Tila felt relaxed in Kael's hands, though she hated it—she loved it.
Her heart was a battlefield, every beat waging war against itself, a relentless clash of defiance and desire.
She kept repeating the lie in her head.
He has forced me to do this else I would have killed him.
I am a maid—temporary, bound by a week of servitude, a deal I struck in arrogance and desperation for freedom from this hell.
Duty, obligation, punishment.
That's all it is supposed to be.
But deep down, a truth she couldn't silence burned brighter.
She wanted it. She craved it.
Kael's touch wasn't terrifying, cold, or cruel.
His hands were warm, firm yet never rough, intentional yet never invasive.
For someone who'd spent her life recoiling from closeness, from affection, from vulnerability, from touch, Tila found herself melting in his arms, her black eyes fluttering shut, her wild black hair splayed across the pillow.
