Freya sat motionless in the archive, Rion’s jacket still draped over her shoulders, its warmth a cruel echo of his touch.
The golden glow of the orbs flickered, casting shadows that danced across the ancient tomes, but her mind was a storm—wild, untamed, and relentless.
His fingers on her thigh, the brush of his thumb against her lips, the searing press of his mouth to her forehead—it all replayed in a torturous loop, lighting a fire she couldn’t extinguish.
Her chest tightened, her breath shallow, as the ache within her grew unbearable.
She wanted him—wanted him with a ferocity that drowned out reason, that mocked her every attempt to resist.
He was teasing her, unraveling her with every glance, every touch, and she was done fighting it.
She rose to her feet, the chair scraping
