The air inside the kitchen was thick, not with the lingering scent of soap or the faint steam from the sink, but with something rawer, more primal—a charged heat that pressed against Lor's chest like a living thing.
Vela's grip on his arm loosened, but the fire in her green eyes didn't fade as she shoved him toward a wooden chair, its legs scraping against the tiles.
She stood over him, arms folded beneath the swell of her toned bust, her sports bra straining against her curves, her glare a mix of fury and something darker.
Maris lingered at the counter, her hands trembling as she fumbled to straighten her blouse, the damp fabric clinging to her breasts, the flush on her cheeks betraying the arousal that hadn't left her despite her guilt.
"Here's how this works," Vela said, her voice flat and unyielding, iron in every syllable. "You shut your mouth. You do what we say. And then you forget this ever happened. Understand?"
