A week passed under the new arrangement.
Seven days of forced proximity. Seven mornings bringing Damian breakfast and tending his chambers. Seven evenings preparing his rooms for the night.
Seven days of the bond pain staying manageable instead of crippling. Seven days of her body celebrating the nearness to her mate. Seven days of her mind screaming that this was wrong, that she was getting too comfortable, that she was forgetting why she'd come here.
But she wasn't forgetting. The nightmares wouldn't let her.
Every night, Selene dreamed of the massacre. Of her family dying. Of Isolde's screams. Of fire and blood and soldiers in the Alpha King's colors.
She'd wake up gasping, sweating, sometimes crying. The other servants in the shared quarters had started complaining about her nightmares. About how she talked in her sleep. About how she'd wake them up with her distress.
