Addy. Right now.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the small puddle gathering around her feet, spreading in a slow halo across the tile. It felt obscene, cruel, like the world mocking her attempt at normalcy just minutes before.

She let him guide her away from the sink, her body heavy in his grip, the words looping in her mind like a litany: too soon, too soon, too soon.

Swiss had been there to save her each time crisis struck in her pregnancies. With Kaisarion, she had gone into early labor, and it was Swiss who found her in the hallway in the middle of a concert. She remembered begging him not to tell Papa, and his low reply, Copia will rip me apart if I don’t.

Then came the twins. She had been on stage with Swiss during soundcheck, teasing him about his broken mic, when a rush of blood ran hot down her legs. He was the one who shouted for Papa. He was there when Opus and Cirice came into the world, there when Cirice wasn’t breathing, and still there when she finally was.

Later, with Meliora, it had been the same—her body betraying her before another ritual. No doctor in sight, no time to wait. If not for Swiss delivering the baby, she and the boy might not even be here. And when she began to hemorrhage in the hospital afterward, it was his hand she gripped, his steady voice that cut through the chaos as they nearly lost her.

Again and again, Swiss had been her anchor. A strong presence through her adult life, stepping into responsibilities that had never been his to bear, yet he carried them without hesitation.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world now to have him at her side, steady as ever, no matter what happened next. She knew, even in this moment of fear, that she could depend on him — that he would bear it with her, as he always had.

Swiss’s arm tightened around her, guiding her weight against his chest. “I’ve got you,” he said, and there was no hesitation in his voice, only the quiet conviction of a man who had already carried her through fire more than once.

Her lips trembled, eyes filling with tears now as the realization set in. “Twenty-three weeks,” she whispered, as if naming it made the fear more real.

He bent to meet her gaze, forcing her to see him instead of the dread closing in. “Addy, listen to me. The baby’s still with us, but we need to act fast.”

Outside, the sun blazed overhead, unforgiving and indifferent. He maneuvered her into the passenger seat, buckling her in with hands that trembled only once before he stilled them.

Addy’s head fell back against the seat. Tears slid hot over her cheeks, and her voice was a whisper of stubbornness. “Don’t let me lose this one.”

Swiss met her eyes, his own glassy in the sunlight. “I won’t.”

The engine roared to life, gravel spitting from the tires as the house fell behind them, the bright afternoon world rushing past as the hospital became the only horizon.

The drive blurred past in fragments: the sun flashing through trees, the steady rhythm of Swiss’s hand gripping the wheel and Addy’s uneven breaths filling the space between them. Every mile stretched like an hour, every turn a test of how much faster he could push the car without losing control.

She pressed both hands to her belly, rocking slightly with the motion of the car. “It’s supposed to be a C-section… scheduled. Two hours away.” Her voice was small, almost broken.

Swiss’s jaw flexed, his knuckles white on the wheel. “We don’t have two hours, Addy. We take the nearest hospital.” His tone left no room for argument, though fear threaded every word.

When they pulled up to the emergency entrance, Swiss was out of the driver’s seat before the engine had even settled. He yanked open her door and lifted her into his arms again, ignoring her weak protests.

Inside, the cool sterility of the lobby clashed with the blazing afternoon light outside. The smell of antiseptic hit hard, sharp enough to sting. A nurse at the desk looked up, startled, and Swiss’s voice cut through the quiet waiting room with urgent force.

“She’s twenty-three weeks and she has a cerclage—her water’s broken. Her doctor is two hours away. We need someone now.”

The nurse shot to her feet, calling for help. In seconds, two more appeared with a gurney. Swiss lowered Addy onto it carefully, his hand lingering in hers until the orderly tried to guide him back.

Her eyes widened, panic cracking her forced calm. “Don’t let them… don’t let them cut me without him.”

The nurse leaned over Addy as the gurney rolled toward the double doors. Her tone was firm but measured, practiced calm in the face of panic. “We’re going to get you settled in a room first. We need to monitor the baby and your contractions before we make any decisions about surgery.”

Swiss’s hand was still tangled in hers, warm and unyielding, until the orderly steered him back toward the doors. He bent low, close to her ear. “I’ve got to park the car. I’ll be right in. Two minutes, kid.”

Her fingers tightened desperately on his. “Don’t be long.”

He brushed his lips over her temple, the faintest touch, then gently pried her hand from his. “I won’t. I promise.”

The gurney carried her forward, through the sliding doors and into a corridor lined with light. She caught one last glimpse of him through the narrowing gap. He was tall and steady, still watching her even as he backed away toward the glass entrance before the doors closed him out.

Nurses steered her into a small, brightly lit room, the air cool and humming faintly with machinery. They helped her onto the bed, adjusting the monitors with quick, efficient hands.

“We’ll need your doctor to fax over your full records,” one nurse explained, already jotting notes onto a chart. “But for now, we just need to cover the basics.”

Addy swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. She kept her hands folded across her belly, as though her arms could shield the child within.

The nurse smiled gently, though her tone stayed brisk. “Okay, Addeline. I’m going to ask you some questions, all right?”

She nodded.

“Due date?”

“November twenty-ninth.” Her voice came out hoarse, breaking around the edges.

“Number of pregnancies?”

She hesitated, her eyes darting to the ceiling tiles. “Seven, including this one.”

“And how many living children?”

“Seven.” The word trembled in the air, heavier than all the rest.

“Are all of your children by the same father?”

“No,” she said softly. “My ex-husband fathered six of my children… but my current husband fathered one. And of course—” her palm pressed firmer against the swell beneath her gown, “this one here.”

The nurse only nodded, jotting the information down without pause. “Thank you. That’s helpful to know.”

Addy’s eyes burned, though whether from shame, exhaustion, or the sterile light overhead she couldn’t tell. To the nurse it was just another line on the chart, but to Addy it felt like the sum of every tangled thread of her life laid bare in one breath.

The nurse’s pen paused for just a fraction of a second before continuing. “Any complications with your previous deliveries?”

Her heart sank. It was difficult for her to talk about, but she forced the words out anyway. “I was two weeks overdue with my first, but there were no complications. My second pregnancy, I went into preterm labor, but the doctor managed to stop it and get me to thirty-six weeks. My third pregnancy was my twins—they came very early. They spent a long time in the hospital, and… my daughter, she was born not breathing.” Addy’s voice faltered, but she pressed on. “With my fourth, I hemorrhaged. My fifth ended in an emergency C-section, and my sixth was a scheduled C-section that went smoothly.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” she said quietly. “Thank you for sharing all that with me. Some things can be genetic, so it helps us know how best to take care of you and your baby.”

Addy swallowed hard, her gaze drifting back to the ceiling. The words weren’t quite comforting, but they grounded her all the same.

The nurse reached over, adjusting the band on Addy’s wrist. “Let’s get your monitors set up. We’ll be watching you and the baby very closely.”

The door opened then, and Swiss slipped back in, the scent of sun and asphalt clinging to him. He crossed the room in three strides, his presence filling the sterile space, and went straight to her side. His hand found hers without hesitation, warm and grounding.

“I told you,” he murmured, leaning close enough that only she could hear, “two minutes.”

Addy exhaled, the tension in her chest easing just slightly. Whatever the chart said, whatever the questions pulled out of her, he was here.

Another nurse wheeled a machine to the bedside, fitting bands snugly across Addy’s abdomen, the monitors already humming to life. Paper scrolled from the side, tracing faint lines that marked the baby’s heartbeat and the tightening of her contractions. The cold gel made her flinch, but she said nothing.

Swiss studied the little lines, not knowing exactly what they meant but knowing it meant there was still a heartbeat, nonetheless.

The door opened again, this time admitting a tall man in a white coat, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His glasses caught the fluorescent light as he flipped through a file in his hands.

“Mrs. Taylor,” he greeted. It was odd to Addeline. She hadn’t been called that in a very long time, usually carrying on her stage name of Mrs. Ghoul. She could tell that it tickled Swiss, considering she hadn’t even known his true name, the name he had before he joined the clergy.

“I’m Dr. Halvorsen. Your obstetrician, Dr. Sullivan, has faxed over your records. I’ve reviewed your history, and I’ll be overseeing your care here.”

Addy nodded, her lips parting as though she meant to say something, but no words came.

Dr. Halvorsen glanced up from the file, “I see you’ve had multiple preterm deliveries, one hemorrhage, and a cerclage placed for this pregnancy. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Addy whispered.

Swiss’s grip on her hand tightened, his thumb pressing into her palm.

He closed the folder gently, letting it rest at the foot of her bed. “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll monitor you and the baby closely. The goal is to keep this pregnancy going as long as possible. But you need to understand—at twenty-three weeks, we’re in very fragile territory. If labor progresses, there are serious risks to both you and the child.”

Addy’s throat constricted, her chest rising too quickly with shallow breaths. Swiss bent closer, whispering something low to calm her, though his own jaw was set tight.

Dr. Halvorsen’s tone softened. “You’ve fought through difficult pregnancies before. Right now, our priority is keeping you stable, Mrs. Taylor. We’ll do everything in our power to give your baby a chance. If delivery can’t be prevented, we’ll transfer your baby immediately to the NICU team.”

Swiss’s hand tightened around Addy’s, his thumb rubbing across her knuckles. He leaned down, his voice rough but steady against her ear. “Hear that? They’ve got a plan.”

“But my water broke. Am I not in labor now?”

The doctor set the chart down at the foot of the bed, folding his hands over it. His expression stayed composed, but there was no mistaking the gravity in his voice.

“That doesn’t mean labor is inevitable in this moment, but it does mean we’re working against time. Sometimes, with the right care, we can hold things off for days, even weeks. Every hour the pregnancy continues improves your baby’s chances.”

Addy’s throat worked as she swallowed, her hand tightening against Swiss’s. “And if labor does start?”

Dr. Halvorsen glanced at the monitor, then back to her. “We’ll do everything possible to slow it. We’ll give you medication to relax the uterus, steroids to help the baby’s lungs mature, and antibiotics to protect against infection. But once the membranes rupture, the risk of infection rises with each day. If either of you shows signs of distress, you or the baby, we’ll have to deliver.”

Swiss leaned forward, his voice low but urgent. “And if you deliver now? At twenty-three weeks?”

The doctor didn’t flinch. “It’s the edge of viability. Survival is possible, but fragile. The NICU team is ready, but I need you both to understand—this will be a fight.”

Addy pressed her palm harder against her belly, as if she could shield the child within, as though she could hold back time with her palm alone.

“Why don’t we get a good look at this little one?” He reached for the rolling cart by the wall, pulling the ultrasound machine closer to the bed. The nurse moved quickly to ready the probe, squeezing cool gel onto Addy’s exposed belly.

“This will help us get a clearer picture of what’s happening right now,” the doctor explained. “We’ll check the baby’s heart, fluid levels, and overall condition.”

Addy shivered at the cold gel, her fingers tightening around her husband’s hand. He sat close at her side, eyes fixed on the dark screen that flickered to life.

The probe pressed lightly against her skin, shifting as Dr. Halvorsen searched for the right angle. For a breathless second, there was nothing but static gray and white. Then the steady flicker appeared—a tiny chest rising and falling in rapid rhythm, the unmistakable flutter of a heart.

“There,” the doctor murmured. The machine filled with the thudding rush of the baby’s heartbeat, strong and fast. The sound swallowed the room, louder than the monitor’s beeps, louder than Addy’s ragged breathing.

Swiss bowed his head against her temple, his grip fierce. “Hear that? Still fighting.”

Dr. Halvorsen nodded, making a few quick measurements. “The heartbeat is strong. Fluid levels are low, as expected after a rupture. The baby is active, responsive so that’s good news.” He looked up, his expression was steady but solemn. “I can tell you what it is if you don’t already know.” He let the question hang in the air.

Addy turned her head, her eyes meeting Swiss’s. Normally she would have wanted to wait, to keep the mystery tucked away until the baby’s first cry. But right now, surprises felt like cruel luxuries. She had endured enough of them for one lifetime.

Swiss gave her hand a small squeeze, his brow furrowed, waiting for her to decide. She drew in a trembling breath, then nodded—and he nodded with her, their agreement unspoken but absolute.

He adjusted the probe, the grainy image shifting slightly. His voice lifted with a note of amusement. “I can confirm you’re having a little girl.”

The words cut through the tension like a sudden shaft of light. Addeline let out a sob she hadn’t realized she was holding back, tears streaking hot across her cheeks. For the first time since her water broke, her chest loosened just enough to take a full breath.

Swiss leaned closer, his forehead brushing hers, a tremor in his smile. “A girl,” he murmured, voice rough with both wonder and fear. “Our girl.”

For a fleeting moment, the sterile room softened, anchored by the steady rhythm of the heartbeat and the fragile hope bound up in it. But then the doctor’s voice carved through.

“The lack of fluid can complicate things. Without that cushioning, the umbilical cord is at risk of being compressed. That could reduce oxygen to the baby.”

Addy shut her eyes, pressing her lips together as though to hold back a cry.

“And, as I’ve said,” he held more softly, “there is the question of prematurity itself. At twenty-three weeks, survival is possible, but every day matters. Even an extra twenty-four hours could mean the difference between life and loss. Our job is to buy this child time—as much time as your body will give us.”

The heartbeat kept echoing through the machine, cruel in its paradox: so alive, and yet so precarious.

Dr. Halvorsen wiped the probe clean and set it aside. “For now, we’ll admit you, start antibiotics and steroids, and keep constant watch. It’s going to be hour by hour from here.”

He rose and straightened before beginning his exit, “I’ll let you rest while we set things in motion. A nurse will be in to start your IV. I’ll check back shortly.” He left as swiftly as he’d come, the door shutting softly behind him.

The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the steady beep of the monitor. Addy turned her head toward Swiss with wet, wide eyes.

For a moment neither of them spoke. She stared at the ceiling, her hand still spread protectively over her bump as though she could cradle her daughter. Tears slipped freely down her cheeks, though her face held a strange calm.

Swiss’s breath was warm and uneven, his hand wrapped so tightly around hers she could feel the tremor in his grip.

“Meliora has a sister,” he whispered, almost to himself.

“Hopefully. She’s so small, Swiss. It’s so early… what if—”

“Hey,” he shook his head, firm even through the crack in his voice. “Don’t even think it. She’s strong. Just like her mama. She’s going to be fine.”

