"My maid," he whispered, "I know your feelings."
She stiffened.
"You don't know it," he breathed, "but I do."
Her throat moved.
A silent swallow. Her heart pounding so loud it was a wonder he didn't comment on it.
And still—she didn't speak.
Because he wasn't wrong.
"Yesterday," Damien murmured, his breath threading warm against the sensitive edge of her ear, "you gave a reaction then too."
Elysia's breath hitched.
"I saw it."
His hand moved from her waist, sliding back up, deliberate in its path, until his fingers found her chin again. He tilted her face toward him—gently, but with finality. Like lifting the veil off something hidden too long.
She resisted at first—just barely. Not with force, but reflex. The last remnant of an instinct that told her: Don't be seen.
But she was being seen.
And she stayed.
Damien made her look at him.
His eyes met hers, steady and unblinking—blue like a frozen lake that burned underneath.
