DAGON MANSION

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: BOLD

Dawn crept across Glouminster like a pale ghost when Kerrigan Flameward descended from her jet — tall, austere, cloaked in the quiet authority of ancient rites and forbidden knowledge. When she reached Rowena's cottage, a warmth unlike the cold ceremonial grandeur of the Order greeted her.

Rowena opened the door — blonde hair loose, eyes trembling with memory and longing.

For a moment, time wavered.

Rowena's heart whispered, She has not aged. I, however...

Yet Kerrigan's thoughts — had Rowena only heard them — hummed differently:

She has ripened like wine. Her strength is carved into her. I have missed her.

They stared, breath suspended like dust motes in the morning light.

"Welcome back, Kerrigan. This is my humble home."

"Humble?" Kerrigan murmured, stepping in. "This place breathes life. The Order's mansion only breathes dust."

Rowena flushed, unused to praise.

"You have changed," she whispered.

Kerrigan lifted Rowena's chin, golden eyes gleaming like a forbidden dawn.

"We have changed. But some things... remain."

Their lips met.

Such a kiss was not youth's reckless hunger but the long, aching reconciliation of two souls once torn apart. Rowena trembled — fear, desire, disbelief mingled like incense curling in sacred air. Kerrigan's hands — sure, reverent, aching — traced old pathways. The spell of the past unspooled.

They kissed as though twenty years had been nothing but a held breath.

"I want to feel you," Kerrigan whispered against her mouth."I want to live inside this moment before duty devours us."

Rowena's voice shook.

"I'm frightened. You are still so beautiful... and I feel old."

Kerrigan laughed softly — not cruelly, but in wonder.

"You are beautiful. Time has blessed you. Let me prove it."

Clothes fell like forgotten prayers. Breath turned to music, soft gasps to hymns.

They moved with reverent urgency — a ritual older than any spell, a sealing of wounds time had dared to inflict. Rowena clung to Kerrigan as if reclaiming sunlight after decades of winter.

When the storm gentled, Kerrigan rested her forehead against hers.

"We return not as naïve girls," she murmured, "but as women who survived."

Rowena closed her eyes, peace settling like cathedral dust.

For a moment, even ancient danger felt far away.

The Brady Mansion rose like a fortress of marble and lineage. Scarlett clutched Mia's hand, eyes wide at the grandeur — a palace carved from pride and legacy.

Inside, chandeliers shimmered like frozen tears. Portraits of pale ancestors stared down in judgment. And upon a throne of velvet and posture sat Ethel Brady, queen of her own frozen kingdom.

Her eyes sharpened as mother and child approached.

"You have a beautiful daughter," she said.

"I'm Scarlett!" the girl chirped. "And who are you?"

Ethel's smile thinned — entertained, delighted, predatory.

"I am Ethel. You may play in the garden. Mr. Harper will watch you."

Bertram appeared — dutiful, silent, hauntingly handsome. Scarlett followed him through the glass doors, innocence trailing behind her like lace.

When they were alone, Ethel's voice turned to steel wrapped in velvet.

"Listen carefully. Stay away from Ryan Dagon."

Mia stiffened.

"Madam—"

"Silence."

Ethel's eyes glittered like sharpened diamonds.

"My daughter carries his heir. That is the rightful union. You will not interfere."

A pause. A cruel smile.

"Desire is natural, my dear. I have my own arrangements with my butler. We all take pleasure where we may — but never threaten the family line."

Mia's heart constricted; her face burned, but her voice did not waver.

"Ryan, Theolinda, and I will decide our lives — not you."

Mia stood.

"Enjoy your grandchild, Mrs. Brady."

She took Scarlett's hand and left without another bow.

But inside, her soul felt like shattered glass.

He is having a child with her.

Her lungs couldn't hold the betrayal.

At the gates of Dagon Manor, Randolf waited — faithful as a hound, desperate as a man in love.

Mia's steps faltered. He saw the break in her eyes before she spoke.

"Take me away," she breathed. "I want oblivion."

His voice cracked. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Tonight, I refuse to feel."

She left Scarlett in Xena's care — who watched her with troubled eyes — and followed Randolf into the neon night.

The club throbbed with sin — red lights like beating hearts, music like pulsing blood. Here, bodies moved without conscience, a cathedral of flesh where the world drowned in perfume and sweat.

Mia drank too fast, too hard — needing the burn, needing escape.

She kissed Randolf with desperate hunger — hands trembling, searching for anesthetic instead of affection.

When her fingers slid lower, he gasped.

"Mia..."

She silenced him with lips stained by liquor and sorrow.

"Don't think," she whispered. "Tonight we don't think."

And he — helpless in devotion — surrendered.