Her laugh broke into a sob, “I don’t know if I can do this again.”

Swiss cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing the wetness from her skin. “You don’t have to do it alone. You’ve never been alone, Adds. Not once.”

Her eyes finally met his, wide and afraid, but softened by the truth she found in them.

He brushed his lips over her damp hair, breaking through the silence. “What do you want to name her?”

Addeline’s gaze drifted to the monitor, where the last still picture of their daughter’s image remained. Her lips trembled before she found the word.

“Umbra,” she said.

Swiss stilled, the name hanging between them like a shadow edged in light. Then he nodded, pressing his forehead to hers. “Umbra,” he echoed, his voice low and sure, as though speaking it aloud might protect her. “Our Umbra.”

The monitor beeped steadily on, fragile proof of life, while the name settled into the room—a promise, a tether, a prayer.

Chapter Text

Copia stormed down the corridor, muttering Italian curses under his breath. Sister Christine hurried at his side, trying to help him into his jacket as he marched on. He had only just woken from a nap, his hair sticking up in wild tufts, his clothes mismatched, but fury burned hotter than his disheveled state.

From the dining room, Annaliese heard the heavy stomp of his boots echoing against the walls. She sat at the long table with the three youngest children: Belial and Mary picking at finger foods with sticky hands while she coaxed spoonsful of purée into Faith’s tiny mouth.

“Papà,” she called out, “dove stai andando?”

“I’m going to the hospital,” he barked, not slowing his stride.

The young woman grabbed Faith and skipped to where her husband was in the foyer before he could leave, “Is it Addeline. Is something wrong?”

“She’s in preterm labor!” he exploded. “And no one thought to tell me she was in trouble!”

Annaliese’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock as she clutched Addy’s youngest child tighter against her. “I… I didn’t know, Papà. No one told me either.” The words carried not only the sting of his anger, but also the sorrow of knowing how fiercely he still cared for Addeline. “Do you really think I would keep such a thing from you?”

Copia’s head snapped toward her, his eyes narrowing. “Do not raise your voice at me, Sorella,” he warned, the growl in his tone making the child stir uneasily in her arms.

Her breath caught, but she lifted her chin just slightly, wounded and defensive. “I wasn’t,” her voice quaked, “I’m so sorry, Amore mio.”

His gaze dropped and some of the tension eased from his shoulders when he realized how badly he had startled her. She was such a fragile creature, her personality easily shaken, her sensitivity plain in the way her face crumpled at his sharpness. He reached out and gently gathered the back of her hair, flattening the puffy curls that framed her face. Faith shifted in her arms, cooing as her father spoke softly.

“No, I’m sorry, dolcezza. It is not your fault. I did not mean to take my frustration out on you. Forgive me?”

She smiled faintly, nodded, and closed her eyes as he pressed a warm kiss to her forehead. Then he reached down, pinching Faith’s chubby cheeks and whispering, “You’ll have another sister today, cicciottella.”

Annaliese closed her eyes as his lips brushed her forehead one last time, the touch gentle but fleeting. When he pulled away, she kept still, watching as he moved to the door. The sight of him going—hair still mussed, temper barely cooled, yet determined—left her with a hollow ache. In that moment, she knew his heart was already two hours down the road with Addeline.

She looked down at the child in her arms—Faith, a spitting image of the woman she couldn’t help but measure herself against. Her gaze drifted around the room, heavy with the weight of duty. Why had it fallen on her to help raise seven children she had never asked for? She told herself it was destiny, that the very survival of the Ministry depended upon Copia’s heirs. But deep down she knew the truth: she did it because she would have done anything Papa asked of her.

She felt a sudden tug at the hem of her dress—it was young Elizabeth. The jolt startled her so badly she nearly lost her grip on Faith, and the child burst into tears as Annaliese struggled to regain her composure. “Elizabeth, you little fool! You must be careful!” she snapped.

But Elizabeth didn’t flinch. Instead, she lifted her gaze and fixed it squarely on Annaliese. The girl’s deep, unblinking stare sent a chill through her; those eyes lingered without mercy, as though peeling back layers of skin to see what lay beneath. There was something cold and trancelike in her stillness, as if she weren’t looking at Annaliese at all, but straight through her soul.

Sister Christine moved to take the baby from Annaliese so she could resume feeding her when, at last, Elizabeth spoke. “You don’t like us, do you?”

Annaliese let out a startled breath, as though the accusation were absurd. “Why on earth would you say such a thing to me? I’ve cared for you since you were just a tiny babe at your mother’s breast.”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied evenly, “but only because you had to. Only because you wanted my father to notice you.”

Annaliese froze, stunned. How could Elizabeth possibly know such a thing? How could she even begin to understand feelings so tangled and complicated?

“You don’t much care for my mum either, do you?” Elizabeth pressed on. “That’s alright—I wouldn’t, if I were you. Not with Father still carrying on like he loves her.”

Before she could stop herself, Annaliese’s hand shot out and struck the girl across the face. The sound cracked in the quiet room. She recoiled instantly, staring at her own hand as if it belonged to someone else.

Elizabeth staggered back, clutching her cheek. Her mouth hung open in shock and for the first time in memory, she was silent. Slowly, she began lowering her hand, looking Annaliese up and down with a cold, unblinking stare. It was the look of someone far older than her years, detached and cutting, as though she were silently condemning the woman. Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the sting of that gaze behind her.

It had shaken Annaliese far more than the child. Elizabeth’s cheek would forget the sting, but Annaliese feared the girl’s silence more than any outburst. What if she told her father? Or Sister Imperator? Or, God forbid, Addeline? A tear slid down her cheek as she slumped back against the wall, breath uneven.

Then, from the dim recesses of the corridor, a voice rose low and uncertain. “Regina… is that you?”

She hastily wiped her tears and straightened her shoulders. “Pepe, good afternoon.”

V sauntered toward her with the easy arrogance of a man who recognized no boundaries. He stopped just inches from her face, close enough to reach up and brush away the dampness on her cheeks. Annaliese dropped her gaze, heat prickling across her skin—ashamed not only that he had caught her crying, but that part of her relished the comfort of a man who was not her husband.

V’s hands slid to her hips, his grip firm as he drew her flush against him. She stiffened when her lower half pressed to his, the unmistakable outline beneath his trousers sending a shock through her. Instinctively she leaned back, putting distance between their upper bodies, her fingers tangling together in restless fidgeting that betrayed her nerves.

“You needn’t be afraid of me, young one. I will take nothing from you… unless you ask, of course.”

Her already red cheeks deepened further.

“You’re as red as a strawberry.”

“Fragola,” she smiled faintly. “It is what Papà calls me.”

He brushed his hand against the crimson of her cheek. “So many freckles, too. You are such a rare beauty.”

“Not more beautiful than Addeline.”

V faltered at the mention of the name. “Addeline… sì. She is an ever-looming presence for you, eh?”

“Papà, he loves her so. He doesn’t look at me the way he looks at her.”

Perpetua released her, pacing in a slow circle before stopping with a dark chuckle. “Regina, I’ve seen him with you. He cares for you, make no mistake. He’d be an idiot not to.”

She nodded, biting her bottom lip. “To live in the constant shadow of another woman… it is exhausting, no?”

“Well,” Pepe mused, “I wouldn’t know about living in the shadow of another woman… but the shadow of another man, tsk tsk tsk.”

He drifted back to her side, sliding behind her and wrapping his arms around her midsection. She leaned into his embrace, drinking in the fleeting affection he allowed her. When he swept her hair aside, she knew what it meant—if she didn’t stop him, he would bite her. And she couldn’t lie to herself—she had enjoyed it. The sensation V gave her was far stronger than any release Papà had offered her, though he was contending with something not entirely mortal.

She quickly reached back, cupping his face with her hand, her voice soft but firm. “No, no… Signore mio.”

“Oh, but why, Regina? You enjoy it so much, no?”

She was silent for a moment, her breath catching as his hot breath fanned across her neck. His hands had already begun kneading her thighs through the fabric of her long dress, stirring a heat she didn’t want to acknowledge. At last, she pulled her throat away from his waiting lips. “I cannot be unfaithful to him,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I love Papà with my whole heart. I did enjoy what you did to me, Pepe, but it is still a betrayal to my beloved.”

He chuckled, unfazed, pressing the lightest kiss against her cheek before tightening his grip on her. Then, just as quickly, he released her and gave a firm pat to her rump, pushing her gently forward. “You are such a sweet and loyal woman, Anna,” he purred. “I would never dream of making you feel otherwise.”

She curtseyed before him and turned to leave. But his voice followed her, halting her once more.

“Regina?”

She stopped and looked back at him obediently, waiting.

“Do not be afraid to lose yourself in my brother’s passion,” he said, his eyes narrowing with intent. “Step outside your box, even a little, and you may find his gaze lingering on you all the more.”

She bowed her head before finally disappearing down the corridor, leaving Pepe alone—his desire curdling into hunger unmet.

*

Copia tore through the hospital, one shoe flying off as he sprinted toward the maternity ward. He doubled back to snatch it up, only to be intercepted by a woman in scrubs.

“Hello, sir, are you here for your daughter?”

Daughter. He scoffed inwardly at the word. He had daughters younger than this woman—how dare she? “No,” he snapped, breathless, “I am here for…” He faltered, the word wife lodged uselessly in his throat, friend far too small to fit. His jaw tightened. “I’m here for the mother of my children.”

“What’s her name? I can help you find her.”

“Addeline.”

“Oh, Addeline Taylor?”

The name jarred him, as it had jarred Addy before. It was so formal, so distant. He hadn’t heard Swiss’s true name in nearly a decade, and once, not long ago, she had been Addeline Emeritus. His wife. To hear “Taylor” trailing her beautiful name now felt foreign, almost wrong.

“Mrs. Taylor is in room 203. I can take you to her.”

“Thank you,” he said, his gratitude clipped but genuine and followed the woman down the hall toward the room he sought.

Inside, Addeline and Swiss were waiting. He didn’t know yet what they were waiting for but they seemed on edge when he burst through the door. He wore the façade of calm, holding himself in check for the nurse’s sake.

“Addy, you have a visitor.”

Her face went still. Swiss’s eyes narrowed faintly. He too recognized the storm simmering just beneath Copia’s mask.

“Thank you, dear,” Copia said, as the nurse moved to check Addy’s vitals. The atmosphere remained awkward for a brief moment with nobody but the nurse speaking, “Everything looks find, honey. You push the red button if you need anything.”

“I will, thank you.”

All hell broke loose the moment the nurse stepped out. “Cazzo, Addeline, look at you! Why in the hell would you not tell me you’re in labor?”

“I—”

“Life and death—that’s what Sister told me. Life and death, Addy! Can you explain exactly what the fuck is going on, and why I was left out of the—”

“Owwww!” Addy shot up from the bed, clutching her stomach. She doubled forward, screaming through gritted teeth. “No—oh God, ohhh, I can’t do it—”

Swiss leapt from his chair, one arm sliding behind her back while the other steadied her wrist. Copia too barreled forward, grabbing at her legs as if he could anchor her to the bed.

Addeline lifted her face toward her husband, eyes wild and tears brimming. She cupped Swiss’s cheek with a trembling hand. “Please—tell them to do the C-section now. Please, baby, I can’t take it anymore.”

Papa stood frozen, his grimace etched deep. It had once been Swiss who delivered Addeline to his bed, offering her up to him without question. And now, it was Swiss at her side—the father of the child inside her—cradling her with the same tenderness Copia still remembered as his own.

The irony was unbearable, and yet he couldn’t look away. Her screams cut through him, achingly familiar. Addeline had never borne labor well; the agony always broke her down, driving her to cry, to scream, sometimes even beg for death.

Swiss began to fill him in. “We were admitted two days ago. Addy’s water broke and… well, I don’t need to remind you of the complications preterm babies face.” The words carried an edge, as if the ghoul were laying blame at Copia’s feet.

Papa’s stomach sank. He regretted bombarding Addy the moment he’d walked through the door. A reluctant sympathy stirred in him for Swiss as well—though he couldn’t look at the man without seeing the one who had stolen his wife’s heart. He knew too well the terror of babies born too soon. His little Cirice and Opus had come at twenty-eight weeks, five weeks later than Addy was now, and even they had barely survived.

The memories came in a rush—Swiss’s arms holding him back as he tried to reach his unconscious daughter, the tiny still body of Cirice laid out before the doctors, the extreme measures it took to breathe life into her lungs. The weeks in incubators. The desperate prayers to a God he didn’t worship. And the years after—consequences that never truly faded. Cirice was fragile and often ill, her immune system weak and her milestones always late. Opus, always wheezing with asthma, struggling for air in ways no child should. Every hardship engraved into Copia’s heart.

He only dared wonder what trials this little one would face—if it survived at all. His chest ached as he whispered, “Addeline, I am so sorry, my sweet.”

Her cry of pain cut through the room, jagged and agonized. Swiss bent over her, steadying her trembling body, before glancing back at Copia. His voice was low, apologetic, but edged with weariness. “I’m sorry we didn’t call you. I know she’s the mother of your children, and you had a right to know. But we wanted this time for ourselves, just us. Because… we don’t know how this will end, and we couldn’t risk the kids being frightened over something we can’t yet explain.”

Papa nodded and stepped forward, easing Swiss slightly aside. “Let me.”

He knelt beside the woman, his voice steady and commanding. “Addeline, tesoro, look at me. Look at me now.”

Her panicked cries softened as she caught his gaze, her breath evening out into shallow, deliberate pulls through her mouth.

“Addeline,” he said, taking up a tissue to blot her damp forehead, “this is hard, I know. But you have done this before, sì?”

She nodded, tears streaming though her voice stilled.

“And you know that at the end of this road, no matter how painful, you will have a baby in your arms. Yes?”

Again she nodded, whispering, “Yes, Papa. Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed, giving her hand one last squeeze before stepping back, allowing Swiss to take his place at her side.

The door banged open and Dr. Halvorsen strode in with two nurses. His eyes went straight to Addy, not wasting a second on anyone else in the room.

