The bathwater was still steaming, curling in tendrils toward the ceiling like incense smoke.

Viktor sat behind her in the tub, his arms wrapped around her waist, the side of his face pressed to her shoulder as his fingers lazily traced her skin beneath the surface. Every so often, he kissed a new place, her neck, her jaw, the curve of her collarbone, as if branding her with his mouth instead of his teeth. He helped her wash gently, his hands slow and steady, tending to her skin as if it mattered.

She turned to kiss him on the lips, a reflex born of the stories people passed around about how lovers sealed warmth with a kiss.

Viktor leaned back slightly, dodging her mouth without hesitation. Her smile flickered as she played it off, though she caught the faint blush rising along his cheekbones.

“I suppose kissing is not your habit,” she said lightly, tilting her head to study him. “I thought, since you were already kissing my neck and other places, you were waiting for me to make the first move there as well.”

Viktor cleared his throat. His blush deepened as he looked away for half a second, then back to her.

“I should make certain my mouth is clean first,” he said, almost too casually. “It is how my people are raised.”

He shifted slightly behind her, as if the explanation itself embarrassed him. “It is not refusal,” he added, quieter. “Only habit.”

In his homeland, intimacy was measured differently. Drinking from the same cup or eating from the same plate said far more than any careless touch. Bodies came together easily enough, but kisses on the lips were reserved, deliberate, and heavy with meaning. A kiss came after vows, not before. He did not want her to mistake this quiet closeness for something promised, especially when she tensed at the very softness others longed for.

Ayoka was quiet. Her breathing was slow. Her muscles were too loose to hold the weight of a single thought.

They had gone for one more round in the bedroom before this. This was the part no one talked about, the stillness after the fire, and the way the burn lingered even as the flames died down.

The man had been everything she feared and everything she had wanted. Still, she allowed herself to enjoy the moment, even if part of her believed she was using her body to feel in control.

She slid forward in the bath, easing herself out of his grip.

“I should go,” she murmured, her voice hoarse.

“You could stay,” he replied, his lips brushing the back of her shoulder.

She did not answer. She knew staying was not possible. Usually, men like him sent her away afterward. But something stirred inside her, something she did not yet have a name for.

She dried off in silence, wrapping herself in a thick towel that smelled of sandalwood and iron. Her thighs ached from the pounding he had given her, and faint red marks circled her wrists. Still, she moved with the slow grace of someone who had won something, even if she was not sure what.

She lost her composure for a moment and felt oddly awkward. Viktor leaned against the edge of the tub, watching her like a man with no intention of forgetting anything that had just happened.

The door creaked open only a fraction.

Before Ayoka could see her, she heard Genevieve’s voice, sharp and unmistakable, cutting through the quiet.

“I came to speak with you, Viktor.”

Ayoka’s stomach dropped. Not now. Not like this.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up. The instinct was older than fear. It was survival.

Her shadow stretched wrong along the floor, pulling ahead of her, tugging her sideways as if it had hands. It folded itself toward the wardrobe, urging her along.

She followed without thinking.

The door opened wider as she vanished in a blur of motion, quick as lightning splitting the air. Her shadow warped beneath her, yanked sideways like a ribbon of smoke.

She dove into the wardrobe just as the door swung fully open behind her with a soft gasp. Her towel snagged at her hip. Her breath came ragged, limbs trembling as the world slowed again.

She crouched low, adrenaline humming, the moment suspended like the air after thunder.

Pressed between coats and silks, she sank into a wall of fur, perfume, and guilt. Her knee knocked over something that smelled expensive.

Outside, Genevieve’s sharp heels cut across the floor like blades on marble.

“I know what is happening,” Genevieve snapped. “You are not as discreet as you think.”

Ayoka bit her lip so hard she was sure it would leave a mark. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Every speech she had rehearsed in the mirror vanished.

She had imagined facing Genevieve like a queen, standing tall, delivering a cutting remark, maybe tossing her curls like in a bad play.

Instead, she was crouched in a closet, wrapped in a towel that refused to stay in place, trying not to hyperventilate into Viktor’s overpriced winterwear. The closet smelled of secrets and old money. She smelled like sin.

I should have brought a damn fan, she thought. Or some dramatic exit smoke.

She had time to plan. Hours. Days.

But Ayoka was not ready.

Not at all. And certainly not with her ass nearly out and fur collars tickling her nose like judgmental cats.