The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of the grand Morano estate, casting a soft glow over the room where Derek and Annabelle lay entwined. The warmth of their bodies pressed together was a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive atmosphere of the house. Annabelle stirred first, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on Derek’s chest as she blinked the sleep from her eyes. She could still feel the echoes of last night’s passion, the way Derek had made her feel so alive, so wanted. But the reality of where they were—trapped in a house full of people who despised them—quickly settled over her like a dark cloud.
Derek’s arm tightened around her, his voice low and gravelly from sleep. “Morning,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her forehead.
“Morning,” she replied, her voice
