The dining hall smelled of roasting meat, fresh bread, and wine poured with careless abundance. Candles flickered, casting shadows that darted across the walls like playful spirits—or malicious ones. Adrian entered, his steps measured, his chest tight. Every glance from the women already waiting at the long table seemed designed to pierce him, to judge him, to trap him.
Selene sat at the far end, her back straight, her fingers lightly drumming the edge of her goblet. She did not look at him. Liora, on the other hand, smiled in that dangerous way, a smile that promised both pleasure and pain. Althea and Cassia exchanged glances, conspiratorial, as though they already knew the secret games that would unfold tonight.
Adrian felt a surge of heat in his chest—not merely from desire, but from the tension crackling through the room. It was a battlefield. Each movement, each laugh, each clink of silverware carried weight.
He took his seat, trying to appear composed, but his pulse betrayed him.
Mariel, ever the cheerful observer, spoke first. "Adrian, you look tired. The estate is… challenging, is it not?"
His lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. "It is… demanding, yes."
Selene's eyes, when she finally glanced at him, were sharp, assessing. No warmth. Only observation.
Across the table, Liora leaned toward him, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. "You look weary, Adrian. Perhaps you need… comfort?"
Before he could respond, Althea's hand slid under the table. A light brush against his thigh—innocent, teasing, deliberate. Adrian's breath caught.
Cassia giggled. "Careful, Althea. Don't scare him off before the games even begin."
He realized, with a mixture of awe and horror, that he was the center of their amusement—and perhaps their cruelty. Each woman had her strategy, her plan. And he, helpless, was the pawn.
Selene's lips twitched faintly, an almost imperceptible smirk. Adrian noticed it, and a shiver ran down his spine. She did not move toward him, did not touch him, but she controlled him all the same.
The meal proceeded, a symphony of subtle warfare. Plates clattered, goblets tilted, laughter spilled. Yet behind it all, Adrian felt the constant pressure of their gazes, their whispers just beyond comprehension, their hands brushing, daring, teasing.
Althea's fingers danced again along his leg. This time he reacted, a sharp inhale escaping his lips, which earned a quiet chuckle from her. Cassia leaned closer, her shoulder brushing against his, and whispered, "Do you enjoy the attention, Adrian, or do you simply fear it?"
Adrian did not answer. How could he? Every nerve in his body screamed for something forbidden, for a touch, a glance, a sign of approval. But to admit desire openly—Selene would punish him. And Liora… Liora would savor the sight of him undone.
Selene's eyes flicked toward him again, and the weight of them fell like stones. She did not speak. She did not smile. She merely watched. And in that silence, Adrian understood a terrifying truth: she did not need to act to dominate him. Her mere observation was enough to make him tremble.
The game escalated when Cassia, with an almost innocent movement, let her hand hover too close to his, brushing it against his knee. Adrian's pulse thundered. Liora noticed, of course. Her lips curved in a slow, dangerous smile, and the flicker of amusement in her eyes was like a spark thrown into dry kindling.
Althea leaned over, whispering against his ear, her voice low, caressing. "Do you feel it? All of us watching? All of us waiting?"
Adrian's stomach churned. He wanted to flee. He wanted to take her, to take any one of them, to escape the torment that was desire made visible. But he could not. He was trapped, both enthralled and terrified.
Selene's fingers tapped lightly against her goblet. She had not moved. She had not smiled. And yet the message was unmistakable: behave, or be devoured.
Dinner ended, the table cleared. Adrian's body was on fire, his mind fractured. He felt humiliated, exalted, consumed by the awareness of every glance, every touch, every whisper. The women moved around him with deliberate grace, their amusement thinly veiled beneath politeness. He had no power here. None. And yet he could not leave.
He knew, as he retreated to the shadows of the hall afterward, that he was already losing himself. The estate, the women, the games—they were relentless. And the price of indulgence would be far greater than he had yet imagined.