6esiree

 out of the corner of your eye, you see husk giving you a look that was nothing short of concern. “...i think you've had enough for the night, kid.”

“whaaaaaat? noooooo,” you protest. “m’ barely gettin’ - hic - started!”

 “that's worth at least four shots of vodka, (name),” he mutters, reaching out his hand in an attempt to snatch the bottle from you. 

 you hold it tight to your chest and turn away like a petulant child. “no!” 

 “don't be difficult.” husk’s brow furrows. “you're gonna regret it tomorrow, i'm telling you.”

 “fine,” you sniffle childishly, lip jutting out like you're about to cry. “jus’ lemme finish… thi’ one. it’ll be... my last.”

 husk sighs heavily, then picks up his own glass in defeat. the whiskey barely touches his lips before he remarks, “it better be.”

 you vaguely wave the tip of the bottle in his direction. “why d’you even… care?”

 “‘cuz at this rate, you’re gonna drink yourself into a coma,” he says flatly. “i’d… rather not have you feeling like a shell of a person in the morning.”

 you give him a silly grin. “don’tcha mean a husk of a person?”

 it takes a while for him to process the joke. when it finally lands, he scoffs out a short laugh and affectionately flicks your forehead. “don’t get cheeky, kid. you can’t even hold your alcohol anymore.”

 behind you, the party roars on, til it comes to you in the form of the birthday boy, anthony—who all his friends affectionately called angel dust. or just angel, for short. 

 you were one of those friends.

 “(name)!” angel hollers, swaying slightly as he weaves through the crowd to get to you. he’s got a feathery pink boa wrapped around his neck and heart-shaped sunglasses perched above his fluffy hair, finishing off the look with a pair of glittery, six-inch stilettos sharp enough to kill a man. “toots, baby!”

 “angie!” you cheer.

 he saunters over, bubbly as the vodka cran sloshing in his grip. the gold on his right canine catches in the strobing light as he grins widely at you.  “the dance floor’s missin’ you, sugar tits! you gotta get out there, get sum ireland!” angel then throws husk a playful wink and a kiss, lowering his voice to a sultry cadence. “hey, kitty cat.”

 “angel, she’s had enou–” husk starts, reaching out for you.

 too late.

 angel had already whisked you away, all sparkly tinsel jacket and spidery limbs, dragging you back into the belly of the beast. you both stumble through the large throng of people, the synchronised titter of your laughters swirling into the bass that boomed through the club. soon enough—to husk’s profound dismay—you had vanished into the crowd.

 staring at his outstretched hand, the old bartender realises he hadn’t been able to confiscate the bottle from you.

 “son of a bitch.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

 meanwhile, halfway across the party, you dazedly giggle to angel as he hands you his red plastic cup for a sip, “ireland? i  - hic -  don’t recall you ever doin’ legally blonde.”

 “nah, i didn’t. but my sister did,” angel confirms, giving you a little nudge and a tiny smile. “and i know it’s your favourite.”

  utterly touched by the sweetness of his intention (and the levee of your tear ducts loosened by alcohol), you let out a soft, “awwwww,” and feel your eyes start to water slightly.

 “hey! no waterworks!” he swats your arm before your tears could overflow. “we’re here to have fun!”

 an enthusiastic call of your name just sustains his point. across the room, you see charlie eagerly waving you over, flanked with her girlfriend on one side and her father on the other. with growing amusement, you note how alastor sits a considerable distance away from lucifer in the booth, even going as far as placing niffty in the space between them. a large pitcher of sangria stands in the middle of the table (amongst countless plates of half-chewed pizza and hotdogs), one that cherri was more than happy to snatch and pour over her glass. next to her, pendleton—or pentious, as he preferred to be called—watches her turn the mug’s bottom up with rapt attention and hearts in his eyes.

 angel’s hand finds its way to your wrist once again as he drags you over to the crowded table, all but heralding your arrival with an excited hoot.

 “full attendance, huh?” you yell over the bass, momentarily sobered up by the feeling of alastor’s judgmental stare raking over your body. “e’rbody but husk?”

 “yeah, he’s over there by the bar!” charlie replies cheerily, carefully scooting over vaggie’s lap to jump out of the booth and ambush you with a big hug.

 “i know, i jus’ came from there!” you laugh into her hair, nuzzling her affectionately.

 “that was quite obvious,” alastor points out obnoxiously, lips curled with both disgust and entertainment. “i see you’ve wasted no time getting acquainted with the spirits.” over niffty’s mess of red curls, lucifer relentlessly glares daggers into the side of the creole’s head.

