I leaned in slightly, amused. “Dangerous?”
“Yes.” Her lips quirked. “Dangerous in a way that sneaks up on you and makes you believe in things you swore you’d outgrown.”
My heart kicked once. Then again. “Things like multiple orgasms?” I prowled toward her as I teased and was rewarded with the warmth of her laughter.
Selene leaned back until I was braced above her. Her hazel eyes shone up at me as her smile widened. A low growl formed in my throat, and my cock thickened. I eased her legs apart, then pressed into her, my mouth finding the delicate curve of her neck. Her back arched and she hummed, turning her head to allow me more access to her soft skin. My tongue smoothed over her silken flesh, my body begging for more.
With her head turned, something caught her eye. Instead of reaching for me, she stretched out her arm toward the stacks of old photographs and ledgers. Her fingers gently pinched the edge of the photograph, tugging it free from beneath a brittle stack of pages. The paper made a crackling sound as it gave way—like it hadn’t been touched in decades.
I pushed up on one elbow, watching her expression shift from amusement to something else entirely. The room held a stillness that suggested the air had changed around us, even though nothing moved.
The photo was warped slightly at the corners, the finish dulled with age. Sepia tones bled into one another, edges feathered by time. It had once been carefully framed, probably, or tucked into a book for safekeeping. Now it bore the signs of being forgotten—creased lines, water-stained edges, and a faint scent of mildew that clung to the paper like a memory.
The woman in the center of the frame stood stiffly, her spine straight, hands demurely clasped at her waist. She wore a high-necked blouse with puffy sleeves, the bodice cinched tight with a row of delicate buttons. Her skirt flared slightly, structured with layers of petticoat, the hem grazing the tips of her laced boots. The entire image had an eerie, formal softness to it—like she hadn’t chosen to be captured and only tolerated it out of necessity.
Selene sat up straighter. “I know this dress.”
I could instantly see her brain moving, frantic and searching. Selene delicately riffled through stacks of photographs that she had yet to organize. When she found what she was looking for, she stopped and held the portraits side by side. Each had the same woman, in the same dress, with the same background but with different positions.
It wasn’t just the old-fashioned clothing or the haunted look in her posture that made me sit up straighter.
It was the face in the photo.
More accurately—what was left of it.
The woman’s eyes had been scratched out. Not gently faded by light, not the victim of damage over time. Purposefully gouged. Like someone had pressed a nail or blade into the glossy surface and carved her sight away.
“Jesus,” I murmured, inching closer beside her.
Selene didn’t say anything at first. Her thumb ghosted over the marred space where the eyes should have been. “I found this photograph in a boarding ledger a few weeks ago. I think it has a name written on the back, but it’s too faded to know for sure.” She gestured to both images. “It’s obviously the same woman, right?”
She showed me the back, where faint pencil markings in a cursive script were barely visible. Something flickered behind Selene’s own gaze—an old instinct waking up and stretching.
I nodded, equal parts intrigued and creeped the fuck out.
“She’s not alone in this one,” she whispered after a beat, squinting as she looked more closely at the front of the unmarked picture.
She scooted closer to me, and I followed her line of sight.
In the far-right corner of the photograph, half in shadow, stood a man. He wasn’t posed. He wasn’t meant to be there, from the look of it. In shadow, the man was angled toward the woman—his gaze almost tender. The way his body leaned ever so slightly toward her made it clear he was watching her, not the camera.
He was dressed in a simple shirt and vest, trousers tucked into weather-worn boots. Not upper class. A laborer, maybe. Or someone trying to look like he belonged in her world when he didn’t.
Selene squinted at it. “No freaking way,” she whispered, holding it up to the light. Selene’s finger poked at the man’s image. “Who does this look like to you?”
Holy shit.
The man in the photo looked almost exactly like Hayes Darling. Same bone structure. Same dark hair. Same tilted, half-grumpy smirk.
I let out a slow breath. “What the hell ...”
Selene didn’t answer. She turned the photograph over with reverent fingers. The back was stained and yellowed, but in the corner, barely visible beneath a smear of time, was a name. A single word, written in a slanted, looping hand.
“Alma,” she read aloud. Her voice was almost too soft to hear. “Holy shit,” she whispered, “it’sher. The Lady.”
Goose bumps prickled at my arms. I gave Selene space so she could crisscross her legs. She was examining the photograph, but I was looking at her.
Really looking.