“Addeline,” he said firmly, stepping to her bedside, “you’re twenty-three weeks and two days, and the medication isn’t stopping your contractions. With your history of two C-sections, it is too dangerous for you to keep laboring. If we don’t move to surgery now, the risk of your uterus rupturing is very high—and that could cost both you and the baby your lives.”

Addy whimpered, clutching Swiss’s hand, her face drenched with tears.

Halvorsen softened his tone, bending slightly so she had to meet his eyes. “I know you’re exhausted. I know this feels impossible. But I need you to understand—we can’t wait any longer. A C-section is the safest option for you, and it gives your baby a chance.”

Her sobbing breath hitched. “Please… then do it. I can’t anymore.”

Halvorsen gave her hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before nodding to the nurses. “Prep the OR. Let’s move.”

The nurses moved swiftly, lowering the bed rails and unlocking the wheels. The room exploded into motion—monitors unplugged, cords gathered, the bed repositioned.

Swiss clung to Addy’s hand, pressing frantic kisses to her damp knuckles. “I’ll be right here, I promise. I’m not leaving you.”

Copia hovered near the foot of the bed, fists clenched, his face set like stone. The chaos clawed at him—the beeping, the rush of orders, the wheels squealing as the nurses prepared to move her—but he forced himself to stand firm. He’d been here before—he’d seen both his wives through c-sections. He could taste that fear again now.

Addy sobbed, her free hand twisting into Swiss’s shirt as though she could anchor herself there. “If they need to save somebody, save Umbra.”

Swiss’s face crumpled, torn between fear and the impossible choice. “Addy, I don’t know if I can—”

“We will save her, amore.” Copia’s voice cut in, steady, almost unnervingly calm. He placed a hand on Swiss’s shoulder, his eyes locking on him. Leaning close, he whispered low so Addy couldn’t hear, “You tell her whatever she wants to hear before she steps into that surgery. She doesn’t need to carry the weight of truth right now. Not when she’s already fighting to hold on.”

Swiss swallowed hard, nodding, though his eyes burned. He tightened his arms around Addy, pressing his cheek to her hair, and forced his voice steady, “We’ll save her, Addy. We’ll save Umbra. I promise.”

Her sobs broke against his chest, her body shuddering with the fragile relief of his words.

Dr. Halvorsen glanced back once more as the team began to wheel her toward the doors. “I’m sorry but only one of you can go in.”

Addy’s eyes darted between the two of them, wide with fear. Her trembling fingers clutched desperately at her husband’s. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t, babe. I’m right here.

Copia’s chest clenched. For a second, it felt as though the floor fell out beneath him. He had been here before—he had stood at this very precipice of fear with her, held her through this same storm. Once, he had been the man she begged not to leave her side. Now he was nothing but a shadow at the edge of her vision.

But he didn’t argue. His place wasn’t at her side anymore. Still, as the doors swung open and Swiss guided her through, the image seared itself into him—her wide eyes, her hand in another man’s, her whispered plea meant for someone else.

It hurt more than he had expected.

The OR lights blazed down as Addy lay trembling, Swiss’s hand locked around hers. The air bristled with urgency—the neonatal team waiting with their tiny instruments, the obstetric team already opening her old scar.

In minutes, the baby was lifted free. She was impossibly small, no bigger than Swiss’s hand, her skin translucent, limbs thin and trembling. For a terrifying heartbeat there was silence, then a thin squeak broke the air—weak but alive.

“Umbra,” Addy whispered, reaching toward the sound, but the child was already swept into the waiting arms of the NICU team. Plastic wrap enveloped the tiny body and a mask pressed over her face as they worked quickly to coax her fragile lungs into rhythm. There was no soft moment of skin to skin—just the briefest glimpse before she was rushed to the warmer.

“She’s here,” Swiss choked, leaning close to Addy’s ear. “She’s here, baby!”

Addy clung to the words as the surgeons pressed down on her belly. The monitors screamed as blood welled faster than it should. She was dimly aware of suction, of instruments clattering into trays, of the urgent tones of the doctors fighting to keep her body under control.

“She’s losing too much,” one voice snapped. “Hang another unit—now!”

Her head lolled, the world blurring at the edges. She clung to Swiss’s voice as he whispered desperately, “Stay with me, babe. Please, Addy, stay with me.”

The NICU team rushed out with Umbra, the plastic crib rattling ahead of them. Swiss’s heart lurched. He wanted to follow them, to see his daughter breathe, to fight beside her. But Addy’s hand gripped his with the last of her strength, and he couldn’t move.

Copia was there, standing rigid, his face pale as he caught sight of her—the faintest squeak, the rise and fall of her tiny chest under the mask. It was a sight that struck him to the core.

Swiss appeared seconds later, stumbling out after Addy was wheeled toward recovery. He froze between the two directions, torn in half—his wife in one wing, his daughter in the other.

“Swiss!” Copia called, stepping forward, “Go with Addy.”

Swiss’s eyes darted toward him, wild with indecision.

“I’ll follow the baby,” he said firmly, already moving in step with the NICU team. “You stay with her. She needs you.”

For a moment, Swiss just stared at him. But then he nodded, swallowing hard, and turned back toward the gurney where Addy lay with her life in the balance.

Papa watched him go and then shifted his gaze back to the tiny bundle being rushed down the corridor. He followed, silent and grim, as though he were being pulled toward destiny itself.

The team’s voices overlapped as they rushed through double doors, Umbra’s fragile body almost lost beneath tubes, wires, and the sterile plastic wrap. Copia kept close, his loose shoes striking hard against the tile. He had seen newborns before, but never anything so small, so raw, so impossibly alive.

“Heart rate ninety… lungs shallow… intubate now,” one of the doctors barked. The tiny chest lifted weakly, then faltered, until a tube slid between her lips and the machine began to breathe for her. The sound rattled Papa’s soul—mechanical air pushing life into her.

He stood frozen at the glass, hands tightening behind his back. She wasn’t his blood. She never would be. And yet watching her fight, no larger than his hand, filled him with a fierce, aching protectiveness he couldn’t explain. Addy wanted her saved, he thought. And so she will be.

Meanwhile, Swiss sat hunched in the recovery bay with his hand wrapped around Addy’s pale fingers. Her eyelids fluttered, the anesthesia still weighing heavy. “Swiss?”

“I’m here, Adds. I never left.”

Her lips parted and she struggled to push out her words, “Umbra? Don’t let her be alone.”

Swiss pressed a kiss to her hand. “She’s not. I promise.”

*

The recovery bay was dim and hushed. Only the soft sounds of machines hummed around Addy’s bed. Swiss was sitting at her side brushing circles over the back of her hands when the curtain drew back.

A woman in scrubs stepped in. The badge clipped to her collar said her name was Doctor. Aspera and her expression stood gentle but grave. “Addeline?”

Addy’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, but she tightened her grip on Swiss’s hand. “Yes.”

“I’m the attending neonatologist,” the woman said. She pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat, folding her hands together. “Your daughter is in our NICU. She is alive, but she is critically ill.”

Addy’s lips trembled with fear. “Is she… is she breathing?”

“With help,” the doctor answered gently. “She’s been intubated and placed on a ventilator. Her lungs are not mature enough to breathe on their own yet. We’re giving her medicine to help them develop, but she’s still very fragile.”

Swiss swallowed hard while his hand remained on Addy’s, his other hand pressed against his forehead.

Dr. Aspera continued softly, “She’s also under special heat, in a plastic wrap and incubator, because her skin can’t really hold warmth yet. We’re monitoring her heart very closely. Babies this small are at high risk for brain bleeds, infection, and complications with sight and hearing.” She paused, her eyes kind but unwavering. “But for now, she is here and she is fighting.”

Addy broke then, sobs tearing at her chest. Swiss bent close, whispering into her hair as his own eyes burned.

“Can I see her?” Addy pleaded through tears.

“Yes,” the physician nodded. “You can’t hold her just yet, but you can see her. We’ll take you in as soon as you’re stable enough to be moved. For now, focus on resting and letting us care for you.”

Addy clutched Swiss’s hand with all her strength, whispering through sobs, “She’s all by herself. What if she’s scared?”

Swiss pressed his lips to her knuckles. His voice broke as he spoke. “She’s not, babe. Copia’s with her right now. She’s not alone.”

“Papa?” she repeated it as if she couldn’t believe he stayed. “My Papa is with her?”

“Yes, he’s with her, Adds.”

The curtain shifted again, and this time it was Dr. Halvorson who stepped inside. His mask was tugged down, his face drawn but steady. He pulled a stool close to her bedside and sat.

“Miss. Addy, you scared us tonight.” He glanced at Swiss before turning back to her. “You lost a significant amount of blood during surgery. We were able to stop the bleeding, but it took longer than we’d like. We’ve given you two units of transfusion already, and you’ll remain under very close monitoring.”

She swallowed, throat dry. “Am I… am I okay?”

“You’re stable,” he said carefully. “But your body is tired. This was your third cesarean. The scar tissue made the surgery complicated, and you are at higher risk for infection and future bleeding.”

Addy didn’t seem to catch the doctor’s unspoken meaning, so he continued speaking, “Mrs. Taylor,” his eyes shifted to Swiss as well. “I need to speak with you about the future… beyond this.”

She tensed, her hand instinctively pressing against her belly. Swiss reached for her fingers, steadying her before she could answer.

“You’ve endured more complications than most women see in a lifetime—preterm labors, a hemorrhage, multiple C-sections. Now, a rupture at twenty-three weeks despite a cerclage. Your body has fought hard, but each pregnancy is putting you at greater risk.”

Addy’s throat worked as she swallowed. “You’re saying… no more babies.”

The doctor’s voice softened. “I’m saying that another pregnancy would be dangerous. Almost certainly life-threatening for both you and a child. I won’t tell you what to do with your body, but if you were my sister, my wife, my daughter… I would beg you not to risk it again.”

Silence fell, thick and suffocating. Addy blinked hard, her tears spilling anew, but this time she turned her face into Swiss’s shoulder, muffling the sound.

Swiss tightened his arms around her, his voice low and fierce as he answered for them both. “Umbra is our miracle. We’ve got her, we’ve got Meliora, we’ve got the Adams family. It’s enough.”

Dr. Halvorsen inclined his head, leaving them to the quiet weight of his words.

Chapter Text

Perpetua had spent the night at the Ministry. It was a reminder that his presence could not be ignored. When morning came, he found Sister already in her office, the heavy curtains drawn against the light. She didn’t look surprised to see him.

“Perpetua,” she greeted, her tone even, though there was always a trace of warmth reserved for him.

“Mother.” He inclined his head with a faint smile as he crossed the room. After a pause, he asked, “And where is my brother this morning?”

“Still at the hospital, no doubt. The baby was born last night.” Her voice was flat as if delivering nothing more than a business report.

“Baby? I wasn’t aware he was expecting a—”

“It’s Addeline’s baby.”

Perpetua’s brows arched, “So early?” The words lingered in the air, not surprise, not pity—something colder, as if he were tallying figures in his mind. “Far too early.”

He folded his hands neatly behind his back and began to pace. “Addeline has carried how many children now?”

Sister set her pen down, her gaze distant as she counted aloud. “One… two… three… four… five… eight, now?” Her uncertainty filled the silence, the number hanging heavy between them.

“Does she normally have premature children?”

“She has in the past,” Sister admitted, her brows drawing together.

“But they all survived?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, her patience thinning. Her gaze lifted to meet his, sharp and searching. “Why are you so concerned about Addeline?”

Perpetua only smiled faintly, offering no answer. The silence stretched, deliberate, until it became its own reply.

Why does my brother concern himself with the woman when he already has a wife?”

Sister rolled her eyes. “Well, you’re new around here, so… let me spell it out. He’s still in love with her.”

“And his wife is just… decoration?”

“Listen, I’m not one to judge, but he knocked the poor girl up while he was still with Addeline. He felt it was his obligation to marry her.”

Another piece of the puzzle, Perpetua thought, filing it away.

Sister flicked her hand as if brushing the topic aside. “Anyway—you didn’t hear it from me.”

He lingered a moment longer, silent and unmoving, until Imperator’s patience thinned. “Don’t you have something you could be doing?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, bowing his head. “My apologies for disturbing you.

*

Tempest knelt beside the small cedar chest, its hinges creaking as she eased it open. The faint scent of lavender drifted out, mingling with the dust of years gone by. Inside lay a neatly folded stack of baby clothes—soft cotton, pale pastels, tiny buttons that gleamed faintly in the light.

She lifted a onesie carefully, as though it might tear beneath her fingers. Holding it up to the lamp, she studied it the way one might study an ancient relic. The fabric was faded now, but to her it was radiant, carrying the weight of a dream that had once been so close.

Her mind carried her back to the day she bought them. She had just left the doctor’s office, the confirmation still warm in her hand. Pregnant. The word had lit her from the inside out. She hadn’t even paused to think—she’d gone straight into town and bought everything her arms could hold: onesies, blankets, little socks she couldn’t resist.

She remembered how her heart pounded as she pictured telling Perpetua. He had wanted this for so long—a child, an heir, a legacy. His reasons had been heavier than hers, rooted in ambition and power, but that hadn’t dimmed her joy. She had wanted it too, desperately, in her own way. She had wanted to give him something she thought nobody else could.

The memory shifted in an instant, cruel and sharp. The bleeding had come suddenly, far too soon. She remembered the panic in her chest, the rush of the hospital, the look on the nurse’s face when the monitors fell silent. The doctor’s voice had been careful and clinical, telling her there was nothing to be done. That it was “nature’s way.”

She had gone home empty. Empty arms, empty womb, empty heart. And when she told Perpetua, his silence had been worse than any words. He had turned away, his grief buried beneath the armor of ambition. He had wanted an heir, yes, but he had also wanted strength and permanence. And what she had given him instead was failure. What followed was a succession of miscarriages with no real explanation or reason.

Her fingers trembled as she folded the onesie back into the chest. It slid into place among the others, each one a reminder of the life that never came. She traced the edge of the cedar lid before closing it, sealing the past away again.

Tempest had been adopted as an infant, but she never thought of herself as anything other than cherished. Her parents, though not bound to her by blood, had given her a childhood filled with warmth.

That foundation shattered in her early twenties. She had been chasing a degree in music, studying at the Curtis Institution of Music, when the call came. A car accident. Both gone in an instant.

