Franz woke at dawn, the way he always did, no matter how late he'd slept the night before.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn against the early light. Arianne lay beside him, naked beneath the sheets, her dark hair spread across the pillow. Red marks marred her skin—his doing, from the long night and the longer weekend. They traced across her shoulders, her chest, the curve of her hip. Evidence of the hours they'd spent tangled together while the estate was quiet and the twins were gone.
It had been nearly three in the morning when he'd finally let her rest. She'd been half-asleep already, her voice drowsy, her body pliant under his hands. He'd cleaned her gently, the way he always did, and she'd murmured something unintelligible before sinking into sleep. She hadn't moved since.
