Under the Rite of the Last Moon

Red wine. Music drifting from room to room. The gentle solitude of a house entirely her own. But Lavinia’s body was already moving to a different rhythm — something older, slower, humming just beneath the surface. Three knocks at the door. Three ways of being touched — and of being changed. By the time the light began to fade, something in her had already shifted. And the moon, as always, was watching.