The grief hollowed her. Lectures and recitals felt meaningless, her textbooks heavy with words she could no longer hold onto. Within weeks, she withdrew from school, packed her bags, and left. Traveling became her escape, each new city, each new face a way to keep moving forward, to keep from drowning in what she had lost.

It wasn’t just running. It was shedding. Every border crossed was a way to peel another layer of her old life away, until only the music and the ache remained to remind her who she had been.

The road was never steady, but it was hers. From dimly lit cafés in Paris to street corners in Lisbon, Tempest carried her guitar like a second voice, earning enough money to keep moving but never long enough to put down roots. She told herself she was chasing music, but in truth, she was chasing silence—a place where the grief couldn’t catch her.

She remembered the day she had discovered her power. It was somewhere along the Rhine. She had been drifting from town to town, playing in train stations and tucked-away taverns, living out of a single battered suitcase. In a riverside inn, she had set up in the corner with her guitar. The room was loud with laughter and clinking glasses, but when she began to sing, the noise thinned until silence pooled at her feet.

At first, she thought it was simple courtesy, or maybe that her grief had lent her music an edge it hadn’t carried before. But then she noticed the stillness and the way men and women alike stared at her with parted lips, eyes glazed, as though every word was a hook sinking deeper into them. No one drank. No one moved.

A shiver worked its way down her spine. She tried to stop, but something in her kept pushing the song forward, and the crowd leaned closer, hanging on every note. Only when her voice cracked and faltered did the spell break. People blinked, startled, as if waking from a dream.

A few weeks later, in another town, she decided to push the boundaries. She set herself up on a busy street corner, the kind where people usually hurried past without listening. This time, when she began to sing, she didn’t just pour her grief into the song, she aimed it.

One by one, heads turned. Strangers slowed before stopping completely. A businessman reached into his coat, dropping coins into her guitar case without even glancing at the amount. A woman set down a basket of bread before her, though she clearly hadn’t intended to part with it. Others followed, as if compelled, offering what they had—small bills, jewelry, whatever was within reach.

Tempest’s heart hammered. The power of it was intoxicating and horrifying all at once. With every note, she felt the invisible thread tightening around them, pulling what she asked for straight into her hands.

When the song ended, the spell unraveled. People blinked, looking around, some confused to find their pockets lighter and their hands empty. A few frowned at her case and at the coins glittering in the late sun, but none confronted her. They just drifted away as if waking from a fog.

She gathered the money with trembling fingers, shoving it into her bag. Shame burned her cheeks, but beneath it, another sensation pulsed, the thrill of knowing she could bend the world if she dared.

In the weeks that followed, Tempest tested herself again and again. At first, it was small things, a free meal, a warm bed, a pocketful of coins from strangers who should’ve walked past. Each time she felt the tug of her voice ripple through the air, felt it catch in the minds of those who listened, she grew bolder.

She told herself it was survival. She was alone, drifting through unfamiliar cities, and what harm was there in persuading people to give what they could spare? But deep down, she knew it was more than that. The rush of it, the heat that spread through her chest when eyes glazed over and hands moved without thought, was a temptation all its own.

And then came the night she went too far. She was in Munich, singing to a crowd outside a café. Her song had started as usual, coaxing coins into her case. But she wanted more, she wanted to see how far her reach truly went. Her voice pressed harder, wrapping tighter around them, and a man stepped forward, tugging a gold band from his finger. When it wouldn’t slide free, he simply pulled a knife from his pocket and, without hesitation, cut the finger clean off.

Blood welled instantly, spattering across the cobblestones. He held the severed digit out toward her, his face slack, voice flat. “For you.”

Tempest’s song broke off in a strangled gasp. The thread snapped, and the crowd blinked as though waking from a dream. A scream rang out when someone saw the blood. The man collapsed, writhing now, shrieking in pain as if only just realizing what he’d done.

Tempest staggered back, horrified, her own hands trembling as she clutched her guitar to her chest. Change clattered as people scrambled, the square dissolving into chaos.

She ran before anyone could look at her. Before anyone could ask her what she had done.

For hours she sat trembling in her room, staring at her own reflection as if it belonged to a stranger. It was then she realized her gift was also a curse. And if she wasn’t careful, it would consume her.

After Munich, she swore she would stop. She told herself she’d never push that far again. But fate had other plans.

Germany had been meant as nothing more than another stop, another city to disappear into. She found herself in a basement lounge off a forgotten street, performing for an audience full of inebriated men.

She told herself she wouldn’t use it. She’d just sing, let her voice carry the weight of the song, not the pull of her blood. But when she opened her mouth, the gift poured out anyway, curling through the haze like invisible threads. She watched their faces slacken, their hands freeze around their glasses. She hated it. She loved it. She couldn’t stop.

And then she saw him.

One man, standing in the dark. Unmoved. Unbound. His eyes were sharp and focused. He wasn’t leaning forward like the others. He wasn’t swaying with the current of her voice. He was watching her—not the way they did, not as a prize or a dream, but as if he were reading her.

When her set ended, she slipped from the stage, brushing past the eager hands that reached for her. They weren’t what she wanted. They never were. It was him. The stranger who hadn’t fallen.

Her steps carried her straight to him before she even decided. Her voice was still tinged with its edge when she spoke. “You. You were able to look away.”

“Yes,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “Seems your song doesn’t work on me.”

Her chest tightened. No one had ever said that before. No one had resisted.

For the first time since Munich, she felt the roles shift. She was the one under scrutiny now, and he was the one who could choose to let her drown or pull her in.

That was the night she met Perpetua. And the night she realized she wasn’t the only predator in the room.

*

Addeline had been given the green light to go home, however, she couldn’t bring herself to leave her daughter at the hospital. She was still sitting in her recovery room, Swiss asleep on the couch, snoring loudly with greying hair already forming in his mustache—an uninvited tribute to the stressful week.

Copia slipped in quietly, balancing a tray with meals for everyone. He caught Addeline’s weary eyes before setting the ghoul’s food down on the table beside him. “Should we wake him?”

She shook her head. “Let him sleep. He needs it.”

“You need it,” Papa countered. “And you need to eat up. You look sickly. You’re too thin and much too pale, even for you.”

“What a polite way to call me ugly, Papa.”

He chuckled, sinking onto the chair across from her. “Oh, darling, you will never hear those words from my mouth. You are a rare beauty. If you were not, I would never have noticed you in the crowd in Tampa.” He reached across and gently pinched her cheek, drawing a reluctant smile from her as she took a bite of the chicken sandwich he had pressed into her hands.

For a moment, the weight of the NICU monitors and white hallways lifted, replaced by the comfort of his voice and the way he could still make her laugh, even when she felt empty and afraid.

“Have you seen her this morning? Have you talked to anyone?”

Copia’s mouth parted, but he said nothing. There was something heavy, almost mournful, in his eyes.

“What? Tell me!”

Before he could answer, the door opened and the pediatrician entered.

“Doctor Aspera!” Addy quickly greeted, her voice climbing with a brittle urgency, “Is everything okay?”

“Good morning, Addy.” The woman’s tone was calm. “I’m happy to see you’ve recovered well.”

“Doctor, Umbra! Please.”

The physician hesitated, her eyes flicking to Copia, as though they had already spoken, before turning back to Addy. Swiss stirred on the couch, jolted awake by his wife’s booming voice. He straightened immediately when he saw the woman in the white coat, the air in the room tightening. Dr. Aspera offered him only a brief nod before continuing.

“Mrs. Taylor, your daughter—”

“Umbra,” she cut in sharply, her voice trembling. She knew too well the tactic: depersonalizing the child, calling her your baby, your daughter, anything but her name. It was a way to create distance, to make Umbra a medical case instead of the tiny life fighting in a plastic box across the hall.

“Umbra suffered a collapsed lung this morning.”

“What?”

“Fuck,” Swiss muttered under his breath, pushing himself up and stepping closer, protective instinct overtaking his sleep-dulled haze.

“We placed a chest tube immediately, which reversed the collapse,” Dr. Aspera explained, her voice steady, almost detached. “She’s stable again. Her stats climbed instantly. We were fortunate with timing.”

Addeline’s wide eyes darted to Copia. Anger simmered beneath the panic. She knew he had kept this from her, shielding her, lying by omission.

“When can my baby come home?” she demanded.

Dr. Aspera shook her head. “You’ve had two premies before, correct?”

“Three,” Addy snapped.

“Then you know it’s ideal for them to stay at least until their original due date. Umbra may need longer. You are welcome to visit or stay overnight. Our NICU is open to parents twenty-four hours a day. She will never be without care, and you will be notified immediately of any changes.”

“Right,” Addy scoffed bitterly, “just like I was this morning?”

The doctor’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Sometimes, Mrs. Taylor, events happen so quickly that our first responsibility is to act before notifying the parents. I am sorry.”

With that, she turned and stepped out, leaving the room taut with silence.

She spun on Copia without warning and lunged. He threw his arms up instinctively, shielding himself from her flurry of small fists.

“Addeline, what the fuck?” Swiss barked, rushing in to wrap his arms around her waist to drag her back.

But Addy’s wild eyes never left Copia. “You knew!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “You knew, you bastard, and you didn’t tell me!”

Copia’s mouth tightened, his hands lowering slowly. “I didn’t think it necessary, especially after everything turned out fine.”

“Fine?” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “You should have come to me immediately! What if she had died? What if that was the last time I saw her—what if—”

“Shh,” Swiss hushed, forcing her to turn into him. His arms locked around her, her trembling frame pressed to his chest, her face buried in the fabric of his shirt.

Her sobs muffled against him, raw and unrelenting. Swiss smoothed a hand over her back, his eyes darting up to Copia. For a beat, the two men held each other’s gaze—Swiss’s full of startled reproach, Copia’s shadowed with guilt he would not speak aloud.

He shifted uneasily under Swiss’s glare, his fingers worrying at the edge of his jacket. “Addy…” His voice was soft, almost swallowed. “I did not tell you because—because I did not want to break you. Not after the week you have had. She was stable when I left her, I swear it. I thought… I thought to spare you one more moment of torment.”

Swiss tightened his hold as Addy shook against him, her fists still curled into his shirt. “That’s not your call,” he snapped over her head, his voice low and cutting.

Copia’s eyes flashed. “And if she had died in the seconds it took for me to reach you, hm? What then? Would you have thanked me for honesty, or cursed me for stealing those few moments of peace from you?”

Addy’s head lifted from Swiss’s chest, her tear-streaked face turning toward him. “I don’t need peace,” she whispered hoarsely. “I need the truth. Do you understand? She is my baby. My daughter! You don’t get to choose what I can or can’t handle. How could you be so selfish?”

The words cut deeper than her fists ever could. Copia’s shoulders slumped, shame washing over his features. “I understand,” he said finally, voice hushed. “I am sorry, Tesoro.”

Swiss pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, murmuring against her hair, “It’s alright. Umbra’s okay.” But even as he soothed her, her sharp gaze never left Copia, as if daring him to make another mistake.

Papa exited the room, the weight of Addy’s words still pressing on his chest. The sterile corridors gave way to a set of double doors, and he stepped outside, drawing in a lungful of crisp air as if it might purge the ache inside him.

He had neglected everything else for her. For her daughter. The ministry ran on half-strength without him; Sister was forced to lean on Perpetua, and that thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit. The children were left to the care of governesses, their laughter and quarrels no longer echoing through the halls in his presence. Annaliese, his wife, lay in an empty bed night after night, loneliness breeding in the silence he left behind.

And here he was, tethered to a fragile life in a glass box and the woman who loved that child with every frayed fiber of her being. Duty clashed with devotion, and Copia knew he was losing ground in both battles.

He tipped his head back, eyes closing as a low sigh escaped him. For all his titles, all his authority, he had never felt so powerless.

Swiss stepped outside, fumbling for his pack, the need for a cigarette clawing at him. He lit up with shaky hands, pulling in a drag before he heard Copia’s voice behind him.

“Come out here to pollute my lungs and yours, eh?”

Swiss gave a half-smirk, exhaling smoke into the morning. “Sorry. Bad habit.”

Copia’s nose wrinkled. “I never understood how she could stand that constant stink of tobacco.”

“She… she doesn’t,” Swiss admitted, his tone softer now. “She gets onto me about it. Not for the smell, really, but… ya know… for health. And it feels wrong, standing here puffing on this while my kid’s up there fighting to breathe through her own lungs.” He flicked ash to the ground.

Copia only nodded, the silence heavy between them.

Swiss shifted, glancing over at him. “Listen, Emeritus… I’m sorry I didn’t have your back up there. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Addeline shouldn’t have come at you like that.” He hesitated, dragging again on the cigarette. “None of this is your fault. And you don’t even have to be here, but you are. You’re not selfish, alright?”

Copia’s eyes softened, the words cutting through the guilt he had been carrying since the morning. For the first time in hours, he let his shoulders drop. “Don’t fret over that,” he said with a small shrug. “It is certainly not the first time that woman has lashed out at me, and I am quite sure it will not be the last.”

Swiss let out a short laugh, smoke curling from his lips. “You got that right.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette, eyes drifting toward the hospital windows. “She’s been through hell. We all have. Don’t take it personal.”

“I never do,” Copia replied, his voice lower now, more reflective. His gaze followed Swiss’s toward the glass, as though he could see Addeline on the other side. “Every time she strikes me, it is only because she is hurting. I would rather take her anger than watch her drown in silence.”

Swiss nodded slowly, chewing on the thought. “Yeah… I get that. I’d rather she scream at me than shut me out. At least then I know what she’s feeling.” He took another drag, exhaled hard, and ground the half-finished cigarette beneath his boot. “Hell, half the time I don’t think I deserve her anyway. But I’ll never stop trying to be the man she needs.”

Copia glanced at him, the faintest flicker of something like respect softening his expression. “On that, we are the same, amico. She has broken me in ways I did not think I could survive… and yet, even in pieces, I'd still choose her.”

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but weighted with all the things neither of them dared say. Swiss reached into his pocket, pulled out the crumpled pack of cigarettes, and held it out.

“You want one?”

Copia huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Grazie, but no. My wife would have my head if I went home to her smelling of nicotine.”

Swiss smirked, tucking the pack away again. “Fair enough.”

