The Widow's Son: 4. The Widow's Fire

Caroline didn’t sleep.

The house was too still, too full of ghosts. Every tick of the old clock pressed into her chest like a nail. She lay in the wide, empty bed, staring up at the dark beams overhead, her thin nightgown plastered to her skin by sweat. Rain whispered against the farmhouse windows, soft and steady, but nothing inside her felt calm. Her body burned, her thoughts chased themselves into knots.

Nathaniel’s kiss haunted her.

The way his lips claimed hers, bold and unashamed. The heat of his breath when he leaned too close. That terrible, dangerous hunger she’d felt radiating from him—so alive compared to the hollow ache she’d been carrying for months. He had dared her to admit what she felt. She had nearly crumbled.

She’d never been touched like that before.

Not even by her late husband.

The realization carved shame into her bones. She had mourned her husband faithfully. She had worn her widowhood like armor. And yet in the empty places grief