 “oh, lay off her, al,” vaggie scowls, giving him a swift kick to the shin under the table.

 you untangle yourself from charlie’s tight embrace, reaching across the booth to nab a stray glass of tequila—or whatever godforsaken liquor lucifer had been brooding over—and toss it back in one swift, burning gulp.

 alastor’s smile strains, obviously miffed by your display. “pounding alcohol like a sailor. how… crude.”

 “you act like you weren’t the one who taught me how to drink,” you shoot back, throwing an arm around cherri’s shoulders. she barks out a laugh, beginning to pour another glass of sangria, this time for you.

 “i’m quite sure i taught you to have some class, too.”

 charlie discreetly slinks back to vaggie’s side, watching the exchange unfold with a mix of increasing concern and fascination. niffty, however, successfully breaks the tension with a delighted, maniacal fit of laughter, shooting out of the booth with an inhuman speed upon seeing baxter unassumingly cross the dance floor.

 lucifer wrinkles his nose upon losing the one thing that barricaded him from alastor’s radius, complete and utter revulsion overtaking his pale features more than the rosy blush of alcohol ever could. he accordingly scoots closer to vaggie as he reaches out to take his abandoned tequila soda, only to finally realise that it was empty. “hey, i was drinking that!” he splutters indignantly.

 cherri hushes him as you giggle slightly, leaning against her. “ya snooze ya lose, shorty,” she says smugly. “don’t take it to heart.”

 thoroughly displeased, lucifer sinks back into the cushions, crossing his arms as he mutters pettily under his breath.

 “dawdlin’ like a buncha sittin’ ducks!” angel exclaims disappointedly, shaking his head. “come on, people, ain’t anybody gonna party?”

 cherri doesn’t need to be told twice. “oh, let’s fuckin’ go!” she smacks a hand over angel’s arm, then drags a stammering pentious up by his collar before the poor man could coherently piece together a protest. with a thrilled giggle, charlie—and consequently, vaggie—get pulled into the slipstream, and along with them, so do you. 

 lucifer immediately hauls ass, scrambling to get away from the table out of fear that he’d be subjected to sitting alone with alastor. “he- hey! wait up, kids!”

 now the sole occupier of the booth, alastor lets out a contented hum, settling into his seat with a short sip of rye. it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was blissfully thankful to not have been dragged out into the crowd with the others.

 surprisingly, your bottle of heineken managed to survive this long into the night. you snatch it back from angel, down what little beer was left at the bottom, then thrust it up into the air with a gratified whoop. around you, your friends cheer; after all, the night was young, the liquor was fresh, and the music was alive.

 and for a fleeting moment, as the pulsing light painted the room with rapid splashes of neon pink and familiar blue, the sensation of alcohol burning your throat was almost enough to drown out the emptiness aching in your chest.

 some good old-fashioned fun never failed to numb the pain, after all.

꩜ a/n: my first multichapter fic yall this is one for the history books. is it obvious i've never been to a party? also, hooray, hotel cast special appearance! this was an attempt at writing with more characters involved. gotta branch out for the sake of the plot ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ p.s., click on the little music icon in the beginning of the post for a complimentary playlist! each chapter will have a soundtrack of its own <3 bye it's meeee howsmmmmcall .. do yuo me still loveeee!>!!>!?

will be cross-posted to ao3 soon! (maybe after i finish the whole thing ahah i'd rather avoid the curse)

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ TAGLIST: @whoatemycheezeits, @1ix1n, @tuquoque, @writerisahazbin [ comment to be added! ] ———

Alastor POV

Alastor loved you. Body, mind, and soul. There was no point attempting to deny or run from that fact. Yet alongside that realization sat another, one that pricked at his conscience with increasing persistence.

Never before had he desired for another soul to know him completely. He had spent years cultivating his masks, carefully offering the versions of himself the world wished to see while the darker corners of his life remained his alone. But the deeper his attachment to you grew, the more heavily those hidden pieces settled upon his already sin stained soul. He found himself wondering how you might look at him if you knew the truth. If you knew that the infamous Bayou Butcher was not some faceless monster whispered about in newspaper columns, but the very man who held your fragile heart in his bloody hands.

And then there was the cruel little possibility that refused to leave him in peace. What if he had been the one to kill your husband?