Copia glanced at him sidelong, a rare grin tugging faintly at his mouth. “Besides, someone needs to live long enough to keep tabs on Addy. You are already making that harder on yourself.”

That pulled an honest laugh from Swiss, low and rough. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

For a brief moment, the rivalry ebbed, leaving only two men standing under the hospital lights, bound together by the same impossible love.

Chapter Text

The car ride home for Addeline and Swiss, though only a short drive, felt unbearably long. It was harder still to walk through their door empty-handed, knowing their daughter had been left behind. The doctors had urged them to rest, to come back as often as they wished, to call whenever they needed reassurance. Yet none of it filled the dull ache of leaving her.

The house was dark when they stepped inside. Addy slipped off her shoes and let her coat fall across the chair, her movements slow, as though her body weighed twice as much. Swiss closed the door behind them, the quiet click echoing through the stillness of the home.

They moved through the living room as if they were intruders, not speaking a word.  Without bothering to turn on the lights, they went straight to bed, lying side by side in the dark. Sleep didn’t come quickly, but exhaustion eventually pulled them under.

Sleep brought Addy no peace. In her dreams she found herself in the hospital corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. She ran toward the NICU, but no matter how fast she moved the hallway stretched longer, the door always out of reach. At last she stopped, chest heaving, and turned back to find Swiss standing in the distance with the children gathered around his legs. He held them close, while Addy stood alone, her arms still aching for the baby who wasn’t there.

She woke with tears dampening her pillow. Swiss stirred beside her, his hand reaching blindly until it found hers. She gripped it tightly, clinging to the one thing she hadn’t lost.

*

When Addeline woke again, it was morning—or close to it. She was sore, but unusually well rested for once. Stretching wide across the bed, she brushed against the sleeping ghoul beside her, rousing him from slumber. Swiss squinted against the sunlight pouring through the window.

“We’ve got to get some blackout curtains,” he muttered, reaching blindly for his watch. His eyes went wide. “Shit—we slept for twenty hours.”

He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, thumbing the screen only to see a row of missed calls. His face drained. “Goddamn it…”

Addy pushed herself up on her elbows, irritation rising with the panic in his tone. “What? What is it?” She had no patience for guessing games.

“It’s the hospital, I think,” he said, already unlocking the phone.

“Call them back!”

“What do you think I’m doing, Adds?” His thumb hovered over the screen, his voice tight.

Addeline could hear the shrill ring, then the sudden silence when the call connected. She couldn’t make out the words on the other end, only the low murmur of a voice she couldn’t reach. All she had were Swiss’s clipped replies—I understand… okay… is she going to be okay? Her chest tightened with each pause that followed, every second stretching unbearably. Finally, his voice broke through again, firmer this time: We’ll be right there.

She was hanging on to every word, her pulse thundering as if the weight of her daughter’s fate balanced on those short phrases alone.

Addeline’s stomach clenched as Swiss lowered the phone, his hand dragging slowly down his face. For a moment he didn’t look at her, just sat there with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as though he hadn’t quite processed what he’d heard.

“Swiss…” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “She’s not dead.” It came out more like a plea than a certainty, as if saying it aloud might bend reality to her will.

He finally met her eyes, and the look alone stole the air from her lungs. “No, she’s not,” he said quietly, “but she’s taken a turn. They need us there right away.”

The words settled like lead between them. Addy’s hands flew to her mouth, her breath breaking in shallow gasps. The bed that had felt safe only moments ago now felt suffocating, too soft, too still. She pushed back the blankets and swung her legs over the edge, every muscle aching but propelled by fear.

They both jumped in the car, wasting no time getting back to the place they had just spent a week. When they arrived, a nurse ushered them quickly past the rows of incubators and monitors, into a small family conference room with stark white walls and a single box of tissues on the table. Dr. Aspera was already waiting, chart in hand, her face set in the practiced calm Addy had come to dread.

“Mrs. Taylor. Mr. Taylor,” she greeted evenly. “Thank you for coming so quickly. We performed Umbra’s head ultrasound this morning. I’m afraid it shows a bleed in her brain—what we call an intraventricular hemorrhage.”

Addy’s breath caught; Swiss’s hand immediately found hers, his grip rough and desperate. “A bleed?” he demanded. “How bad is it?”

“It is a Grade II,” Dr. Aspera explained, leaning forward. “That means the bleeding is contained within the ventricles. It has not spread into the brain tissue itself. Right now, it hasn’t expanded since the scan, which is encouraging. We’ll repeat the ultrasound in two days.”

Addy shook her head as tears blurred her vision. “What does that mean? Is she going to—”

The doctor’s voice softened. “Most babies with a Grade I or II bleed go on to do very well. Some have no lasting effects at all. But it does raise the risk of developmental delays. We can’t make predictions today. What matters is that Umbra is stable, and the bleed has not worsened.”

Swiss let out a long, ragged breath, pulling Addy tightly against him as she broke into sobs. He pressed his lips to her hair, eyes closed, his other hand clenching hard around hers.

“For today,” Dr. Aspera said gently, rising, “take comfort that she is still fighting. We’ll be watching closely. You will be updated every step of the way.”

The door closed behind her, leaving the room too quiet. The only sound were Addy’s muffled sobs against Swiss’s chest.

Swiss held her tighter, rocking her gently, though his own chest rose and fell too fast, betraying the panic he tried to hide.

“She’s still here, Adds,” he murmured into her hair. “She’s fighting, you heard her. Grade II isn’t the worst—she’s got a chance.”

Addy shook her head, her tears soaking into his shirt. “A bleed in her brain, Swiss… she’s so tiny. What if—” Her voice broke before she could finish.

He cupped her face and forced her to look at him, his thumbs brushing her damp cheeks. “No what-ifs right now. Not today. She’s stable, and that’s enough. We’ll take it one day at a time, you and me. And we’ll be here every step, no matter what.”

Her lips trembled, but she nodded, collapsing back into his arms. For a moment they sat together in silence, clinging to each other as though their grip alone might keep their daughter alive.

*

Papa arrived home, finally. As soon as he set foot in the ministry, his young children came running up to him, arms outstretched, “Daddy,” Elizabeth called as she leaped into his embrace.

“Father!” Kaisarion wrapped both arms around his waist.

The twins crowded close, Opus clinging to one leg while Cirice seized the other, though neither said a word.

Meliora toddled after them, slower than the rest. “Papa.” He reached upward until Copia bent and gathered him with his free arm.

Burdened by children on his hips, at his waist, and tugging at his legs, Copia laughed breathlessly and called out, “Annaliese!”

Elizabeth’s voice piped up first. “How is Mummy? Did she have the baby?”

Copia hesitated, his expression dimming. “Yes… but your baby sister is very ill and must stay in the hospital for a while longer.”

“It’s a gal?” the young child shouted with glee.

“Ugh… another one?” Kaisarion complained, hoping he’d get another brother after Mary and Faith ended up being girls.

Before any more questions could tumble out, Annaliese appeared from the long corridor. The sight of her stopped him cold. She wore a dress so short it left little to the imagination, her hem swaying high enough to reveal the curve of her panties.

His mouth parted in shock as he set Elizabeth and Meliora gently on the floor and extricated himself from the twins’ grip. He stepped toward her slowly, his voice unsteady with disbelief. “What… what are you wearing, dolcezza? Surely you cannot parade through the Ministry in such a thing—not with that cad Perpetua prowling about.”

“He isn’t here,” she answered, though her tone carried little reassurance.

He slid his arms around her, feeling her body stiffen with resistance before she allowed his hold. “Children,” Copia ordered, not looking away from her, “go find Sister and tell her I’ve returned.”

The little ones scampered down the hall in a flurry of laughter, one of them knocking over a vase on the way. “Sorry, Papa!” a voice called as they vanished around the corner.

Copia barely noticed. His attention was locked on Annaliese, dressed in a way he had never seen her before.

“You can’t wear this, Sorella, not around the children,” Copia said, his tone stern though his eyes still lingered.

“You don’t like it?” she countered, arching a brow. “It’s one of Addeline’s dresses. Perhaps you prefer it on her?”

He’d been hard a breath ago, Addeline’s dress clinging to Annaliese like a provocation, but the want curdled the moment she spoke. “So that’s what this is about?”

He understood now, she wasn’t tempting him so much as making a statement, a sharp reminder of her power. Whatever lay beneath that dress, she wouldn’t be giving it to him any time soon.

She caught the way his gaze lingered, hungry and unguarded, on the bare length of her thighs. A slow smile curved her lips as she leaned closer. “Oh, Papà … do you want to touch?”

Before he could answer, she caught his hand and dragged it upward, pressing him against the heat beneath her dress. Even through the thin barrier of fabric he could feel her, warm and slick, the pressure unmistakable. His breath broke in a groan as she moved his fingers herself, using him, making him part of her rhythm.

His head tipped back, undone by the teasing friction. Her lips brushed his ear, “How’s that?”

When he tried to push further, to slip past the edge of her panties, she caught his wrist and tugged him back with a sharp little laugh, “No, no…”

She continued, setting the pace, grinding against his hand until he could feel every contour of her through the lace fabric. The tip of his finger brushed her clit again and again, her body making sure he noticed every twitch and shiver. His pulse thundered as sweat dampened his brow, his erection straining back to life as the ache inside him grew unbearable.

“Do you want me now, Papà? After a week with her, do you crave me?”

Her movements quickened, every drag of his fingers guided exactly where she needed. She rocked against his hand harder, chasing the rhythm with breathless desperation that made him dizzy. His name broke from her lips in a low, fractured moan, hot against his ear, and then her body trembled—a sharp, shuddering quake that tore through her as she ground down one last time.

He felt it in the way she seized against him, the way her breath hitched and scattered, every nerve in her body lighting up beneath his touch. She clutched at him as though to steady herself, riding the crest until it ebbed.

His body wound tight from want as he caught the smirk lingering on her lips. He let a growl slip from his throat as he grabbed the back of her head and dragged her mouth beneath his, kissing her rough and desperately.

When he pulled back, his voice was ragged, “That was naughty.”

“Yes,” she breathed, her smile wicked. “It was.”

His forehead pressed to hers, his hand still tangled in her hair. “Can I, have you?” The question came out raw, more plea than demand.

She only shook her head, slowly, her eyes glittering with defiance.

The denial hit harder than any touch. His body ached, his arousal remained fierce and unrelieved, but what undid him most was knowing she had chosen this—chosen to leave him undone, begging and burning for more.

He didn’t say a word to her. His grip loosened, releasing her as he tilted his head in a curt motion, a silent dismissal. She obeyed without hesitation, but there was pride in her step, her gaze locked on his until the very last moment. Even as she turned the corner and vanished, he could still feel her eyes on him.

Copia swallowed hard, heat burning in his chest, then slammed his fist into the wall. “Dio mio…” he muttered through clenched teeth. “The women in my life.”

*

Another week had passed, and Addeline had finally found the strength to unpack the hospital bags. The folded clothes and half-used toiletries felt like relics of another life, each one carrying the powdery scent of the NICU. She tried to remember what quiet even sounded like, the hush of a house without machines or monitors, when the phone rang again.

Her stomach dropped at the sound. She dreaded answering, knowing she and Swiss had been visiting Umbra every day, staring through the glass at a child who showed so little change. What if this was the call saying the brain bleed had worsened? Or worse still, that some new complication had come?

Her hand hovered over the receiver when Swiss shuffled in from the hallway. He looked like a ghost of himself—clothes wrinkled, hair grown out uneven at the edges, curls left unbrushed, and a beard creeping in patchy and rough. His eyes were red-rimmed and hollow, the weight of too many sleepless nights etched into every line of his face. He dragged his feet across the floor, each step heavy with fatigue.

The phone ceased ringing as Addy pressed it to her ear with trembling fingers. “Hello?”

Swiss was already reaching for his coat before she managed to breathe out the words, “We’ll be right there.”

They rushed back to that same little room, the one with the tissue box sitting idly. Dr. Aspera entered with her usual chart in hand. Addeline’s stomach twisted before the woman even spoke.

“Doctor? What is it now?”

“The brain bleed hasn’t progressed,” she said first. “The ultrasound showed no expansion, so that is really encouraging.”

Swiss gave Addy’s hand a quick squeeze under the table, a flicker of hope, but the doctor’s eyes didn’t soften.

“However,” she continued, “Umbra has developed signs of infection. Her blood work shows elevated markers, and clinically she is mottled and hypotensive. In plain words… she has sepsis.”

Addy’s breath tore from her chest. “No. No, please.”

Swiss leaned forward, his voice low and rough. “How bad?”

“It is serious,” Dr. Aspera said honestly. “But we started broad-spectrum antibiotics right away. She’s receiving fluids and is on medication to support her blood pressure. It was touch-and-go this morning, but she is responding. Slowly, she is stabilizing.”

Addy buried her face against Swiss’s arm, her sobs muffled into his sleeve. He kept her hand in a white-knuckled grip, as though he could take the weight of it for her.

Dr. Aspera folded her hands on the table. “Sepsis in a baby this small is always dangerous. But for now, she is holding on, so carry that with you guys when you leave here today.”

This earned a faint nod from the doctor. She placed a hand on his shoulder before walking out the room, leaving the couple to speak.

Swiss turned to look at his wife. “I think one of us should stay here tonight, babe. Until she’s stable at least.”

Addy shook her head almost before he finished, her eyes clouded with fatigue and fear. “I don’t want to go home. Not tonight. I can’t be alone, Swiss.” Her fingers tightened around his as though letting go would unravel her completely.

“Alright. Then don’t be. Call Copia. Ask him to bring one of the older kids, Elizabeth or Kaisarion, to the house. They can stay with you, keep the place from feeling so empty. That way you’re not alone, and I can stay here with her.”

“I don’t want the kids to see me like this. They don’t deserve that kind of burden… not after the divorce. They have enough to deal with without having to support me emotionally.”

Swiss nodded, swallowing. “I understand. I do miss Meli though. Maybe we can take the kids tomorrow. I think it’s time, Adds. I don’t want to push them to the back burner.”

He watched the reluctance in her eyes. “Addy, we have to start doing little things, the things that make up our life. They miss us. We miss them. And they’re a good distraction.”

She closed her eyes, breathed out slow, and let herself believe it for a moment. “Okay. Tomorrow. But on one condition. We both stay here tonight with her.”

