Liora’s POV – The House That Belongs to Her

Liora lounged in her sitting room like a queen surveying her kingdom, surrounded by all the gifts, trinkets, and wealth she had accumulated over the years. Silks draped over chairs, polished silver catching the lamplight, perfume bottles lined up like soldiers on parade. The Moreau house, with all its rot and history, had become her throne, and she basked in it with a satisfaction that bordered on wicked delight.

She thought of Nadira then, her sweet and foolish Nadira, a short, amused laugh slipped from her lips. The sound was sharp, brittle, like glass cracking.

Imagine her older sister truly believing she could run off and live some happy little life with that carpenter. Imagine Nadira thinking she could be normal. The very idea made Liora shake her head in mock pity.

“Tsk,” she muttered, reaching for her whiskey glass.

Her eye caught the glittering ring Claude had placed on her finger, the expensive diamond winking up at her like it knew the joke too. She scoffed, twisting her wrist so the stone flashed.

Claude Landry. Just thinking of the man made her stomach turn.

She had played the sweet, lovesick girl for him; oh, she had played it well. She had blushed at the right moments, fluttered her lashes, let him think she was smitten. All of it just to secure access to his money, his family’s wealth, his name. She would marry him, yes, but unlike Nadira, she had no intention of filling her home with squalling brats. Children were nowhere in her plans.

But…

She paused, swirling the whiskey in her glass.

Nadira loved babies. Nadira adored them.

If Liora had a child. If she acted in a way that could hurt it, neglect it, or frighten it Nadira would come running back. Nadira would never abandon a baby. She would never leave a child in danger. And Liora could use that. She could tie Nadira back to her side with something far stronger than guilt or fear.

At the moment, she couldn’t touch that damn carpenter Nadira had married. Solange had warded him with some old conjure, some protective charm that irritated Liora to no end. She could feel it around him like a wall she couldn’t break through. But she wouldn’t harp over it. Her opportunity to pay that bastard back for taking what belonged to her would come. She would simply have to be patient.

She meant every word she told Nadira. Go ahead, marry him, have your babies, build your precious little life. She would let Nadira believe she was safe, let her think she had escaped, let her settle into her happiness.

And then, when Nadira least expected it, Liora would take it all away. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. Until Nadira had nothing left but her. Nothing but what Liora will allow her to have.

The lamp beside her flickered suddenly, the light sputtering like a candle caught in a draft. Liora’s gaze snapped toward it, and a slow smirk curled across her lips.

“Oh,” she said softly, her voice dripping with amusement. “You still here, you rat‑faced bastard.”

She spoke into the empty air, into the emptiness that clung to the corners of the room.

Her bedroom had been moved to the master’s suite. The same room her daddy once occupied. It connected to the office where she killed him. She kept that room exactly the same. The desk and chair where he died still sat untouched, a shrine to her triumph. She liked seeing it. She liked remembering how his blood had soaked into the wood. She liked knowing she had ended him with her own hands as he sat in that chair with her in his lap.

She couldn’t see the spirits the way Nadira could, but she knew they were there. She could sense them, faintly, like cold breath on her neck. The house was filled with the ghosts of those she had killed, and it didn’t bother her one bit. If anything, it amused her. It thrilled her. It made her feel powerful. And sometimes, when she was drunk enough, she felt a hunger to fill the house with even more.

She took a long gulp of whiskey, the burn warming her chest, then set the glass down with a clink.

“I wonder, Louis,” she said with a giggle, her voice slurring slightly, “if you have any regrets?”

She paused, then laughed again.

“No, that would be a lie. I don’t really care.”

She was drunk, drunk enough to be in a gay, reckless mood.

“You and that woman you got me on,” she said, her words thick with venom. “May the two of you rot in hell.”

She laughed again, stumbling to her feet and swaying as she made her way to her bed. She collapsed onto it with a sigh, her curls spilling across the pillow.

Unbeknownst to her, the room filled with ghosts, men, women, children, those who had died in that house, those she had taken, those who lingered. They surrounded her bed, their forms faint and flickering, their eyes hollow and watchful.

They looked down at her as she drifted into sleep.

And then, one by one, they slipped back into the void.