He could not even remember the man’s face. There had been so many over the years, each blending into the next until only fragments remained. It was entirely possible your late husband had crossed his path one unfortunate evening. The uncertainty gnawed at him in ways he had never anticipated. Not because he regretted what he had done (he did not). But because he now feared what that truth might steal from him.

As though the burden of truth was not enough, fate had chosen to mock him even further. He could not even ask for your hand.

Marriage had never once occupied his thoughts before you. The notion had always seemed little more than a pleasant fiction reserved for other people. Yet now he found himself aching with the absurd desire to call you his wife, to have the right to keep you close without whispers from busybodies or judgment from polite society. Instead he was forced to endure the long months of mourning, smiling patiently while every instinct within him screamed that you already belonged beside him.

“What are you thinking about?” you whispered.

Your voice gently pulled him from the depths of his thoughts. He looked down to find you smiling up at him where you lay comfortably against his chest, the two of you tucked away within your bedroom with the curtains drawn tightly against the afternoon sun.

How he hated that. How he hated that loving you had to be hidden behind locked doors and drawn curtains, as though it were something shameful.

“Everything and nothing, mon ange,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head.

You smiled against him, fingertips lazily tracing idle circles over his bare chest.

“That sounds rather exhausting,” you teased softly. “Care to unburden yourself?”

His arms instinctively tightened around you.

“I was merely thinking of you,” he admitted. “And how I wish things were different. You deserve the world, my love, and I have every intention of placing it at your feet one day.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze, your expression impossibly gentle.

“I don’t need the world, Alastor.” Your thumb brushed affectionately along his sharp jaw. “I just need you. Exactly as you are.”

The words struck him like a blade between the ribs. A quiet chuckle escaped him, though there was little humor behind it. If only you knew who he truly was. If only you knew what those hands now cradling you so tenderly had done. For the first time in his life, the thought of being truly known made him feel ill yet he wanted it all the same.

Guilt truly was a wretched thing. Settling deep within his stomach, heavy and sour, churning until he found himself nauseated by its presence. Alastor had never pretended to be a good man. He was not merely flawed or misguided, he truly was a monster. And somehow, despite all of that, each evening he found himself returning to you, wrapping those same bloodstained hands around your waist as though he had any right to hold something so wonderfully good. It almost felt… wrong.

Then there had been the “incident” during his latest hunt. He should have taken it as a sign to stop. You had been waiting for him, no doubt wondering why he was late, while he stalked unfamiliar streets, convincing himself there was still time for one more indulgence.

As he forced the lifeless weight into the rear of his automobile, something caught the corner of his eye. Movement. There was someone watching. Half concealed behind a rusted dumpster at the mouth of the alley.

For the briefest instant their eyes met. His blood ran cold.

“Fuck… fuck… FUCK!”

The curse tore from him before he had the presence of mind to swallow it. Slamming the boot shut, he threw himself behind the wheel and tore from the alley, tires protesting against the rain slick pavement as the city blurred past in frantic streaks. Forcing himself to slow down, he prayed he was wrong.

Had the man actually seen him? Could he offer the police anything more than the frightened ramblings of a drunk who had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time?

Alastor gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles ached. For years he had hunted with meticulous precision. Tonight, for the first time in a very long while… He had made a mistake.

The following morning found the two of you tucked away in the warmth of his kitchen, sunlight spilling through the windows as Jambalaya wove lazy figure eights around his ankles. Alastor moved between the stove and the table, sliding a generous helping of scrambled eggs onto your plate.

“There we are.”

“Thank you, my love,” you smiled, never looking up from the morning paper spread across the table before you. He answered with an affectionate hum, reaching for the coffee pot.

“Oh!” you exclaimed suddenly. “Look at this!”

“What is it, cher?”

“They’ve got a description of the Bayou Butcher.”

The glass percolator nearly slipped from his grasp. Fuck.

It was only years of practiced composure that kept his expression from betraying him. Setting the pot down with deliberate care, he wandered over as though mildly curious and rested a hand upon the back of your chair.

“Have they now?” he asked lightly.

You nodded, reading aloud.

“‘Police are searching for a middle aged man of medium complexion believed to be responsible for the recent string of disappearances…’”

Alastor blinked. Middle aged? His eye twitched almost imperceptibly. Middle aged? I am not even forty.

The absurd indignation flared so brightly it managed, for one glorious second, to smother the panic threatening to consume him.