He smiled faintly, relief softening the hard lines of his face. “Deal. We’ll both stay. She won’t be alone, and neither will you.”

*

Copia pulled the car to a stop and climbed out, moving quickly to release the children. They tumbled toward the front door, some faster than others, their voices rising in a jumble of excitement and weariness. Elizabeth held Faith at her hips, but the baby’s head bounced so violently with her hurried steps that the smile slid from the girl’s face.

“Slow down, Eliza!” Papa called sharply.

He reached into the back for Mary, who clung to him at once. Her small face was blotchy from tears, no surprise after the long ride. With gentle precision, he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her cheeks clean of snot.

The front door opened, and Swiss stepped aside as the stampede of children rushed in, filling the house with their noise. He followed them, making sure they didn’t destroy everything in their path. Addeline slipped out to stand on the porch, letting the door close behind her. She had words building in her chest, things she couldn’t hold back any longer.

Papa approached her slowly, his gait heavy with the memory of their last conversation. She had been furious with him then, and he knew it.

“My dear,” he said softly, “how are you?”

Addeline reached out to take Mary, but the child twisted away, burying her damp face deeper against Papa’s shoulder. Addy let it go though, as if the rejection didn’t bother her. “I’m surviving.”

Papa inclined his head, studying her with care. “I see that. And how is…”

“She’s stable,” Addy answered quickly. “That’s all I can say for now. We’ve run into so many obstacles over the last week. It seems like every time she overcomes one thing, something else finds her.”

Papa reached out, tucking a strand of hair gently behind Addy’s ear. “Then we will continue to hope for the best.”

He shifted Mary, speaking softly to her. “Little one, Mama needs you now. If you promise to stay and be good, I will buy you ice cream when you come back to me.”

At first Mary pouted, but the promise of a treat softened her face. With a small nod, she let him set her on her feet. She slipped inside the house to rejoin her siblings.

Addeline watched her, then gave Copia a half-smile. “You’ve got a daddy’s girl there.”

“Yes, but it can be a pain in the neck at times. To have a daughter so attached… even a small break feels freeing.” He stopped short when he caught his ex-wife’s expression, realizing at once how his words might cut against her reality. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright, Papa. I know what you meant. Mary can be a complicated child.” She sighed deeply, then forced the words out. “Listen… about that day at the hospital. I owe you and apology for—”

He lifted a finger, cutting her off gently. “No, Amore. You don’t need to burden yourself with my feelings. You have too much else on your mind.”

“But I was awful to you,” she said, her voice breaking. “I yelled at you, I called you names, and all you’ve done is show us kindness. You’ve been there when we needed you most, and I—” Her throat closed as tears spilled over.

Copia stepped forward without hesitation, drawing her against him. He pressed her face to his chest and wrapped his arms around her, holding her firm as she sobbed. His hand stroked through her hair, steady, reassuring, and he rocked her slowly, humming into the crown of her head until her breathing evened out again.

At last, her sobs ebbed, leaving only the uneven hitch of her breath against him. Addy kept her face pressed to his chest, unwilling to meet his eyes, ashamed of how much she’d unraveled.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to fall apart on you like this. I told myself I would hold it together while the children were here.”

Copia laughed under his breath, quiet enough that she couldn’t hear the weight beneath it. He wanted to tell her she could cry into him as much as she needed, that he would bear it all without complaint. He wanted to say he’d be her shield when Swiss could not, her punching bag if that’s what it took. But none of that reached his lips.

Instead, he gave a faint and knowing smile. “Our children are… very intuitive, my dear. They sense more than we wish they would, though they don’t always show much sympathy for it. Kaisarion is the only one you truly need to worry about upsetting. Perhaps Meliora too…” His tone shifted, pointed now, his eyes cutting into hers. “But you know as well as I do—whatever temperament he has, it didn’t come from me.”

The words hung heavy between them, sharp in their truth, until the faintest glimmer of irony in his gaze softened the blow. It was enough to draw a reluctant laugh from her, though the sound caught somewhere in her throat.

“Thank you, Papa.” Her voice was soft, almost shy, and she puckered her lips as she rose onto her tiptoes to give him a kiss. She fell just short, her height failing her, and for an instant she felt almost like a girl again—small, vulnerable, reaching for reassurance.

Copia leaned down without hesitation, closing the gap so her gesture wouldn’t go unanswered. His kiss was light, paternal, the kind that spoke of care rather than desire.

The simple act steadied her more than she expected. Guilt and grief had weighed her down all night, yet in that small kiss there was forgiveness, understanding, and the reminder that she wasn’t as alone as she feared. It eased the tightness in her chest, though it also brought with it a quiet ache—because part of her longed for this kind of uncomplicated comfort to last, even when she knew it never could.

*

The children were a welcome distraction from the chaos and uncertainty of hospital visits. No more late-night calls, no frantic updates that Umbra had stumbled into another crisis. For once, the phone stayed quiet. For once, they were able to cook a proper meal, gather around the dining room table, and eat together like a family again.

It wasn’t much, but it felt like breathing after being held underwater—refreshing, grounding, almost normal.

That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, they actually felt relaxed lying down beside one another. It was a relief just to curl up without the bone-deep exhaustion that usually dragged them under.

Swiss kept her tucked against his chest, pulling her so tightly she thought she might dissolve into him if he held her any closer. The feel of his bulge through the thin fabric of his boxers sparked something alive in her.

Swiss felt it too—the press of him against her, harder now, his pulse racing where her body fit so tightly against his. She turned in his arms, close enough to feel the heat of his breath, close enough to remember what it was like before everything fell apart.

They hadn’t held each other like this in months. Not really. Not with grief weighing them down at every turn, not with the house so crowded, not with the endless trips back and forth to the hospital.

Addy clutched at him like she was afraid he might vanish, fingers fisting in his shirt, pulling him down to her. His mouth crashed against hers, all teeth and desperation, not polished or patient but famished. She didn’t care. She wanted the scrape of his stubble, the press of him close, the way he still made her feel alive when everything else tried to drag her under.

“Shh,” he whispered against her lips, though his own breath was ragged. He cast a glance at the door where the children were sleeping just down the hall. The warning only made her clutch tighter, made her kiss him harder, like she was daring the world to stop them.

His hands framed her face as if to remind himself she was here, real and still his. She broke the kiss long enough to gasp, “I need you,” before his mouth swallowed the words.

The sound of his low groan vibrated through her bones, a reminder that he needed her just as badly. Their bodies curved into each other, every brush of contact sharp with longing, every breath louder than it should’ve been. For a few stolen minutes, it was just them, two people desperate to feel something other than loss, grasping at each other like a lifeline.

Swiss’s mouth moved lower, trailing hot kisses down the curve of her breast, his tongue flicking against her nipple. She gasped and let her hands thread through his long hair.

His fingers sank into her, finding the signs of how recent it still was, her body marked by the birth of their daughter. The crimson wetness wrapped around him, a reminder of her healing. It should have made him pause, but it didn’t, not for a second. To him it was only proof of her strength, of how fiercely he wanted her.

She groaned at the press of his fingers inside her, the sensation sharp and startling, almost like the first time all over again—raw, new, overwhelming in its intensity.

"I want to feel you inside me,” she tried to beg, before his mouth seized her, swallowing her lips into another desperate kiss.

Her thighs pressed together instinctively when the sensation grew too intense, and Swiss chuckled against her skin. He drew his fingers back slowly, teasing her with the loss before sliding his hand to the hem of her nightdress, pushing the fabric higher.

He shoved his boxers down quickly, keeping her panties tugged aside. She spread her legs for him, eyes squeezing shut as the thought tumbled out. “We’ll, get blood on the sheets.”

“Let them stain,” he quickly breathed. He had never once let something like blood stop him from making love to Addy before, and he wasn’t going to start now.

He loomed over her, lining himself up, the anticipation sharp after what felt like forever. He knew he had to be careful, that her body was still healing from the C-section. But gentleness with her was something he had learned long ago, a balance of patience and hunger he had already mastered.

Swiss lifted his head with a grin. “Are you ready for me?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her belly before easing her legs wider and settling his hips between them.

She held herself open, wildly excited for the sensation of his cock once more after she’d spent so much time begging for it, begging for release from him. And then he pressed into her, slowly and she felt herself break open around him. Her restraint shattered. A cry tore from her throat before she could stop it.

He clapped his hand over her mouth, stifling the cries before they could carry down the hall. The fear of waking the children pressed hot between them, only making her body writhe harder beneath his.

He moved faster than he meant to, chasing the rush he could no longer hold back. Each thrust sent a sharp sting through her, proof that his caution had slipped away—but she didn’t care. Her eyes fluttered shut, desire burning hotter as she clutched at him, fingers digging into his rear cheeks to pull him deeper.

She arched beneath Swiss’s touch, her chin digging into his shoulder as she fought for breath against the hand still clamped over her mouth.

Her thighs trembled as he buried his face in the pillow, each movement sliding easier, slicker, until he was moaning with the pace he found.

“Swiss, baby—” His name tore from her, muffled against his fingers as her climax crashed through her. Her hips jerked, her body tightening hard around him, every tremor wrung out in the moans she couldn’t hold back.

He groaned with pride, his grip on her thighs tightening as he drove toward his own release. He rode her through every shuddering wave until at last she fell limp against the sheets.

“Fuck—” he was too close, too far gone. He knew from experience how dangerous this could be, knew Addy was never more fertile than now. Panic and instinct slammed together, and he tore himself free at the last second. He didn’t have time to aim. Hot ropes spilled across her chest, streaking her skin, marking the sheets beneath them as his body shuddered through release.

“I’m sorry,” he groaned, breathless. “Shit, I’m sorry, Adds.” He fell back onto the mattress, chest heaving, wiping the sweat from his forehead as if it burned to stay there.

They lay tangled in the sheets, bodies still humming from the mess they’d made of each other. She buried her face against Swiss’s chest, and for a moment, their breathing the only sound in the room.

And then they heard the soft rush of water through pipes, the flush of a toilet mere feet away.

Swiss groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Shit. One of the kids is up.”

Addy stifled a laugh, tugging the sheet higher over herself. Heat burned her cheeks at the thought of getting caught like this.

“Relax,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to her temple. “We’ll act innocent.”

“Uh-huh,” she whispered, rolling her eyes, “because we’re so good at that.”

The footsteps padded past their door, and the two of them stayed very still, smothering their laughter until the house went quiet again.

Chapter Text

Addeline and Swiss returned the children to the ministry, though Meliora had begged to remain at their side. In the end, they kept the boy with them. Among Addeline’s eight children, he was the happiest, his laughter rising where the others’ voices were subdued. Most of her brood had been shaped by the ministry’s strict rules. They knew the hierarchy, they knew their place, and they carried themselves with a gravity far beyond their years.

Meliora, however, was different. He had been raised in two worlds: one with his Papa, Copia, and the other with his father, Swiss.

That dual upbringing granted him what the others had been denied, glimpses of the outside world, freedom beyond the cloistered walls of the ministry. Because of it, he was more well-rounded, more cheerful, and seemed to gather love wherever he went. Swiss’s kin adored him, Addeline’s friends doted on him, even strangers were charmed by his easy smile. He thrived in the abundance of affection that poured from so many corners of his life.

At the ministry, Addeline’s other children fell into line without needing to be told. They bowed their heads when the Sisters passed, folded their hands neatly during meals, and spoke only when spoken to—most of the time.

But Meliora… Meliora was sunlight in the middle of it all.

When Addeline took him into town, he would wave at strangers, his bright grin pulling smiles from even the sternest faces. He darted ahead on sidewalks, tugging at her hand to point out street musicians or colorful buildings, his eyes alight with curiosity. Once, he had stopped to offer his sweet roll to a ragged stray dog, crouching down and whispering encouragement until the creature dared to inch closer.

Around Swiss’s family, he thrived. His uncle hoisted him onto strong shoulders, his cousins chased him through meadows, his grandmother pressed extra sweets into his palms and kissed his curls until he giggled.

He was bold enough to sit at the feet of Copia’s council meetings too, humming softly to himself, utterly unbothered by the stern faces gathered around his Papa.

Where his siblings carried the weight of expectation, Meliora carried wonder. He asked questions others would never dare: Why can’t we go to the market more often? Why do the Sisters never smile? Why does the ministry have so many rules? He lived as though no boundary could fully contain him, as though his very nature was rebellion wrapped in joy.

His elder siblings were protective, trailing after him in the halls to scoop him up before he could run too far ahead. They hushed him when his laughter echoed, smoothing his hair and whispering, “Shhh, Meli, not so loud,” though their eyes softened with affection. To them, he was a reminder of what they had lost too soon—innocence, play, the freedom to laugh without consequence.

And still others feared for him. They knew the Sisters noticed his brightness. They saw the frowns when he interrupted, the sharp clucks of tongues when he toddled across the chapel floor chasing a toy instead of kneeling in silence. The children had learned what those frowns meant. When the rules pressed hardest on their own backs, they worried the same weight would one day fall on him.

Yet for now, Meliora was shielded by Addeline’s embrace, by Swiss’s arms, by Copia’s unspoken indulgence. He lived in a bubble of laughter that his siblings both cherished and feared might one day be broken.

*

Addy and Swiss had been summoned back to the hospital, the call carrying that familiar urgency that twisted Addeline’s stomach into knots. The pediatrician and NICU team wanted to speak with them, and the drive felt like it lasted hours though the hospital was only minutes away.

This time, they brought Meliora with them. At three, he was too young to grasp the fear that weighed on his parents’ shoulders, but he sensed their tension all the same. His small hand clung tightly to Addy’s fingers as they walked through the hospital’s corridors, his wide eyes darting from the bustling nurses to the humming machines.

They had decided it might do him good to see his sister—his true, full-blood sister—even if she was so fragile, cocooned in wires and light. He had heard the whispered talk, had seen his mother cry, and though he was cheerful by nature, even Meliora had grown quieter in those days.

Dr. Aspera appeared in the doorway of the small family room, her expression already telling Addy that the news would not be good. Swiss straightened immediately, sliding an arm protectively around Addy’s shoulders. Meliora sat between them on the couch, his little legs swinging, oblivious to the storm about to break.

