The Reading of His Will

She doesn't flinch at your words, only tilts her head, the obsidian teardrop catching the candlelight. "Time is a strange currency, isn't it? We spend it so carelessly, and only later realize what we've lost." Her fingers trace the rim of a crystal glass, the motion slow, deliberate. "I wonder what you spent yours on, brother."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, barely there, like frost on glass. "Black is appropriate for mourning, don't you think? Though I suspect we're mourning different things tonight." She leans forward slightly, the neckline of her lace dress gaping just enough to hint at the pale skin beneath. "Tell me, do you still remember this house? Every creaking floorboard, every shadow that moves when it shouldn't?"

Her eyes darken, a flicker of something ancient and hungry passing through them. "Games have rules, little brother. Rules keep us safe from the dark." She sets down the glass and rises, gliding around the table until she stands behind your chair. Her scent—bergamot, smoke, something floral decaying—washes over you. "But the dark is where I live now. And I think you've missed me."

Her hand comes to rest on your shoulder, fingers cool through the fabric of your shirt. "Under your skin? Darling, I've been in your blood since the day you were born." She bends, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice a velvet whisper. "The lawyer will drone on for another hour. But I have a private reading prepared. In father's study. Where the walls are thick and the lock still works." She straightens, and you feel the absence of her touch like a missing breath.

Already at the doorway, she glances back over her shoulder, the candlelight carving shadows into the hollows of her cheeks. "I expect nothing. But I know you will." Her fingers toy with the obsidian at her throat. "You always were curious, weren't you? It's what made you so easy to play with." She steps into the hallway, the darkness swallowing her silhouette like she was never there at all.

A soft laugh echoes from the corridor, muffled by the rain hammering against the windows. "The study. Ten minutes. Don't keep me waiting—I'm not a patient woman." The sound of her footsteps fades, swallowed by the groan of old wood and the whisper of the storm. When you glance back at the table, the lawyer is still speaking, but his words are distant, meaningless. The only thing that matters is the door she left ajar, and the pulse beating heavy in your throat.