The next morning arrived with a cold, oppressive light that filtered through the heavy velvet curtains of Isolde’s bedroom, but the physical ache between her thighs served as a much more vivid reminder of the previous night. She lay still for a long time, staring at the ceiling and feeling the lingering ghost of Silas’s fingers inside her, wondering how she had let a man she was supposed to despise dismantle her entire sense of self in a matter of hours. The power he held over her wasn't just about the physical strength or the way he could pin her to a table, but the way he had seen the hunger she had spent years hiding from everyone, including herself. When the door to her room opened without a knock, she didn't even jump, because she already knew the heavy, rhythmic stride of the man who
