"Yeah," Eric said. "Meddling mothers tend to get tired quickly." His remark was casual.
Claudia pursed her lips. "Good night, Sera," she said, turning toward the doorway. "Eric, would you please escort her to her room when you both are done?" The faintest gleam of triumph sparkled in her eyes.
"I know what you are doing, mum," Eric said. "It won't work. She can throw herself at me a million times — she is not going to carry any child of mine."
Sera bit back the icy retort that had formed on her tongue, swallowing it with effort out of respect for Mrs. Blackwood, who still lingered at the threshold.
"I don't know why your hackles are up, Eric," Claudia called over her shoulder. "It sort of seems to me you are trying to convince yourself and not me." The door clicked softly behind her as she exited, leaving the two of them.
"Throw myself at you a million times? Why would I do that? Why would anyone do that? You are nothing special," Sera said.
The look in Eric's eyes was enough to slaughter a wolf. His pupils dilated, his breathing deepened, demanding submission from the insolent woman before him. "Do you have a death wish?"
"Looks like you have problems with people talking back to you," she said, pushing her chair back. Her courage surprised even her. "Well, I have no issues expressing myself. I may have been sheltered all my life, but I happen to know what respect is. You seem to think you're some kind of rare prize that every woman wants to snag."
"That's because I am," he replied smoothly, the arrogance so casual it bordered on charming. He leaned back in his chair. There was a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Sera scoffed, shaking her head. "Not to me, you aren't." Her heart thundered. She rose, gathering the last shred of her dignity around her. "I can find my own way to my bedroom. Thanks for dinner. Have a good night." She turned and walked away, her spine straight despite the tremor in her hands.
Eric dropped his fork and let out a chuckle. "Who is this girl?" he murmured, his gaze lingering on the empty space where she had stood moments ago. His wolf stirred again, restless.
*****
Vivienne Duvall had been thinking since she returned from the Blackwood estate, her mind a storm of half-formed memories and unease. The girl.
The girl's face… it was familiar. She had seen her somewhere before, she was certain of it. And Vivienne Duvall did not believe in coincidences.
She had done many things in the course of her life — terrible, necessary things — all for one man.
Charles Duvall.
When she had been just a debutante, Vivienne Neville had seen Charles Duvall for the very first time at a lavish garden soirée her father had thrown. Vivienne had been young then. And then she'd seen him.
The Duvall heir. Every girl's whispered fantasy. He'd walked through the crowd with an effortless kind of grace, his white hair slicked back, eyes that made her stumble and fall at his feet. Vivienne had never believed in love at first sight until that moment.
For weeks afterward, she had dreamed of him — the brush of his fingers, the scent of his cologne, the sound of his low chuckle when she stammered through her words. She had written his name on the corners of her sketchbook, waiting for the day when he would look at her again and see her — really see her.
Imagine her delight when her father, Jonas Neville, announced that he had made an arrangement — his eldest daughter would marry Charles Duvall. Her heart had soared. She had stood before her mirror that night, brushing her hair and whispering his name under her breath. Charles. My Charles.
But the goddess had a cruel sense of humor.
Because when Charles came to visit, when he stepped into their hall to meet his future bride, his gaze had slid right past her and landed on Ingrid.
Ingrid, her perfect, porcelain sister. Ingrid, who'd always gotten what she wanted without even trying was Charles' mate.
Vivienne could still remember the sound of her own heart breaking.
Within a week, their engagement was announced. Within a month, they were married in the grand cathedral.
Vivienne had stood there in a pale gown of her own, smiling through gritted teeth, her hands raw from clenching her bouquet. She'd watched Charles kiss her sister under the white canopy and had imagined, just for a second, her own hands around Ingrid's fragile neck.
To ease the sting of gossip — her father had hastily married her off to Charles's distant cousin, a penniless Duvall with little more than a title. Her new husband had taken her body but not her heart, leaving her hollow.
And through it all, Charles had never looked at her again.
Ingrid had been dead for nineteen years now. Smothered. It had been so easy, really. A pillow pressed just long enough. The crying baby in the cradle had covered everything.
Vivienne had expected freedom. She had expected Charles to finally turn toward her, to see that she had been the one all along. The one who understood him. The one who had loved him.
But Charles still didn't see her. Not even after Ingrid was gone.
Now, she watched history repeat itself.
Someone was trying to take Delilah's place.
"No," she whispered. "Not again. Not this time."
She inhaled deeply before stepping into the Duvall home.
Just as she reached for the banister —her phone rang.
She fished the phone out of her purse and glanced at the screen. Claudia Blackwood.
"Hello, Claudia," she purred.
"Hi," came the familiar voice. "My son won't be letting me come over to see Mr. Duvall tonight. We don't know how bad the storm will be this time. I just wanted to apologise for the misunderstanding earlier today."
Vivienne's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she moved toward the large arched window, watching the storm clouds gather over the estate's gardens. Lightning flashed, illuminating her reflection — elegant, poised, and deadly calm. "I hope the said girl is being adequately punished for that little stunt," she said coolly.