“…Approximately average height… dark hair… last seen wearing a dark overcoat…”

Relief seeped into his tight chest. What they had was wonderfully vague. Half the men in New Orleans could have matched that description on any chilly evening. He allowed himself a slow, measured breath. That had been much too close.

By the time Alastor arrived at the station, the entire building seemed to be buzzing with speculation. Every hallway conversation eventually circled back to the same topic.

“The police are keeping some things close to the chest,” one of the broadcasters remarked as they gathered around the coffee pot. “That’s what I heard this morning. Apparently they’ve released only a fraction of what they actually know.”

Another nodded knowingly.

“I’ve heard they’ve even got a basic description of the fellow’s automobile. They’re just withholding it for now.”

Alastor’s stomach lurched. He offered nothing more than a thoughtful hum before continuing toward his office, careful to keep his stride measured.

Of course they are.

Why would they show their full hand? His pulse hammered painfully against his ribs. For the first time ever, uncertainty had wormed its way beneath his skin. He felt like people were looking at him from every angle. It was absurd, he knew. Paranoia accomplished nothing.

Yet he could not silence it. When the red studio light blinked to life, instinct carried him through the broadcast. His voice remained smooth. To anyone listening across New Orleans, Alastor Hartfelt sounded exactly as he always did. Only he knew the ugly truth.

His collar clung uncomfortably to the back of his neck. Sweat dampened his palms beneath the desk where no audience could see, and his heartbeat refused to settle no matter how brightly he smiled into the microphone.

It was exhausting. Fear, he decided, was a thoroughly unpleasant emotion. He very much preferred being the one who inspired it.

The moment the broadcast concluded, Alastor slipped from his office without so much as lingering for conversation. His measured pace carried him through the station until the parking lot came into view.

A cluster of men stood gathered near the entrance, laughing amongst themselves. His pulse stumbled. Their attention drifted toward the row of automobiles. Were they discussing his? Had the police released the description after all?

He forced a pleasant smile onto his face as he approached.

“Gentlemen.”

One of them tipped his hat, another offered a cheerful greeting before the conversation resumed as though nothing were amiss. Alastor returned the gesture with practiced ease, unlocked his automobile, and climbed inside without allowing himself to look hurried.

Only once the engine had turned over and the station had disappeared in his rearview mirror did the nausea finally wash over him in earnest. This could not continue. He had been fortunate for years. Luck, however, truly was a fickle companion.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter as mile after mile of Louisiana countryside rolled past his windows. Then, somewhere along the familiar drive home, the answer settled quietly into place.

Two things had to happen. The first was painfully obvious. He had to tell you the truth. Not because he wished to ease his own conscience, but because he refused to build a future with you upon a foundation of lies. If he asked you to leave everything behind for him, you deserved to know precisely the sort of man making that request. You deserved the opportunity to walk away while you still could.

The second revelation followed almost immediately. You needed to leave Louisiana.

Distance would place miles between the two of you and whatever investigation now threatened to tighten around his neck. It would pull you safely beyond the reach of curious detectives, whispering neighbors, and the endless expectations of New Orleans society.

And, perhaps most beautifully of all… It would free you from mourning. No one in some quiet town hundreds of miles away would know you were expected to remain in black for another year and a half. No one would care how recently you’d been widowed or whether propriety dictated patience before another marriage.

You could simply be a woman. He could simply be your husband. The thought should have filled him with hope. Instead, dread settled heavily in his chest.

Because before he could ask you to run away with him… He would have to tell you that the Bayou Butcher had been sharing your bed every night for the past several months.

By the time he pulled into his drive, the decision had settled firmly in his mind.

His gaze drifted instinctively toward your cottage only a few yards away, and for one fleeting, shameful moment he nearly abandoned every ounce of resolve he possessed. It would have been so easy to cross the garden as he always did, gather you into his arms, steal a kiss, and pretend none of this existed.

Instead, he remained where he was. Drawing a slow, steadying breath, he rested both hands upon the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

He understood now that the next few hours would determine the course of the rest of his life. By nightfall, you would either condemn him for the monster he truly was…Or you would choose him. There was to be no middle ground. Though deep down he knew a woman such as yourself would never choose the monster. Oddly enough, he had made peace with telling you the truth. You deserved nothing less. If he truly loved you, then he owed you every terrible corner of himself, no matter how grotesque they might appear beneath the light.

Whether you accepted them… That was never his decision to make. Still…He was, at his very core, a profoundly selfish man.

