I turned my gaze to her with a hint of determination, as if I wasn't going to take no for an answer, as if I wasn't backing down from anything she might say.
—
Seraphina sat frozen in shock as she listened to her son's words. This was the last thing she had expected. She had come prepared for his hatred, his disgust, perhaps even his fear. But this? This calm acceptance—no, more than acceptance, this embrace of what had happened between them?
Her mind raced, trying to make sense of his words. Was this some kind of coping mechanism? A way for him to process the trauma she had inflicted? Or did he genuinely feel as he claimed?
The rational part of her knew she should shut this down immediately. She should make it clear that what had happened was a terrible mistake, one that must never be repeated. She was his mother, for heaven's sake. It was her duty to protect him, including from inappropriate feelings—whether his or her own.
And yet, as she looked at him, something stirred within her. The memory of their night together flooded back—the passion, the connection, the way he had made her feel desired and alive for the first time in years. It had been wrong, yes, but it had also awakened something in her that she had thought long dead.
"This is... this is wrong," she whispered, but there was less conviction in her voice than there should have been. "We can't..."
—
I could hear her breath catch with her voice still trembling she asked. "Lucian, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that what happened between us may have been wrong by society's standards," I continued, but this time I moved closer to her to hold her hands, squeezing them gently, "but it didn't feel wrong to me. It felt like two people finding solace in each other after years of pain and isolation."
People tend to cling to the negative side of emotions. She would see this as an opportunity to run away from reality. I had given her the understanding that she had been in need of a man yesterday. She had used me, and now I was presenting myself as a lifetime partner. As far as I was concerned, it all depended on what she clung to.
She pulled her hand away, standing abruptly. "No, this is... this is wrong. I'm your mother. We can't—"
"Can't what?" I asked, letting a hint of challenge enter my voice while raising it a bit, making me appear scared of rejection while not accepting it. "Can't acknowledge that we found something genuine in each other's arms? Can't admit that for the first time since Father died, you felt truly alive?"
She turned away, but I could tell my words had struck home. "It doesn't matter how it felt," she whispered. "It was still wrong."
I struggled to sit up further, making sure she heard the effort in my voice. "Mother, look at me."
Slowly, she turned back, her face streaked with tears. Even if I couldn't see, the constant sobbing sounds made me understand she was crying and was finding it hard to accept reality. So I continued:
"In the two years I was gone," I said, "I learned something important. Life is too short and too painful to reject whatever comfort and happiness we can find. The world took Father from us. It took my sight, my freedom, and nearly my life. Are we going to let it take this too? This connection we've found?"
If I was trying to implant a new view and perspective into someone, I needed to give them a reason—something they could cling to, something they could understand without denying whether it was true or false.
She replied while shaking her head, conflicted. "Lucian, I'm your mother. I'm supposed to protect you, not... not desire you."
"You can do both," I said simply. "You can be my mother in the eyes of the world, guiding and protecting me. And you can also be something more when we're alone—someone who sees me not as a child to be sheltered, but as a man who can match your passion and understand your needs. Someone you can turn to whenever you are down. I will always be there. I can't stand the thought of you being with another man besides me."
—
Seraphina felt as if she were standing on the edge of a precipice. On one side lay the safe, familiar territory of conventional morality—her role as mother, her duties, the clear boundaries that should never be crossed. On the other side was something unknown, forbidden, and yet undeniably alluring—a chance at passion, at connection, at feeling alive again.
His words resonated with parts of her she had tried to ignore. The loneliness she had endured since her husband's death. The emptiness of her bed, her life. The way time stretched endlessly before her, devoid of true intimacy or understanding.
And here was Lucian, offering her both maternal purpose and romantic fulfillment. It was wrong—every fiber of her being knew it was wrong—and yet she couldn't deny the pull she felt toward him. Not just as her son, but as the man he had somehow become during his absence.
She was wavering; I could sense it. The struggle between her ingrained sense of propriety and the undeniable connection we had shared that night was written in every line of her body. She needed a reason to cling to and accept it. The cultural taboo against incest was what was holding her back. She wouldn't see it that way; she wouldn't want to accept it. I had already given her a way out, but I thought that to be sure it was completely cleared out and buried in her in a way she would never doubt my presence or anything we did, I would need to push a bit further.
"I don't expect an answer now," I said, softening my tone. "Just know that I don't regret what happened between us. And if you decided you wanted it to happen again..." I let the sentence hang unfinished.
She stood frozen for a long moment, then slowly moved back to the bed. Her hand, when it touched my cheek, was trembling. "You've changed so much," she whispered. "Sometimes I barely recognize you."
I leaned into her touch. "We've all changed, Mother. The question is whether we let those changes tear us apart or bring us closer together."
I could feel her gaze on me, her breath on my face. Then, without warning, she leaned down and pressed her lips to mine—a brief, desperate kiss that spoke volumes about her inner conflict. When she pulled back, her breath was ragged. From there, I knew she had already decided, because whatever we did yesterday was still stuck in her mind. With her making this move, I knew I had succeeded.
"I don't know if this is right," she confessed, her voice breaking. "But I can't deny what I feel when I'm with you. It's like you fill a void in me that's been empty since your father died—but it's different, deeper somehow."
For some reason, I didn't expect things to work out this well. It seemed the guilt was built in too deeply inside her. Since she had made the move I wanted, I reached up to touch her face, my fingers tracing the contours of her cheek, her jaw, her lips.
"Then don't deny it," I said softly. "Not here, not now, not with me."
—-
This time when she kissed me, it was with deliberate intent. Her lips moved against mine with growing confidence, and I responded in kind, drawing her closer until she was sitting on the edge of the bed. It was like a guilty pleasure, something that wasn't accepted by all, but I held onto her, kissing her back.
"The door," she whispered breathlessly against my lips. "Someone might come in."
Knowing that was what was holding her back, I said, "Mom, you don't have to worry. I don't think anyone will come in. Celeste already came to check up on me earlier, and Aurora will probably take a while to get back. For now, I just want you and no one else."
Seraphina hesitated only briefly before surrendering to the moment. She kissed me again; we kept kissing until I moved my hands to her dress. She stopped me, then stood up. Her hands moved to the ties of her dress, loosening them with trembling fingers.
"I never thought I could feel this way again," she admitted as the fabric slipped from her shoulders. "Especially not with you."
Once she was done pulling it down a bit, she came back to the bed and sat very close to me. I pulled her to me, my hands exploring the newly exposed skin with careful deliberation.
"Let me show you how I've thought of you," I murmured against her neck.
What followed was different from our first encounter—less frantic, more deliberate. Where before she had been driven by an almost manic need, now she moved with purpose, her every touch and kiss a conscious choice rather than an impulse she couldn't control.