[Rynthall Estate—Very Early Morning]
It was way too early in the morning. The kind of early where even the sun was still hungover and refusing to rise properly.
Lucien stirred under the weight of a thousand pillows and one overly clingy husband. His nose twitched.
Once.
Twice.
Then—
"—BLEGH."
He slapped a hand over his mouth and groaned, eyes scrunching shut. "What the hell is that smell?!" he gagged, voice muffled in disgust. "Did a rotting corpse sneak into our room and sleep between us?!"
Still half-asleep, he turned his head slowly—like a cursed Victorian heroine possessed by demonic curiosity—and sniffed.
His gaze landed on the culprit.
Silas. Sleeping peacefully like a saint. Arm slung protectively over Lucien's belly. Hair tousled. Lips slightly parted. Dreaming, no doubt, of dramatic murder.
Lucien squinted.
Sniffed again.
Leaned in—
And sniffed him.
Like a bloodhound with a grudge.
Sniff. Sniff sniff.
"…You smell like a funeral," he muttered, nose wrinkling.