“Mr. and Mrs. Taylor,” Dr. Aspera began, her tone calm but grave, “Umbra’s abdomen has become distended. The X-rays we took this morning show early signs of necrotizing enterocolitis.”

Addy’s lips parted, but no sound came. Swiss’s grip tightened.

“What does that mean?” Swiss asked, his voice low and controlled, but Addy could feel the strain vibrating in his chest.

“It’s an intestinal infection,” the doctor explained. “It can become very serious, very quickly. We’ve stopped her feeds, started antibiotics, and placed a tube to keep her stomach decompressed. We’ll be monitoring her very closely. But I need to be honest with you. Some babies do not survive this.”

Addeline’s throat closed. She felt the sharp sting of tears but fought them back, her eyes darting to Meliora, who was now tugging absently at the hem of her sleeve, humming softly to himself.

Swiss leaned forward, his jaw set. “So… what happens next?”

“We watch,” Dr. Aspera said gently. “If her condition worsens, if there’s a perforation or she becomes unstable again, surgery may be the only option. And in a baby her size, surgery carries enormous risk.”

Addy pressed her lips into a trembling smile, smoothing her hand over Meliora’s hair. “You hear that, sweetheart? Your sister’s belly is giving her a little trouble, but the doctors are helping her.” Her voice broke only on the last word, but she quickly kissed the crown of his head, hiding her face in his curls.

Meliora looked up at her with wide, solemn eyes. “She get better, Mama?”

“Yes,” Addy whispered fiercely, her tears hidden in his hair. “She’s going to try.”

Dr. Aspera let the silence linger a moment, then inclined her head. “I’ll take you to see her now.”

Swiss rose first, steadying Addy with a firm hand at her back. Together, with Meliora’s small hand clasped in hers, they followed the doctor down the hall, each step heavy with the weight of words they couldn’t afford to say aloud.

“Her will play with me?” he asked in a small, hopeful voice as they reached the NICU doors.

Addeline’s throat tightened, and Swiss’s hand came to her back before she could answer. “Not yet, little man,” Swiss murmured, crouching so he could meet his son’s eyes. “She’s very small, and very tired. But she’ll know you’re there. She’ll know her big brother came to see her.”

Meliora nodded solemnly, gripping both of their hands now as the nurse held the door open. The beeping of monitors and the soft whoosh of ventilators greeted them, and Addy’s heart clenched as she led her son toward the incubator.

The nurse wheeled over a small step stool so Meliora could see inside the isolette. Addy lifted him up gently, settling his little hands on the clear plastic. He leaned forward, peering in with wide eyes.

Umbra looked impossibly small, her skin thin and reddish, her chest rising and falling beneath a web of tubes and wires. A cap held the lines steady at her head, and the steady rhythm of the ventilator filled the room.

Meliora blinked. “Her is… little,” he whispered, his breath fogging the glass.

“She is,” Addy murmured, brushing a hand through his curls. “She came early, so she’s still growing. But that’s your sister.”

Swiss stood on the other side of the isolette, his massive hands resting awkwardly on the incubator’s edge. His son’s wonder softened something deep in his chest.

Meliora pressed closer, lowering his face so near the glass it nearly touched. “Hi, Umbra,” he said solemnly, his voice a conspiratorial whisper as though the machines might be listening. “I your big brother. You can play with me when you’re big too.”

Addeline’s eyes blurred, her throat catching on the sight of him — her cheerful boy introducing himself to the sister fighting for every breath. She rested her head briefly against Swiss’s arm, both of them holding the moment in silence as the monitors kept their endless vigil.

Umbra gave no sign she had heard, but Meliora didn’t seem to mind. He kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them against the glass. “I love you,” he declared, then looked back at his parents with a grin, proud of himself.

The nurse smiled faintly from the doorway. “That’s the best medicine she’ll get today.”

*

Later that night, Meliora sat at the kitchen table with his tablet propped in front of him, the bright colors flickering across his face. He munched noisily on a handful of potato chips, crumbs sprinkling onto the table.

Swiss came in, shaking his head with mock sternness as he swiped the bag from under his son’s arm.

“Hey, Daddy! Those mine!” Meliora squealed, grinning wide as though it were a game.

Swiss tucked the bag onto the counter. “You can have some after supper. You won’t be hungry if you eat all these now.”

“I is hungry,” Meliora protested, folding his little arms. But almost instantly, his attention slid back to the tablet. He giggled at the dancing characters bouncing across the screen, the quarrel forgotten.

At the stove, Addy stirred the pot absently, her eyes softening as she watched the exchange. It was such a small thing, a boy and his chips, a father’s gentle correction, yet it grounded the room with a sense of fragile normalcy.

Swiss slumped into the chair beside his son, tension rolling off him in waves. Addy noticed immediately. She knew that look. He had something to say, and she wasn’t going to like it.

“Out with it, babe.”

Swiss shifted, rubbing a hand over his face. “Listen, I know this isn’t ideal, okay? Especially with the kids coming back next week. But… we need the money. My band and I are going to do some shows. Just for a week.”

Addy froze, spoon hovering over the pot. “You’re going on a tour?”

“No, not a tour. Just—some venues for a little while.”

She turned, eyes narrowing. “Call it what it is. You’re touring. You’re leaving me to go play music for fans, Swiss.”

He tried to rise, to pull her into his arms, but she shoved him away before he could touch her. He leaned back against the counter instead, crossing his arms and lowering his head like a boy being scolded.

“You want to get away,” she hissed. “You want to escape.”

“That’s not true—”

“Yes, it is! That’s exactly what you’re doing. You’re running. You told me I wasn’t going to be alone, and here you are, running off.”

“Adds…”

“What about me?” Her voice shook now, fury and fear tangling in her throat. “I can’t just run off, can I? I have to be here—for Umbra, for Meliora, for the rest of the children…” she had almost forgotten about the others, “…My God! Seven children, Swiss. I’ll have seven children to take care of all by myself!”

He snapped before he could stop himself. “Can you not watch your own children for a week?”

The words cut, sharp and smug, and her temper flared hot enough to catch Meliora’s attention from across the table. He looked up from his tablet, potato-chip crumbs on his cheeks, blinking at his parents. Addy’s voice lowered but her anger sharpened.

“You know I’ve never been alone with all of them. I’ve always had help—nannies, governesses, another parent. Someone. And you know that.”

Swiss’s jaw clenched, his tone turning cold. “Well, Adds, maybe it’s time you learn how to take care of all these babies you made.”

The words landed like a slap. He had warned her years ago that she shouldn’t have had so many, but he knew better than anyone that she had never been given a choice. That was what stung the most, that he had been there, seen it, and still threw it back at her.

“How dare you,” she whispered, shaking.

“Addy, come on, I—”

“How could you say that to me?”

“I didn’t mean it that way—”

“Yes, you did. You said exactly what you meant.”

Her hands trembled as she shut off the stove. “Dinner is ready. Feed your son.” She tore off her apron, slapped it down on the counter, and stormed out of the kitchen.

The kitchen door swung shut behind her, the echo of her footsteps fading down the hall. Swiss stood frozen for a moment, the sting of his own words still ringing in his ears. He hadn’t meant them, not like that, but once they were out, there was no pulling them back.

Beside him, Meliora crunched another chip, then looked up with wide, curious eyes. “Mama mad?”

He forced a smile for his son’s sake and ruffled his curls. “Yeah, Mama’s mad. Daddy opened his big mouth.”

Meliora giggled, amused at the thought, and turned back to his tablet, humming along with the cartoon theme song.

Swiss sank into the chair across from him, leaning his elbows on the table. He watched his boy’s innocent joy and felt the guilt gnaw at him harder. He wanted to go after Addy, to tell her he was sorry, to explain that the fear of losing Umbra was twisting him into someone he didn’t even like. But pride pinned him in place, and instead he reached for the pot on the stove and spooned food onto Meliora’s plate.

“Eat up, little man,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “One of us has to keep it together.”

Later that night, once Meliora was tucked into bed and the house had gone still, Swiss found Addy outside on the porch. She was sitting on the steps with her arms wrapped around herself, her face pale in the glow of the porch light.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping down to her side. “Adds…” His voice was soft, almost careful. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. About the kids. About you. I was out of line.”

Addy didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the dark stretch of yard.

He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the words. “But I still need to go. The guys are counting on me. They can’t play without me, and—hell, they need the money too. It’s just a week. I swear to you, I’ll come back.”

Finally, she turned her head, her eyes glistening in the half-light. Her voice broke low and fierce. “I need you.”

For a moment, the words hung between them, heavier than anything either had said all day. Swiss opened his mouth, then closed it again, unable to answer her plea. Addy stood, brushing past him, and went inside without another word, leaving him on the porch with the silence.

She left him standing there, the door clicking shut behind her.

Swiss sank down on the porch step and braced his elbows on his knees. He stared out into the dark. Addy’s words echoed in his head, sharper than any fight, heavier than any promise he’d made to his bandmates. I need you.

He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, though the taste turned his stomach. The smoke curled into the night as he dragged his palms over his face, guilt clawing at his chest.

The guys needed him, that was true. They always had. Music had kept him alive when nothing else could. But Addy’s voice haunted him now, more urgent, more desperate than any chord he could ever play.

He wondered if he was about to break the very thing he was trying to hold together.

The porch light buzzed faintly above him. Inside, he could hear the muffled clatter of Addy moving through the house. He dropped the cigarette into the dirt, grinding it out with his shoe.

And then he sat in the quiet, torn between the life he owed his brothers on stage and the life he owed the woman inside.

*

Swiss had his bags packed, boots heavy on the hardwood as he made for the door. Addy followed closely behind, her arms crossed tight over her chest, eyes red but dry.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me,” she said, trembling between anger and grief. “And now—now, when we have the kids.”

Swiss paused with his hand on the doorknob. He turned slowly, meeting her stare. “Adds… I told you. It’s only a week.”

“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

He kissed her cheek, guitar case already slung over his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just remember—give K-man the Nintendo, he’s knee-deep in Zelda. Don’t let him rage quit, or he’ll sulk for hours. Elizabeth?” He pointed toward the girl who was already shuffling a deck of cards. “Turn on the poker channel. She’ll sit there quiet as a mouse. But don’t ever play against her—she’ll clean you out. One day I’m taking that one to Vegas.”

Addy folded her arms, still staring at the seven children. “Seven, Swiss.”

He chuckled. “Meli? Lock him in a room with a ball, and he’ll bounce it till sunrise. Opus and Cirice will marathon the whole Conjuring franchise.” He bent low to ruffle Mary’s curls. “And for her? Just put on Impera. Papa’s voice is better than any lullaby.”

She tried to smile, but it came out tight. “And Faith?”

Swiss’s grin faltered. “Ah, Faith… well, that’s the one you really have to watch.” He kissed Addy one more time, murmured, “You’ve got this, babe,” and headed out into the night.

The door shut behind him, leaving Addy in a house suddenly too big, too loud, too overwhelming. The kids already scattered into their little routines as he’d promised, but she still felt the weight of it pressing in.

Chapter Text

It was late in the evening, and Swiss had been gone for three days. She was cleaning up the kitchen when her phone rattled against the counter. She jumped, her pulse already frayed, and for a fleeting second, she thought it might be Swiss, guilt tugging him back home early. But the screen lit up with the hospital’s number.

Her stomach dropped as she answered with shaking hands. “Hello?”

“Addeline?” The voice was brisk but gentle. “This is Dr. Aspera. I’m afraid there’s been a change in Umbra’s condition. We need you to come to the hospital right away.”

Addy’s knees nearly buckled. “What happened?”

“She’s developed further complications from the NEC. Her blood pressure is unstable, and we’re concerned about a possible perforation. We’re doing everything we can, but it’s critical that you come now.”

Addy’s throat closed around a cry. She gripped the counter with her free hand, eyes darting toward the living room where Meliora and his siblings squabbled over the tablet, seven children in total under her roof. Alone.

“Goddamn it!” The curse tore out before she could stop it. She pressed the heel of her hand to her eyes, trembling. Of course. Of course this is how it would go. He leaves, and the call comes. He promised I wouldn’t be alone. He swore it. And now—

Her voice cracked as she forced the words out. “I’ll come. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

She ended the call, slammed the phone onto the counter, and stood shaking, rage and panic mixing in her chest. The children’s laughter and chatter drifted in from the other room, oblivious, almost cruel in its normalcy.

She frantically dialed her husband, hoping he’d pick up but knowing deep down he was probably sleeping. It was no secret he was a drinker on tour — and probably heavier now with the extra burden gnawing at his mind.

“Goddamn you, pick up. Pick up, pick up!” she hissed, her fists clenching at her sides. The line rang uselessly, over and over. She hurled the phone across the counter with a clatter. “Asshole.”

From the living room came the sound of Meliora’s giggles, high and careless, tangled with another child’s whine. The squabble over the tablet grew sharper until Kaisarion’s voice split the air, hurling curses at Elizabeth. Elizabeth shrieked back, her tone triumphant, taunting.

Then came a loud clash, the unmistakable shatter of glass on the floor.

Addy’s stomach dropped just as Mary’s small voice pierced the din, trembling and desperate. “Papa! Papa!”

Addy stormed into the living room, her voice cutting through the noise like a whip. “Enough!”

Kaisarion froze mid-swing, Elizabeth clutching the tablet just out of his reach. Shards of glass glittered on the floor from the broken picture frame. Mary still cried for her father, fists balled against her eyes. Meliora, startled, shrank back in his chair, his giggles gone.

“Sit down. All of you. Now.” Addy’s tone brooked no argument. The children scrambled, Kaisarion muttering under his breath as Elizabeth smirked in victory, but even she slid onto the couch without another word.

Addy swept the broken shards into a rough pile with her sleeve. She didn’t even care about the cut that bloomed across her palm. All that mattered was keeping the chaos contained. She grabbed her phone again, breath coming in shallow gasps as she dialed one number, then another.

“Please,” she choked into the first voicemail, “it’s Addy—I need help. Now. I have to get to the hospital. Please call me back.”

She hung up, tried again. Another voicemail. Then another. Every ring that went unanswered ratcheted her panic tighter.

From the couch, Kaisarion finally spoke up, “What’s wrong, mother?” Then question began tumbling from every mouth. “When’s supper, Mama? What are you doing? Is Daddy coming back soon?”