He intended to savor every smile you offered him, every gentle touch, every lingering kiss, every whispered my love that fell from your lips before the illusion shattered. If those precious moments were to be his last, then he would commit each one to memory.

“Hello, my darling,” you smiled as he ascended the back steps of your cottage just before nightfall.

Before he could utter so much as a greeting, you slipped your arms around him, drawing him close.

His resolve faltered immediately. The thin cotton of your nightgown caught the fading light, skimming the graceful lines of your figure as the evening breeze stirred its hem. You looked impossibly lovely, waiting there for him with that gentle smile that never failed to undo him. God, how perfectly you suited him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his hands instinctively finding your waist. “I simply couldn’t wait to see you any longer. I…”

This was it…The words hovered on the tip of his tongue, every sentence rehearsed a dozen times during the drive home. He had come to strip away every carefully constructed facade, to lay bare the man and the monster alike, and allow you to judge them both.

But then your lips found his. As though kissing him was the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers slipped around the nape of his neck, disappearing into the chestnut curls at its base as you drew him nearer still.

The speech dissolved of course. A quiet sigh escaped him into the kiss as his eyes drifted shut, every dreadful thought momentarily swept away by the simple miracle of having you in his arms.

This! This was all he had ever truly wanted, though he had not realized it until you. He would gladly surrender every sin, every dark ritual that had once brought him satisfaction. He vowed to abandon the hunt forever if it meant waking each morning beside you for the rest of his days.

And with that silent vow, Alastor granted himself one final indulgence. Just one fleeting moment beneath the blissful veil of new love, before truth came crashing through it.

He surrendered himself completely to your embrace, gathering you against him with newfound urgency. A soft gasp escaped your lips as he drew you flush to his chest, kissing you with a tenderness edged by quiet desperation, as though he were trying to memorize the very feeling of you.

You smiled against his lips, breathless.

“Did you miss me?”

He rested his forehead against yours, unable to suppress the small, affectionate smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Most ardently,” he murmured before stealing another lingering kiss.

Walking you away from the open doorway, he didn’t care at this moment if anyone were to see the two of you. Nothing mattered anymore. He kissed you through every step as you moved within the house. A passionate dance the two of you had come to learn through one another. He’d savor every second that this final act would provide him.

When the back of your legs hit your mattress you gasped as you fell back. He took his place between your legs, pushing your nightgown up to expose your beautiful unclothed cunt. He stopped for a moment to admire the sight.

His plan had diverted in that moment at the stairs in a cruel selfish way, but he figured as it was to be the last time he’d know you this way, he may as well enjoy his damnation.

Alastor loved you, yes. But he was still a cruel, selfish monster. The new plan was to make you drunk on his love so as to enjoy you carnally one last time.

Slipping to his knees he completely ignored the way his own arousal strained at the confines of his trousers. Too focused in that moment on savoring your taste.

Using his thumbs to part your slick folds he wrapped his lips around that little bundle of nerves and sucked, eliciting noises from you that made his heart sing and his cock twitch. You were the sweetest thing he had ever tasted and he’d gladly devour you for an eternity if permissed.

You writhed beneath him, he seemed hungrier than normal. Gone was the gentle lover who had stolen countless nights. He was moving like a man who had only hours to live and you were his final meal.

“Ah, ah, Alastor,” you gasped as his tongue delved into your needy cunt. “What ever has gotten into you?”

He didn’t answer. As he was much too taken by the consumption of you. His focus was solely on the two fingers he slid between your folds as he continued his assault on your clit. Curling them ever so slightly up into that one spot made your back arch off the mattress.

The waves of pleasure were intoxicating as he worked his fingers inside of you. Unable to stifle the moans as your orgasm crashed over you all too quickly. Fully subdued in your pleasured haze it wasn’t until you heard his belt buckle unfastening that you rose up on your elbows to watch. You’d begged him more than once to fuck you again. However up until this moment the two of you had only ever truly made love that one time in the greenhouse.

“I’m afraid tonight I know no restraint, mon amour.” Alastor muttered darkly, as he worked his thick length up and down, tearing his eyes away from your core only to catch your curious gaze with his own heavy lidded one. You’d never seen him like this.

“Please, Alastor” was all you managed, suddenly wanting nothing more than to once again feel him nestled deep within you. Lining himself up he rubbed his heavy cock head along your slit gathering the residuals of your orgasm, as he readied you for his intrusion.

