Soran pushed open the heavy wooden door to the laundry room without knocking. Steam hung thick in the air, carrying the sharp scent of soap and bleach. He’d come to grab a fresh towel for the training yard—nothing more—but the sight that greeted him stopped him cold.
Rowan had Isla pressed against the edge of the long stone sink. One hand braced on the counter beside her hip, the other tangled gently in her damp hair. His mouth was on her neck again, slow and deliberate, while Isla stood frozen, hands still dripping suds, eyes wide with a mix of fear and something else Soran couldn’t name.
For one long, burning second, Soran didn’t move.
Rowan’s eyes flicked up—meeting Soran’s over Isla’s shoulder. No surprise. No shame. Just a faint, knowing smirk that said I see you watching.
Soran’s
