CHAPTER 86: A GAME SHE LOVED

Lorraine now understood exactly why Emma had "prepared" her for bed that night.

And... infuriatingly enough... it had worked.

Her husband, the man who had once called her useless and a mistake, the husband who didn’t even look her way for a few days, was standing in her doorway, visibly unsettled by what he saw.

Well.

She knew he was attracted to her in the dark. The kind of attraction that made him return to her like a predator returning to its favorite watering hole, like a creature that knew exactly where to find its favorite prey.

But would that same man be seduced by Lorraine? The mute. The deaf. The woman he had written off?

There was only one way to find out.

Her bare feet whispered over the floor as she crossed the room, hips swaying with slow, deliberate precision, her long hair brushing languidly over the curve of her hips. She reached the threshold, curled her fingers around the edge of the door, and leaned her body just enough to push it open.

By the placement of the candle and the way he stood... oh yes. He’d have a perfect view now. The silhouette of her ample mounds was clear in the flickering light, framed and offered without so much as a word.

An invitation. An open one.

She bit her lower lip, just a graze, then let the tip of her tongue sweep across her lips for that soft, wet shine. The epitome of every seductive lesson the universe had never officially taught her, and yet, here she was, executing it flawlessly.

She fluttered her lashes, gauging his reaction.

Leroy stood frozen. His nightshirt, which hung loose, long, and frustratingly unrevealing, gave nothing away about the more... physical effects of her performance. But his eyes... oh, his eyes told the truth.

She’d hooked him.

All that was left was for him to step inside. One foot over the threshold and she’d have him exactly where she wanted him. Her confidence purred inside her chest. She loved this game.

But then she noticed something else — a slash across his face. Not deep, but fresh. The mark of a very sharp blade. It wouldn’t scar, but still... who dared scratch her husband? Had he met with his father? No... she’d have known. If so...

She shelved the thought, brushing her hair back to bare her neck in a practiced, languid motion. The candlelight painted the hollow of her throat in gold. Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked at him.

Come on, Leroy... I’m open...

Seconds stretched. The tension in the air grew thick enough to drink. He was burning; she could feel it radiating across the small gulf between them, and she was growing just as hot, savoring the hunt as much as he seemed to savor being hunted.

Then he took a step forward. Closer. Closer to a night of pleasures, she was already mentally choreographing.

Lorraine’s lips curved. She dipped her head and looked up at him from beneath her lashes— the kind of coy, almost shy glance that made men’s hearts pack their bags and leap out of their rib cages. She had him. She could practically hear the victory fanfare.

And then...

Leroy... that cold-blooded, marble-hearted, aggravating man... turned.

And walked away.

Just like that.

Lorraine’s jaw dropped. She had known seducing him was a gamble, but she had felt the win in her bones. She had seen it in his eyes. And he just... leaves? Not even a second glance? Not even a "My, you look interesting tonight"?

Her pride took the blow like a cannonball to the chest. Her temper lit like dry tinder.

When his back disappeared around the corner, she slammed the door so hard that the entire house could wake up, fearing there was an earthquake and the foundation of the mansion was shaking.

Are you that loyal to the Swan Divina? Did she hook you that strongly? Oh, guess what, Leroy! I am not meeting you in the tower tomorrow. Or ever. Let’s see what you do then. Will you crawl back to your poor wife’s bed then?

She huffed, puffed, and stomped across the room with all the righteous wrath of a queen whose crown had just been ignored.

She was certain she’d toss and turn all night, consumed by the injustice of it all. But the moment she plopped onto the bed, fury still coursing through her veins... she fell asleep in seconds.

-----

Leroy’s night was not the easy, detached one he had aimed for.

He dropped onto his bed face-first, well, stomach-first, if he was being honest, to keep his very awake and very stiff

problem from brushing against anything that might make it worse.

"Ugh..." he groaned into the mattress.

But of course, the moment he closed his eyes, she was there and his scent enveloped her. There was something different about everything that night. He saw her.

Lorraine from his memory... leaning against the doorframe like a goddess painted in candlelight, the soft fall of her hair, those eyes that looked right through him... and those glistening lips that had no business looking that inviting.

Another groan. And then... damn it, his nightshirt grew damp. His little guy pulsed once... twice... and finally gave up.

"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath.

Pathetic because it wasn’t the first time. The day he returned, it happened too.

It was becoming a humiliating pattern; just being near her was enough to unravel him, to make him useless.

"Pathetic. Pathetic!" he hissed again, punching his pillow like it was somehow at fault.

That’s when his hand brushed against something under it. He pulled it out, and it was a small, soft pouch. Her fragrance pouch.

He stared at it. Then, with a kind of defeated hunger, he brought it to his nose.

Ah... her scent. Warm, feminine, lingering with the faintest trace of something floral and forbidden.

His mind went straight to the question he didn’t want to ask: ...Did she usually keep this... there? In the dip between her breasts?

And that thought alone was enough to drag him right back to the memory he’d been fighting — her silhouette in the candlelight, the teasing tilt of her head, the bare skin at her neck, the whisper of a promise in her stance...

He grunted. Below the waist, trouble was stirring again.

"Not again..." he muttered, slamming the pouch back under the pillow as if burying it would bury the problem.

It wouldn’t.

This was going to be a long, sleepless night.