All she had left to do now was escape the castle.
If fate was finally on her side, then Damian bringing her into his bedroom was the last piece she needed. And if the housekeeper had spoken the truth about a hidden passageway… then tonight would be her only chance.
She would distract him.
She would find the tunnel.
She would run—straight to the village and to freedom.
If giving Damian her virginity was the price of slipping away, then so be it. She had no choice. For her sister's sake, she would pay any cost. She would sacrifice anything.
But when Damian's hands slid over her skin—strong, sure, and unbearably gentle—Elena froze.
Because suddenly… it didn't feel like a sacrifice at all.
She gasped as he touched her naked body. He took one breast in his hand,exposing her aching nipples,while his hand's traced like a whisper down her belly towards the tuft of hair between her legs. Then his mouth was her breast, suckling her and she lost all rational thoughts,his tongue swirled around her nipple,making her gasp and grip his shoulder. She threw her head back,closing her eyes as he devoured her lips and tongue and teeth,bringing her to the edge of pleasure and pain. He moved to the other breast as his hand lightly teased her hips and thighs, grazing the edge of hair. A groan came from deep within her throat as she finally felt his hand reach between her legs. She ran her hands along his naked back, wanting him to touch her core- willing him to touch inside her….
Cursing under his breath,he moved his hand away
"You make me forget,"he said softly,looking up at her.
"Forget?" She gasped
"Forget the plans I have for you."
"Plans?" Suddenly frightened,she drew back,trying to read his handsome,inscrutable face.
Rising to his feet, he bent his head and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tender hollow of her neck. His hands traced down her spine, over her waist, then lower, molding to her hips and the curve of her backside. And in that moment she understood—no matter how little she trusted him, she was utterly powerless to tell him to stop. It would have been like trying to stop her own heartbeat.
He lifted her effortlessly, as though she weighed nothing. She let her head fall against his shoulder, breath trembling. This is it, she thought. Finally. He would throw her onto his bed, strip off his clothes, and press her beneath his bare body. The anticipation made her close her eyes, her whole being reaching for him, ready to give in completely.
But he didn't take her to the bed.
Instead, he carried her into a vast bathroom gleaming with white tiles and lit by a dozen tall, flickering candles. The air smelled faintly of roses. He lowered her into a bath strewn with soft petals, and she let out a long, shaky sigh as the heat wrapped around her. Only then did she realize how worn she truly was—soaked with rain, crusted with salt, carrying the exhaustion of two continents across her skin. The water melted tension she didn't even know she'd been holding.
"Lean back," Damian said, his voice low.
Without protest, she slid down, dipping the back of her head beneath the warm water. Her cold, tangled hair soaked through, and a wave of relief shuddered through her. She rose again, resting her head against the marble edge of the tub, feeling as though she had been reborn.
She was so deeply relaxed that she barely cared that he could see brief glimpses of her bare breasts beneath the drifting rose petals.
Damian settled on the floor behind her, poured a pool of shampoo into his palms, and began to work it slowly through her hair. His fingers moved in steady, soothing circles. She exhaled a long, trembling sigh and let her eyes fall shut, surrendering completely to his touch.
"Rinse," he murmured, and she tilted her head back, obeying without thought.
He took a sea sponge and lavender-scented soap, then began washing her body—gentle, unhurried circles gliding over her warm, flushed skin. He started at her shoulders, then down her arms, over her breasts, her stomach, the soft curves of her legs. He lifted her feet from the water one at a time, kneading them firmly, then repeated the intimate care with her hands.
A hazy warmth consumed her, contentment curling through every nerve. She lifted her fingers in front of her eyes. The intricate henna patterns—symbols that had marked her as Richard's future bride—had almost completely faded, washed away in the bath.
It felt like chains had slipped from her body.
If her plan worked, tomorrow she would belong to Richard—answering his every command, enduring his stale breath, his slack flesh, and the brutal fists he called hands. That would be her life.
But tonight was different.
Tonight she was still herself—her own woman, free to feel joy and make her own choices.
And Damian… Damian was her choice.
Whatever else she would be forced to give Richard, she refused to give him this.
Not her first time.
Not the one piece of herself she still controlled.
Damian stirred feelings in her she had never experienced. Wanting him was easy.
Loving him—dangerously possible.
But giving herself to him?
It felt worth it.
"Ready?" Damian asked quietly, holding a towel open.
She rose to her feet, water scented with roses sliding down her skin. He took her hands, guiding her from the tub, pulling her close as he toweled her dry. Her pulse fluttered wildly when he wrapped the heavy white towel around her body. She felt the heat of his hands even through the thick cotton.
He looked down at her, a soft intensity in his eyes.
"Much better," he murmured.
"Much," she breathed, staring at his mouth—soft, sensual, devastating.
He traced a finger across her lower lip, slow and deliberate.
"Elena," he said quietly, "I make no promises. In fact, the opposite. We can have this—tonight, perhaps a few weeks more—but after that, there can be no future between us."