Moments later…
Sylteena walked out of the bathroom with her nightdress clinging loosely to her skin, the scent of floral oils and soap still fresh on her.
Water droplets from her soaked blonde strands trailed down the side of her neck, glistening under the warm, orange glow of the chandelier overhead.
Behind her were the last pair of maids that bowed in unison.
"Your Highness," they recited before slipping out of the chamber like shadows.
Silence welcomed them.
With only the distant crackle from the fireplace and the occasional rustle of a turning page filling the right air, Sylteena's eyes lifted to the person on their matrimonial bed.
Prince Anthony. Her husband.
Reclined against the velvet headboard with an arm placed behind his head, the orange flicker of flames danced across his bare chest, casting shifting shadows on the ridges of his abdomen. Dressed in nothing more than his black pants, he looked like some forbidden painting come alive — alluring, yet poisonous.
