SIGRUN
The corridor was suffocatingly quiet, save for the violent thrumming of my own heart against my ribs.
I stood in the dim torchlight outside Varul’s heavy oak doors, my hands clutching the silk of my robe so tightly my knuckles turned white. My skin felt overly sensitized, buzzing with a cocktail of raw excitement, terror, and a deep, pulsing horniness that had been building inside me for weeks.
Am I really about to do this?
The question echoed in my mind, but my body already knew the answer. So what if I’d asked Rita to spritz extra jasmine perfume on my delicate spots—behind my ears, the hollow of my throat, the insides of my wrists? I knew exactly what I was doing. Varul had told me before that he liked my scent, and the memory of how he had kissed me like a man starved merely
