Lucien's first thought was that it was one of the children, but as he walked forward, he saw that the dainty little figure perched on the stool was that of the woman who haunted him.

His wife. Proserpina.

The woman he lusted for every night as he fisted himself with his large hands, grunting with desire for the one woman he wanted, the only woman he needed.

The woman he had impregnated a second time, in a night of anger and passion, an act that left him sleepless with remorse.

She was too engrossed in her tub of chocolate ice cream, and since she sat directly under the large lamp,...