Damien didn't move.
He stayed there—hovering just above her, the heat of his breath ghosting across her cheek in steady, ragged waves. That same smile curved his lips—quiet, feral, restrained not by mercy but by interest. He was watching her the way a man might observe the final twitch of a trap he'd set days ago.
And she still hadn't said a word.
Not because she wouldn't.
But because she couldn't.
Elysia's chest rose and fell too fast, each breath clipped short as if her lungs were no longer hers to command. Her muscles hadn't loosened, but they hadn't fought either. She didn't blink. Didn't speak. Didn't move.
Just felt.
Her body trembled beneath his weight—not visibly. Just subtly enough to register in the beat of her pulse, the flush rising from the base of her throat. Her breath had a faint, unsteady edge to it now. Not from exertion.
From response.
