In the wake of the Julian storm, Alaric decreed a week of absolute isolation for the mansion. No business, no enemies; only the three of them ensconced in limitless luxury.
Alaric intended to ensure Anna knew she was the sole queen of his world. That morning, the Avernon sun pierced through the glass windows of the mansion's penthouse, illuminating Anna as she lay in a deep slumber. Alaric entered the room, cradling Lucifer, who had recently mastered the art of crawling and had begun to find his voice in soft, babbling coos.
"Look, Lucifer. Your mother is still sleeping like an angel," Alaric whispered. He set the infant on the mattress, right beside Anna.
Lucifer wasted no time, scrambling toward his mother's face and tugging at a stray lock of her hair. Anna stirred with a soft laugh—a sight that caused the permafrost of Alaric's heart to thaw. This was the happiness he had bartered for in blood.
