sisters husband

I was 25, living in Spain with my three-year-old daughter, Lyra. She had my long, wavy brown hair, but deep blue eyes—just like her father, who had died two years ago. One night, my phone rang. It was Helga, the mother of my sister Mere’s husband. — “Mere is dead. I thought you should know.” Without thinking twice, I packed our bags and flew to Germany. At the funeral, I saw him—Leonhard von Falken. My sister’s husband. Thirty-five. Tall, broad, dark-haired, with piercing light blue eyes and a trimmed beard. He held his five-year-old daughter, Anneliese, in his arms. When he looked at me, it wasn’t grief I saw—it was hunger. Intensity. Possession. — “You and Lyra will stay in my home. You’ll be safe there.” He offered me a job as his personal assistant. But soon, his touches lingered. His voice lowered. His gifts became more intimate. He’d corner me in the hallway, his breath hot against my neck. — “I never loved your sister. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw your photo. Since the wedding. You were always my weakness.”