The sun was just beginning to dip behind the rooftops when Allen heard the knock on the inn's door.
Three sharp taps. Followed by a familiar, slightly slurred voice.
"Allen! You in there, friend?"
Allen didn't rush. He adjusted his shirt, tugged the collar open just enough to tease a hint of chest. His pants were... snug. Purposefully. He wasn't about to show up looking like some humble traveler—not when the battlefield was a married woman's kitchen and the war was seduction.
He opened the door to find Harven grinning, cheeks already tinged pink with pre-game drinks. The man looked genuinely pleased to see him, clapping Allen on the shoulder like they'd grown up on the same bar stool.
"There he is! C'mon, Mirielle's got supper cooking and I've got the corks popped already!"
Allen followed him through the winding streets, the bottle of wine tucked under Harven's arm swinging with each step.
"You got a good woman, Harven," Allen said, voice light but laced with subtle gravity. "She's sharp."
"Sharp?" Harven laughed. "Sharp's one word. Bossy's another."
They reached the house—modest, clean, with ivy creeping up the outer walls. Warm candlelight flickered behind the windows.
Inside, Mirielle was already setting the table.
She wore a long skirt this time, modest blouse tucked tight across her chest. But it didn't hide much. Her hips still swayed. Her breasts still pressed taut against the fabric with every move. And when she looked up and saw Allen standing in the doorway?
She froze.
Just for a second.
Her gaze dropped.
And lingered.
Allen's pants were doing exactly what he wanted them to—his bulge resting comfortably in the fabric, the subtle curve of it catching the light just right as he leaned against the archway. It wasn't vulgar. It wasn't obscene.
But it was there. Obvious. Undeniable.
Mirielle's lips parted, then snapped shut again. Her eyes flicked up to his face—and Allen saw it: that flash of panic. Like her mind had wandered somewhere very not holy and she'd just caught herself with her hand in the communion wine.
She turned away quickly, pretending to fix the position of a plate that was already perfectly straight.
Harven didn't notice a thing. "Mirielle! Allen says you're sharp."
Mirielle didn't look up. "That's kind of him."
Allen sat down at the table, legs spread just wide enough to keep the tension high. Mirielle glanced back just once—and there it was again.
That look.
Annoyance. Hunger. Guilt.
And something darker. Something twitchy and hot.
[Sweet Tongue Passive Trigger: Visual Cue — Confidence Display]
Target pulse rate: Elevated. Mental conflict increasing.
Suppressing arousal: 61% effort.
She was losing the battle. One long glance at the shape beneath his pants and the blood had rushed to her cheeks faster than any wine could've managed.
Harven plopped into the seat next to Allen and poured two glasses. "So what brings you to town again?" he asked.
Allen smiled, eyes still dancing over Mirielle like she was already unwrapped. "Opportunity," he said. "Looking for a place to stay awhile. Somewhere... warm."
Mirielle coughed lightly. Harven didn't notice—he was already halfway into a story about some failed fishing trip.
Allen leaned back, arm draped lazily over the chair. His eyes never really left her.
And Mirielle?
She avoided his gaze like it was a sin—but her hands trembled just slightly as she placed the final bowl on the table. Her knees pressed together when she sat across from him. And her eyes?
They never dropped below his chin again.
Because she knew.
If she looked again, she might not be able to stop.
Dinner had been awkward at first—Mirielle stiff and silent, Allen calm and calculating, and Harven drunker with every sip.
He'd brought out more wine than necessary. Poured glass after glass with a heavy hand and a louder laugh. His voice boomed through the cozy home, retelling the same fishing story twice, then stumbling halfway through a third.
Mirielle barely spoke.
And Allen? He just listened, smiled, and waited.
The trap was already closing.
When the final cup was emptied, Harven leaned back in his chair and belched with the smug satisfaction of a man too far gone to stand. He looked at his wife with a bleary scowl.
"You're quiet again," he slurred. "Always so damn tight-lipped when we got company. Trying to act all... proper."
Mirielle froze.
"Don't think I don't see it," Harven said, waving a shaky finger. "You put that dress on for him, didn't you?"
"Harven, please don't—" she started, voice cracking.
But he was already halfway up and stumbling, face flushed with bitterness and drink. "You think I don't know? You walk around swaying your tits like you forgot what modesty is. Just beggin' for eyes on you."
"Stop—" she said, more desperate now.
"You little whore," he hissed. "Little town slut—lookin' at him like he's some prize while I feed you and keep this roof over your head."
He took a step toward her, but misjudged—his foot caught the leg of the table.
With a groan and a thud, Harven collapsed to the floor like a sack of shame, unconscious before he even hit the rug.
Silence fell.
For a few long, trembling seconds, all that could be heard was Mirielle's soft, shaky breathing. Her hands trembled. Her shoulders hunched.
She didn't move.
She just stood there, staring at her husband's sprawled body, chest rising and falling like she was trying not to collapse next to him.
"Why..." she whispered. "Why is my life like this?"
Allen moved slowly—like a predator approaching a wounded deer, but with the softness of a lover.
He stepped close behind her and gently reached up, patting her head.
Her breath caught in her throat. She didn't flinch.
Just trembled.
"You don't deserve that," Allen murmured, voice low and warm against her ear. "No woman does."
She said nothing. Her lip trembled. Her eyes glistened.
And still, she didn't move.
Allen's hand slid lower, brushing against the back of her neck, then down along the curve of her spine. His fingers traced the fabric of her dress...
...and froze.
She wasn't wearing anything underneath.
No strap. No lace. No safety net between fabric and skin.
Allen leaned in closer, lips nearly brushing her ear.
"Well, well..." he whispered. "No undergarments, huh?"
She inhaled sharply.
"Naughty girl."
Her knees wobbled.
"I—I didn't—" she tried to speak, but the words melted into shame.
Allen slid his hand to her waist, firm and possessive now. "No wonder he's paranoid. You don't just look like temptation, sweetheart... you are temptation."
She gasped, spine arching just slightly as his touch slid down her hip.
"I see it now," he murmured. "You're not just lonely. You're starving. Starving for someone to touch you without hate in their voice. To want you without guilt."
"I can't—he'll—" she choked out.
"He's passed out," Allen said. "Right there on the floor. After calling you a slut like it was a curse."
He turned her gently, hand still on her waist, and met her eyes.
"But I see you," he said. "I see the woman you used to be. The one buried under all that fear. And she wants this."
Her breath hitched.
Her lips parted.
And this time, she didn't say no.