The drive home was a blur of neon lights and Amanda's drunken, unruly protests. By the time Quentin managed to carry her into the master bedroom, his pristine suit was a wreck, two buttons already torn open by her wandering, restless hands.
He struggled to settle her onto the bed. "Stay here," he commanded, his voice strained. "I'm going to draw a bath for you."
Amanda offered a loopy, luminous smile and a thumbs-up. Still, Quentin didn't trust the mischievous glint in her eyes; he locked the bedroom door before disappearing into the ensuite.
When the steam began to fill the bathroom, he stepped back out only to find Amanda leaning heavily against the bedroom door, her fingers fumbling clumsily with the lock. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and stepped up behind her.
"And where do you think you're going?"
Amanda spun around. Her hair was a bird's nest and her makeup was smudged, but her smile was so radiant it was almost blinding. She poked a finger into his chest, leaning into him. "Let's go... let's go out again!"
Quentin felt a mounting headache. He made a silent vow: she was never touching a drop of vodka again. "If you want to go out, you have to shower first. You need to smell good before we go anywhere."
"Really?"
"Really," he promised, half-guiding, half-carrying her toward the steam.
Inside the bathroom, Amanda's movements were surprisingly fluid as she began to shed her clothes, her eyes blinking up at him with a dazed, dreamy focus. Quentin's composure cracked. He leaned down and captured her lips in a searing kiss.
Amanda's eyes went wide with shock for a heartbeat before she melted against him, her lips parting to let him in. The kiss was desperate, fueled by the sandalwood scent of his skin and the spicy heat of the alcohol. Quentin's hands traveled over her skin with a possessive familiarity, finding no obstacles.
The cold glass of the shower wall was a sharp contrast to the heat of Quentin's body as he pressed her against it. Amanda gasped, her mind flickering toward clarity for a second before being swept away again by the sensation of his mouth on her skin.
She wasn't content to be passive. With shaking hands, she ripped the remaining buttons from his shirt and fumbled with his belt, tossing it aside. Quentin's eyes were bloodshot, clouded with a raw, primal lust.
"Mandy..." he groaned, his voice a warning.
Seeing him as unraveled as she felt, Amanda curled her lips into a triumphant smile. She moved against him, a deliberate provocation. Quentin gasped, catching her by the waist. He leaned in, whispering against her ear, "You have to listen to me tonight."
Amanda nodded frantically, her body aching with an emptiness that made her want to cry. Quentin moved with a focused intensity, reaching for the small cabinet nearby. He lifted her, her legs instinctively locking around his hips.
But before he took the final step, he paused. He looked deep into her swimming, glassy eyes, demanding recognition. "Who am I? Tell me, Mandy. Who am I?"
Amanda sobbed, burying her face in the crook of his neck, her voice a broken whisper. "Uncle..."
It was the ultimate irony. In any other setting, that word would have been a wall; here, it was the final tether snapping. Quentin let out a dark, ragged laugh. If she wanted to call him that while he held her like this, he would make her remember it.
He moved into her, a sharp, filling sensation that made Amanda's world tilt. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her voice a rhythmic chant of the only name she seemed allowed to use.
"Uncle... Uncle..."
Quentin didn't stop her. He buried himself in her warmth over and over, his movements fierce and protective, as if he could bind her to him through sheer force of will.
The storm eventually passed. After a second, much quieter bath, Amanda collapsed into a deep, death-like sleep.
Quentin, however, remained wide awake. He propped himself up on one elbow, watching her face in the soft moonlight filtering through the curtains. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with infinite gentleness.
"Mandy," he whispered into the silence of the room. "I wish I could hold you like this forever. I want to protect you from everything—even your own memories. When will you realize that I've never seen you as just a niece? When will you see me?"
He thought she was long gone, lost to the depths of an alcohol-induced slumber. He didn't see the slight quiver of her eyelashes. He didn't know that in the quietest corner of her mind, Amanda was still half-awake, the echo of his confession sinking into her heart like a stone into a dark pool.