Isabella strolled through the manor's courtyard, Judith by her side. The cool breeze was a welcome respite from the stifling atmosphere of her chamber. She had grown tired of locking herself away, trying to spite her husband. But solitude had only served to intensify her thoughts, and she often found herself daydreaming about the one person she was supposed to despise: Sir Leofric.
Every day the blackguard would return to their chamber, his eyes gleaming with hunger that made Isabella's skin prickle. He would try to coax her into his arms, his touch never failing to send shivers down her spine. And to her horror, she always found herself responding to his advances, her body betraying her mind's revulsion.
It wasn't supposed to be so. She was supposed to hate him, to resent his very existence. But the truth was, she had grown to enjoy his silly jokes, his lame attempts to get her to do things for him. And his touch—oh! His touch was like nothing she had ever felt before.