The stretch was intense, but nothing like the first time. This time your body welcomed him as if this was the only correct thing in the world. Pulling him in with every moan and gasp that escaped your sweet lips. You were utterly full of him in the loveliest of ways.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he moaned as he bottomed out, pelvis rubbing along your overly sensitive clit, unable to keep himself still once surrounded by your gummy walls. The squeeze was delicious as he began to rock slowly, testing just how ready you were.

Your own gasps were the only answer you could manage, as you peered down at the union of your bodies. Hoisting your leg up and giving himself a better angle, he pulled out just enough for you to see your own slick glistening on his shaft before plunging back in. He was trying to go slow, truly. To enjoy every second of what was apt to be the last time he was ever to enjoy something as sweet and innocent as you. But the monster inside of him was begging for more. More movement, more passion, more of you.

And so he indulged, fucking you senseless. Groping your chest, pinching your pert nipples and making you moan, he bent down to capture your lips in order to drink up every last gasp. Your hands roamed over his strong shoulders and slid up into his dark curls, tangling themselves in an attempt to anchor yourself to him. Your hips moved to meet his, desperate for everything he had to offer.

Pulling back, he searched your tear brightened eyes. He wanted nothing more than to remember you exactly as you were in this moment. Hair tousled, lips kiss swollen, cheeks damp with pleasured tears, beautiful beyond anything he had ever dared imagine. Were anyone near enough to the cracked window they would have no doubt heard the most salacious noises known to man. Both lost in one another neither of you cared to keep quiet. This kind of love was something not meant to be hidden or kept covered. It was loud, intense, and real. Alastor knew this now.

And when he felt your walls fluttering around his cock he knew you were once again at that peak. Slipping one hand between your sweat slick bodies, he found that spot again and rubbed, as another orgasm washed over you. Fuck. He cursed internally, as your walls grasped what little restraint he had tried to hold over his body away. He hadn’t wanted to come before undoing you at least one more time. But the human body is not always one to oblige.

Leaning down into your neck he panted, screwing his eyes shut, willing his own tears away as his hips rutted into you, burying himself somehow impossibly deeper. He came with your name desperate on his lips. Uttering sweet devotions and promises he knew not if he would be able to keep. Silently pleading that he would never lose the woman who had so completely, so irrevocably, become his heart as he painted your walls with thick ropes of hot seed.

When at last peace settled over you both, leaving nothing but tangled limbs, damp skin, and two hearts beating in quiet unison, Alastor gathered what little courage remained. He could not allow you to fall asleep beside a monster without knowing precisely what sort of man held you in his arms.

“Cher,” he murmured.

“Hm?” you answered softly, already nestled beneath his chin, perfectly content to drift off there against him.

His fingers brushed absentmindedly through your hair, lingering as though it might be the last time he was ever permitted such a privilege.

“Would you still love me,” he asked at last, his voice scarcely more than a whisper, “if you knew the evil things I have done?”

One eye cracked open to peer up at him, heavy with sleep.

“That depends, Alastor.”

He swallowed.

“Would you still love me if you knew of mine?”

A quiet, humorless laugh escaped him. Impossible. Whatever sins weighed upon your conscience could never rival his own.

“Cher…” He hesitated, his throat suddenly dry. “I’ve done things I cannot undo. Terrible things. Things I believe would make you despise me.”

You frowned faintly, lifting your head just enough to study his face.

“I know not what you mean, my love.”

He closed his eyes for only a heartbeat before forcing the words free.

“I believe…” He drew a slow breath. “I believe I am responsible for your husband’s death.”

His confession was greeted with silence. For the first time that evening, genuine surprise crossed your face. Then, to Alastor’s complete bewilderment, the corners of your mouth curled upward.

“Nonsense, darling,” you replied with an amused little smile. “That would be quite impossible.”

His brow furrowed.

“No, you don’t understand. I am not a good man.”

“I never asked you to be.”

“No…” he insisted quietly. “You truly don’t understand.”

You reached up, cupping his cheek with infuriating tenderness before giving your head a small shake.

“I don’t particularly care whether you’re a killer, Alastor nor for any sins you have commited.”

His breath caught.

“But I do know, beyond all doubt, that you had absolutely nothing to do with my late husband’s death.”

He stared at you, utterly lost.

“…How could you possibly know that?”

Your smile widened, equal parts sweet and wicked.

“Oh, that’s rather simple.”

You settled comfortably back against his chest, as though remarking upon tomorrow’s weather instead of confessing to murder.

“Because I’m the one who killed that bastard.”

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