Content Notes can be found here:

Upstairs in her apartments, Forthenby pushed Serafina’s back against the door, ignoring her mouth, kissing and biting at her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. His fierce fingers yanked aside her gown, tearing the buttons, fraying the fabric. 

She tried, inept, fumbling, to kiss him in return, to touch him, to open his shirt, but he knocked her hands aside, too focused upon stripping her down, stripping her to her bare, pale, and shivering skin. 

She had so seldom been fully naked before. 

Something about it was heady, thrilling. Something about her skin hungered for the touch of cloth, so she tried to push herself against him, letting herself become weak in his arms. 

When his hand went between her legs, a brief swipe of cold fingers, rough callouses, she gasped, throwing her head back, but his mouth was on her nipples, his teeth rough, and there was so much to gasp about that she found herself shaking, weeping. Then, his fingers were back between her legs, making her squirm against him. Together, they sank down to the floor, and finally, she was before him, on her knees.

“Please,” she whispered, helpless.

He had his arm across her chest as he knelt behind her, his chest against her back, and his fingers working, faster, faster. 

His breath on her ear, and somehow so distant, so very cruel. 

“Oh, please.”

“Please?” he asked, and one finger of his was inside her, still rough, still cold. 

She cried out, a deep, helpless moan. 

“What is it you want?”

“I –”

“Well?” He was brusque, rough, hurried. 

“I…” 

But there was no way she could think. The linen of his shirt was soft and fine against her breasts, and she turned, kissing it, the only part of him she could reach. She wanted to fall forward, to put her hands on the ground, steadying. 

His mouth was at her ear, was hissing out the words, “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Fuck. 

She had heard the word, heard it bandied about by gardener’s boys, dirty and shocking. She felt herself grow hot at the thought of it, felt herself grind, unwilling against his hand, “I–”

“Well?”

“Yes,” she said, “yes.” 

But it was not her voice, it was something wrenched from the very heart of her, something dragged out from somewhere dark, and hidden, and animal.

And Forthenby was cupping her chin in his hand, stroking her cheek with finger and thumb where her tears were still falling, his other hand working away between her legs. He was pressing against her, about to lash her with more venom, about to ram his fingers inside her again, about to rip her open, about to... 

About to do whatever it was that... 

She made a low, wordless sound, something between need, terror, and despair.

And his hand… his hand pulled away, slow, slow, from where it stroked and rubbed and teased at her. His grip on her slackened.
Turning, helpless, she watched his face change, the eager cruelty falling away to something closed, and pale, and dreadful.

“Hell,” he said, and his voice did not sound like her husband’s voice.
 
His other hand came away from her face, trembling, shaking as though he had a palsy. Then he was stumbling up, backwards, to his feet, his breath stuttering like her own. 

Her hands clenched to fists, and desperate, she was turning, reaching after him. But stark and white as a ghost, Lord Forthenby staggered backwards, his hand trailing upon the wall behind him, as though he needed it to hold him upright, as though he could not find the door without clinging to something to support him. 

“Sorry,” he said. “So sorry.” And his fingers fumbled at the latch, and he fell out in to the corridor, leaving her ruined, and naked, and alone.