His eyes went wide. Then wider. The kind of widening that precedes something structural failing.
Veronica crossed the ground between them in four steps. Slow. Her hips swayed with each one, the motion of a woman who has decided this is how she moves now, who has stopped containing it.
Her eyes were on Raven's cock — hanging heavy and wet with the evidence of Elena, blood and seed and rain running from it.
She sank to her knees.
In the mud.
In the cold wet grass of the family cemetery.
In front of her dead husband's grave and her kneeling son, Veronica Dalton went to her knees with the ease of something returning to a position it has decided belongs to it.
Her hand wrapped around his cock.
She looked up at him.
She looked at him the way she'd looked at him at the pool — the specific, private look of two people who share a context that others in the room don't have access to — and then she looked at his cock, wet and limp and painted with her son's fiancée.
