POV: DRAVEN VALEHURE
The house is silent. Only the faint hum of the cars and activities beyond the walls breaks the stillness around us.
She lies on the bed. She’s pale, and her deep black wavy hair covers the pillow like black cloth. In the light, I can see her — really see how beautiful she is. She has an array of scars on her arms, and I guess they’re marks she gathered in her line of trade. I notice the scar on her wrist and flinch. I know it was put there by my directives.
She wears a silk gown. It’s the first time I’ve seen her in one of those. I can see the trace of her curves in the form-fitting red nightgown, probably borrowed from one of the maids. I almost want to run my hands over them.
I stand at the edge of the room, unable to move.
She looks fragile now — nothing at all
