Séraphine remained on her knees, lips still wet, smilling at how easily her stepfather fell for her.
The duck continued to hiss forgotten on the stove. The house was quiet upstairs; Héloïse’s door had closed with finality.
Évariste’s eyes moved over her the way a man surveys something he has decided to keep.
He reached past her to the open shelf beside the stove, took down the tall glass bottle of vegetable oil, and set it on the counter with a soft click.
“Stand up.”
She rose.
The black slip-dress clung to her in damp patches. Évariste took the hem in both hands and peeled it upward in one slow motion, over her hips, her waist, her breasts, and off her arms.
She stood naked in the warm kitchen light, soft thick thighs pressed together, heavy breasts rising and falling with eac
