The bathwater was still steaming, curling in tendrils up toward the ceiling like incense smoke. Viktor sat behind her in the tub, 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 gently wash, his hands slow and steady, tending to her skin like it mattered.
She turned to kiss him on the lips, a reflex born of the stories others passed around—how lovers sealed warmth with a kiss. But Viktor leaned back slightly, dodging her mouth without hesitation. Her smile flickered, playing it off, but she caught the faint blush dusting his cheekbones.
He was learning that gentleness made her retreat, not bloom. Still, she turned to kiss him—a gesture others used to mark affection. Viktor leaned back slightly, dodging the kiss. Not because he didn't want it. Quite the opposite. His blush gave him away, but tradition held him firm. In his homeland, kissing on the lips after sharing wine was as close to a promise as one could get.
There, people bedded easily, but kisses were sacred. A kiss came after vows, not before. And though they'd already shared a cup—an act many considered binding—he didn't want her to confuse this quiet with urgency. Especially when she tensed at the very softness others longed for.
Maybe softness made her flinch. Perhaps peace, real peace, was harder for her to hold than the storm itself. His hands stayed slow, deliberate. For a man born in firelight and tempered by silence, tenderness didn't come cheap.
Ayoka was quiet. Her breathing slow. Her muscles too soft to hold up the weight of a single thought. He'd 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 still pulsed even as the flames died down.
The man had been everything she feared and everything she'd wanted. Still, she allowed herself to enjoy the moment, even if part of her believed she was just using her body to feel in control. She slid forward in the bath, separating herself from his grip.
"I should go," she murmured, voice hoarse.
"You could stay," he replied, lips brushing the back of her shoulder.
She didn't answer. She knew staying wasn't possible. Usually, men like him just kicked her out afterward. But something stirred inside her. She didn't know the word for it yet.
She dried off in silence, wrapping herself in a thick towel that smelled of sandalwood and iron. Her thighs ached from the pounding he'd given her, and her wrists bore faint red marks. Still, she walked with the slow grace of someone who had won something—even if she wasn't sure what.
She lost her composure for a moment, feeling oddly awkward. Viktor leaned against the edge of the tub, watching her like a man who had no intention of forgetting anything that had just happened.
She was halfway to the door when it flew open. Genevieve had just come back from her father's house. Ayoka didn't want to deal with that woman—not now.
Ayoka's body moved before her mind caught up. It was like something—maybe Viktor, maybe instinct—had reached through time itself. She vanished in a blur of motion, like lightning splitting the air. Her shadow warped beneath her, yanked sideways like a ribbon of smoke. She dove—crashed into the wardrobe, door swinging shut behind her with a soft gasp. Her towel snagged at her hip, breath ragged, limbs trembling as the world slowed again. She crouched low, adrenaline humming, the moment suspended like the air after thunder.
She crouched between coats and silks, pressed into a wall of fur and perfume and guilt. Her knee knocked over something that smelled expensive. Outside, Genevieve's sharp heels sliced the air like daggers on marble.
"I came to speak with you, Viktor," Genevieve snapped, her voice carrying that special kind of noble venom. "I know what's happening. You're not as discreet as you think."
Ayoka bit her lip so hard she swore it'd leave a dent. Her pulse thundered in her ears. All that talk she'd rehearsed in the mirror? Gone. Vanished. She thought she'd face Genevieve like a queen—stand tall, deliver a cutting one-liner, maybe toss her curls like in a bad play.
Instead, she was crouched in a closet in a towel that wouldn't stay up, trying not to hyperventilate into Viktor's overpriced winterwear. The closet smelled like secrets and old money. She smelled like sin.
I should've brought a damn fan, she thought. Or some dramatic exit smoke.
She'd had time to plan. Hours. Days. But Ayoka wasn't ready.
Not at all. And definitely not with her ass nearly out and fur collars tickling her nose like judgmental cats.