The night in Mercedes' palace was as silent as buried ice—except for the room where Scarlet and Strax met. There, silence didn't last long. It was always replaced by sighs, laughter, teasing, gasps… and, eventually, moans that probably pierced ice walls like water.
Now, however, everything was at a slower pace.
More intimate.
The fireplace crackled softly, releasing flames that danced lazily, reflecting on his golden skin and the deep red of her hair. Scarlet sat on Strax's lap, sideways, one leg over his and the other resting on the bed, as if it were natural to occupy this space as her personal throne.
And it was.
His arms encircled her waist with that tranquil possession, the kind that doesn't constrict, doesn't suffocate—it simply exists. It simply is.
Strax's hair was still a little messy from the previous night, and Scarlet, well… Scarlet seemed very proud of it.
