Encore of the Avenging Muse (Sylvia and Rupert) novel Chapter 417

She thought she’d finally gotten herself together, but the tears came anyway—hot and heavy, spilling out everything she’d been holding back: her child, her past, her entire world.

She sniffled, voice trembling. “Uncle Rupert…”

“I’m not your Uncle Rupert,” Rupert said, frowning in annoyance.

“Uncle Rupert…”

He rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, fine. But cut it out with the runny nose, or I can’t kiss you.”

“Wha—”

He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers before she could finish.

Sylvia froze, her hands instinctively rising, but he caught them, fingers lacing through hers. Her hands trembled in his.

The room was quiet, save for the soft sounds of their breathing, the whispers between their lips.

Sylvia tried to push him away, but she was too weak—she could only stare up at him, wide-eyed.

For a second, she thought she saw something flicker in his dark eyes—a hint of tenderness, gone as quickly as it appeared.

Then he pulled back just a little, voice rough. “Sylvia, who am I?”

Her mind was blank, but his name tumbled out anyway. “Rupert.”

He smiled, just a little. “That’s right. Just remember it’s me.”

He didn’t wait for her to say anything else—he kissed her again, hands moving over her with a gentle insistence, touching every place Warren ever had, almost as if to erase every trace.

Her body, cold moments before, was suddenly burning.

Her head spun, and just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, Rupert finally let her go.

He bowed his head for a moment to steady himself, then reached over and flicked on the bedside light. He picked up a bowl of oatmeal from the nightstand.

“Your mom made this. She said it’s your favorite. You haven’t eaten in days, so she and Edwin have been having it for breakfast and dinner.”

Naomi wasn’t one to waste food, but she was no fan of oatmeal. She only made it when Sylvia was sick—and always made it just right.

Sylvia pictured her mother’s face, grimacing over another spoonful of oatmeal, and couldn’t help but feel a mix of sadness and amusement.

“Uncle Rupert, please, save the dad jokes,” she muttered.

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