She pressed the phone to her chest. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as her gaze swept over the faces that looked to her for every answer. Seven pairs of eyes.

She couldn’t bring them all. Not into the sterile NICU, with its cold lights and relentless alarms, the whispered warnings and the machines that made Umbra look more ghost than child.

Her hand shook as she clutched the phone tighter, whispering under her breath, “I can’t do this alone.”

*

Headlights cut across the front windows, and moments later, a sharp knock rattled the door. Lucia swept inside, her coat half-buttoned, hair pulled back in haste. She stopped just long enough to take in the scene—the children scattered in the living room and Addy pale and frantic in the doorway.

“Where’s my brother?” she asked flatly.

Addy’s mouth twisted. “Gone. Packed his bags and left for a week of shows.”

Lucia’s jaw tightened, her nostrils flaring. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

A sharp curse hissed through Lucia’s teeth as she stripped off her gloves and tossed them on the console table. She muttered under her breath, shaking her head. “Unbelievable. He left you with all these kids—” She broke off, looking toward Mary, who was climbing down from the couch with tear-streaked cheeks.

Lucia sighed, gathering the little girl onto her hip with practiced ease. When she turned back to Addy, her eyes were still hard. “Go. I’ve got them. Don’t waste another second.”

Addy nodded, her throat tight. She pulled on her coat, bent to kiss Meliora’s curls, and whispered, “Be good for Aunt Lucia. And that goes for the rest of you too,” she said a bit louder so the others would hear.

Lucia’s gaze softened for a moment as she smoothed Meliora’s hair, but when her eyes flicked back to Addy, the steel was there again. “You let me deal with my brother when he gets back. For now, just get to that baby.”

Addy bolted out into the night, her heart hammering, every step carrying her closer to the hospital.

*

The NICU doors buzzed open, and the rush of machines and soft alarms hit her like a wall. A nurse spotted her, came quickly, and without a word guided her past the rows of isolates until she reached the glass-walled room where Dr. Aspera stood waiting.

The pediatrician’s face told her everything before a word was spoken.

Addy’s breath snagged. “Tell me.”

“Umbra’s infection has worsened. Her blood pressure is unstable, and her abdomen looks more concerning. We believe a perforation is possible. We’ve started stronger antibiotics, and she’s on maximum support.”

Addy pressed a hand over her mouth, shaking her head. “No—no, not now, not tonight.”

The doctor lowered her voice, steady but unflinching. “We need to prepare you. If her condition doesn’t improve, surgery may be necessary. And in a baby her size, surgery carries enormous risk. Some infants don’t survive it. Your husband should probably be here as well.”

Addy staggered back against the wall, her whole body trembling. She wanted to scream, to throw something, to demand Swiss stand beside her in this moment. Instead, she pressed her fist against her chest, forcing air into her lungs.

“I need to see her,” she whispered.

The nurse nodded, opening the incubator’s side panel. Addy reached in with trembling hands, stroking her daughter’s tiny arm, careful not to disturb the wires and tubes. Umbra’s skin was dusky, her breaths shallow, her fragile chest moving in rhythm with the machine that kept her alive.

Addy bent close, her tears dripping onto the pink blanket. “Mama’s here, baby. You keep fighting. I’m not leaving you.”

*

The show was over, the adrenaline gone, leaving only the thrum of feedback still buzzing in Swiss’s ears. The others were laughing in the greenroom, cracking open bottles, tossing towels around like boys half their age. Swiss sat apart, slouched on a battered sofa with his guitar leaning against the wall, a drink heavy in his hand. Sweat still clung to his collar, his hair damp and falling into his eyes.

He didn’t hear the door open until a familiar voice cut through the haze.

“Jutty.”

His head snapped up, bleariness giving way to shock. Aurora stood there, arms crossed, her sharp gaze already taking him in — the bottle, the slump of his shoulders, the way he looked more worn than triumphant.

“Liv?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

She shrugged, tossing her bag onto a chair. “Mountain invited the ghoulettes. Haze is here too.”

Swiss scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to sober himself up in an instant, though the alcohol still hummed in his veins. “Christ. I didn’t—I didn’t know.”

“Clearly,” she said, eyeing the bottle in his hand before lifting her brow at him. “You look like you’ve been celebrating a little too hard.”

He let out a humorless laugh, sinking deeper into the sofa. “Celebrating? That’s what you call it?” He shook his head. “Nah. Just trying to forget for a few hours.”

Aurora’s expression softened, though her tone stayed firm. “Forget what?”

She let her eyes fall to the bottle in his hand, then back to his face. “Yea, I heard about your baby daughter. I’m really sorry. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“No.” His voice was sharp as he cut her off, shaking his head. “I don’t think she will be.” He stared down at the floor, the words dragging out of him like broken glass. “But… it’s this thing we’re not really allowed to talk about at my house. Addy… she can’t.”

He swallowed hard, rubbing at his eyes. “She can’t face the thought that Umbra might not make it. So we just… don’t say it. Like if we never admit it out loud, it won’t happen.”

Aurora’s expression softened, the sharp edges in her gaze giving way to something quieter. She lowered herself onto the chair across from him. “Umbra? That’s a beautiful name.”

Swiss looked up at her then, his bloodshot eyes glassy. For the first time all night, his face cracked—a weak, broken smile that never reached his eyes. He let out a shuddering breath and whispered, “Yeah. It is.”

He tipped his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, his hand trembling as it hovered over the abandoned bottle.

Neither of them spoke for a long while after. The greenroom chatter faded as bandmates drifted off.

Swiss’s shoulders sagged, the tension slowly bleeding out of him with each heavy breath. He didn’t reach for the bottle again, though his hand hovered near it once or twice before dropping back into his lap. Aurora didn’t say a word. She just sat there with him, steady as stone, letting the silence do its work.

Minutes stretched into an hour. His eyes grew clearer, the haze of alcohol thinning. He rubbed at his face, groaning softly. “Christ, I made a fool of myself, didn’t I?”

Aurora shook her head. “You made yourself human. There’s a difference.”

That silenced him again, but this time the weight was lighter.

Finally, he pushed himself upright, swaying just a little. Aurora was on her feet instantly, catching his arm before he could stumble.

“C’mon,” she said, “Let’s get you back to your room.”

He let her guide him through the quiet corridors, guitar case in one hand, her grip steady on the other. By the time they reached his door, his steps were sure again, but he didn’t shrug her off. Not yet.

At the door of his hotel room, Swiss leaned against the frame, swaying a little as Aurora pressed the keycard into his palm. His eyes lingered on her face, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth.

“You know,” he slurred, his voice low and playful, “you look hot when I’m drunk.”

Aurora let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Oh? But not when you’re sober?”

His fingers lingered, sliding down her sleeve before he pulled them back. “You’ll have to let me test that theory in the morning.” He tipped his head toward the open door, a loose invitation hanging in the air.

Aurora raised her brows, amused but unyielding. “Nice try, Jutty. But you’ve already got more than you can handle waiting for you back home.”

His grin faltered, her words hitting sharper than he expected. Still, he stepped back, conceding. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“No,” she said gently, “but I can blame you if you don’t get some damn sleep.”

She gave his shoulder a squeeze, then turned down the hall, her boots clicking softly on the carpet. Swiss watched her go, the empty doorway yawning at his back. He stumbled inside, dropping his guitar case with a thud, and collapsed on the bed without even pulling off his boots. Sleep claimed him fast, heavy and restless.

*

Umbra had made it through the night. Fragile, still hooked to more machines than Addy could count, but alive. The crisis had ebbed just enough for the doctors to let her step away.

Addy pressed a kiss to her daughter’s tiny arm before slipping out of the NICU. Her body ached with exhaustion, her eyes burned from crying, but she forced herself upright. Home was waiting. The children were waiting.

The drive felt longer than it was. Morning light spilled across the road, cruel in its cheerfulness, as if the world didn’t know how close she’d come to losing her baby. By the time she pulled into the driveway, her chest was tight again—not from panic this time, but from the sheer weight of carrying everything alone.

Lucia answered the door before Addy could even knock, Mary clinging to her hip and the others scattered across the living room. The faint smell of pancakes and spilled syrup hung in the air.

“She’s stable?” Lucia asked quickly.

Addy nodded, dropping her bag and sinking against the doorframe. “For now. The doctors don’t know how long it’ll hold, but… she made it through the night.”

Lucia let out a breath, shifting Mary into Addy’s arms. “Good. Then go lie down for a few hours. I’ll stay until you get your feet under you.”

Addy shook her head, brushing her lips against Mary’s hair. “No, you’ve done enough. You shouldn’t have had to do this at all. Thank you, Lucia.”

Her sister-in-law’s eyes softened, “Take care of yourself.”

Addy swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in her eyes, and stepped fully into the house. The children swarmed her legs, voices tumbling over each other, the chaos rising all over again. But this time, she let it wash over her—she was home, Umbra was alive, and for one more day, she could hold it together.

*

Swiss woke to a pounding in his skull and the sour taste of last night’s drink still on his tongue. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and sunlight carved straight lines across the bed, stabbing at his eyes. He groaned, rolling over, his boot catching on the sheets where he hadn’t bothered to take them off.

His phone buzzed weakly on the nightstand, the vibration rattling against a half-empty glass. He squinted at the screen, and his stomach dropped.

Nine missed calls. Three voicemails. All from Addy.

“Shit.” He sat up too fast, clutching his head as the room spun. His thumb fumbled over the screen, listening to the first message — Addy’s voice breaking, rushed, words tumbling over each other: “Swiss, it’s Umbra. They called. I need you. Please, please answer me.”

The second message was harsher, angrier, thick with tears: “I knew this would happen. You left, and I needed you, and you weren’t here. Fuck you, Swiss. Like, seriously, fuck you.”

By the third, her voice was quieter, worn to the edge of despair. “She’s so sick. I don’t know what to do without you.”

Swiss pressed the phone to his forehead, groaning, every word a knife to the chest. The hangover was nothing compared to this. He wanted to throw the phone across the room, wanted to drown himself in another drink—anything but sit in the wreckage he’d made.

Instead, he sat there shaking, his breath ragged, the weight of his failure pressing down like a stone. Addy had been right. She needed him. And he hadn’t been there.

His thumb hovered, then he hit the button to call her back. The line rang once, twice, three times—then went to voicemail.

He tried again. Same thing.

“Come on, Adds,” he muttered, his voice raw. “Pick up. Please.”

A third time. Straight to voicemail.

Swiss dragged his hands through his hair, the motion tugging painfully at his scalp. He felt sick, sicker than any hangover could ever make him. The phone lay heavy in his hand, her name glowing on the screen, unreachable.

He pressed the phone to his forehead, whispering into the silence, “Goddammit, Addy. I’m sorry. I should’ve been there. I should’ve—” His voice cracked, and he let it fall into his lap.

For the first time in years, Swiss had nothing to say, nothing to play, nothing to drown it all out with. Just the hollow ringing in his ears, and the knowledge that when Addy had needed him most, he hadn’t answered.

he events of the night before came back in jagged pieces — the show, the bottle, Aurora’s unexpected arrival, the near-slip at his hotel room door.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and forced himself upright. His stomach churned, but the smell of coffee drifted faintly from downstairs, pulling him out of the room.

When he stumbled into the dining area of the small hotel lounge, there she was — Aurora, already seated at a corner table with a mug of coffee in hand and a plate of toast half-eaten. She looked fresh in a way that made his head hurt worse.

Her eyes flicked up as he approached, one brow arching. “Morning, Jutty. You look like hell.”

Swiss grunted, dragging a chair out and dropping into it across from her. He rubbed his temples, trying not to look directly at the food. “Thanks. Just what a man wants to hear first thing.”

Aurora smirked, sipping her coffee. “You said worse to me last night.”

His stomach flipped, shame cutting through the fog of his hangover. He glanced away, muttering, “Yeah. I remember enough.”

She didn’t push, didn’t tease further. She just slid the spare mug across the table toward him. “Drink. You’ll need it.”

Swiss wrapped his hands around the cup, staring into the dark surface, guilt tightening his chest as much as the hangover.

He hunched over the coffee, letting the steam sting his face, hoping it would burn away the sourness in his gut. Aurora tore a piece of toast, chewing slowly, her eyes on him.

“You planning on eating, or just staring that cup into submission?”

“If I eat, it’ll come right back up.”

“Charming,” Aurora muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched.

For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the clink of dishes from the buffet line and the low hum of other guests. Swiss thought maybe she’d let it pass, that they’d pretend last night hadn’t happened.

But Aurora set her toast down, folded her hands around her mug, and looked at him squarely. “I heard Umbra made it through the night.”

His grip tightened around the coffee cup. He swallowed hard, his voice low and gravelly. “What? What happened? I can’t get a hold of Addy. I don’t know anything.”

Aurora hesitated, her gaze flicking down to her mug. “Oh… just that— I don’t know the whole of it. Mountain mentioned in passing that Umbra got really sick last night, but he said she was okay this morning.”

Swiss’s chest heaved, the weight of it hitting him all at once. He dragged a hand down his face. “I should’ve—” His voice broke, and he shook his head, cursing under his breath. “Christ, I should’ve been there.”

"Look..." Aurora set her mug down gently. “Your daughter is still here. She made it through the night. That means it’s not too late, Jutty.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Addy won’t even take my calls.”

“Then stop calling and just go, silly. Surprise her.” Her lips curved into a sly grin. “I mean… I never liked your surprises very much, but I’m sure she does.”

His head snapped up, eyes locking on hers. For a moment his expression hardened, defensive, before the corner of his mouth twisted into a bitter half-smile. “Yeah? Funny, I remember you loving a lot of things I did.”

Her smirk deepened, and she leaned back in her chair, swirling the last of her coffee like it was wine. “Don’t flatter yourself, Jutty. You weren’t that good.”

He laughed, dragging a hand down his face. “Liar.”

He looked at her across the table, the banter fading into something quieter. She still cared — he could see it in the way her gaze lingered, the way her laugh softened when it was just for him. And for the first time since he’d left, he felt steady.

He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. “Guess I better start packing,” he said, standing and rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m going home.”

Aurora smiled, small but certain, and lifted her mug in a kind of toast. “About damn time.”