Evening draped Eldenwilde palace in soft gold and velvet. The towering arched windows caught the last amber rays of sun, casting them in long lines across polished marble floors. Glided columns rose like solemn guardians, their golden accents catching every flicker of candlelight. A stillness had settled, the kind that only came after dinner was cleared and the court had vanished into its chambers.
Soft wind teased the velvet curtains. Candles blinked overhead in chandelier of gold and glass, flickering like stairs just before dusk.
Footsteps no longer echoed. The servants had retreated, the noble guest withdrawn, only a few guards remained at their posts, unmoving like statues.
And somewhere in the north wing, alone again, prince Morven wandered.
The corridor stretched in polished perfection – long as sin, quiet as death. He moved beneath a vaulted ceiling painted with ancient constellation, hands stuffed in pockets of his brocade coat, frowning slightly.
"Every time," he muttered, adjusting the black sash that hung from his shoulder. "This cursed palace is a labyrinth."
The north wing – beautiful, sprawling, maddeningly grand – always confused him. A twist here, a mirrored hallway there, staircases that led nowhere and doors that opened into a different room. It was like walking through a dream crafted for someone else.
He turned another corner, step slowing.
There it was – a faint glow. One of the bath windows was slightly opened. A cracked arch, not wider than a palm. Just enough to let the scent drift out: vanilla oil….and something richer. Amber. Honey. Skin.
His gaze caught the shimmer of water through the thin glass. The flicker of a flame. A sound – soft, almost a soft sigh.
He froze.
He should turn back. His chest tightened, breath thinning. But he didn't move. Not yet.
He didn't mean to look. He never did but there she was.
Princess Ivy leaned back into her bath. Like a goddess sinking into a throne. The water rose gently around her bare skin, rose petals circling her collarbone, her knees, her thighs. Candlelight danced against her shoulders, the curve of her waist, the soft glisten of moisture trailing from her damp neck to the slope of her breasts. Her legs stretched languidly along the edge of the tub. One knee slightly bent, the other extended just enough to tease the shape of her thigh from beneath the water.
She had dismissed her maids earlier with a single sentence, "I'm not to be disturbed tonight. No one enters."
She hasn't said why. She never needed to.
Ivy didn't know if he would pass by.
She hoped. But she didn't know.
If he didn't, that was fine.
She would enjoy her bath anyway. She always did.
But if he did...
If he saw her – even a glimpse, a breath, a shadow behind the bath window – then she would know.
That he wanted her.
Even if he shouldn't.
And that was all Ivy ever needed. Just desire. Just hunger. Just the taste of being wanted.
She slowly arched in the water, shifting her hips beneath the surface – not to relax, but to display. One smooth, bare thigh slid along the curve of the tub. Her breast rose gently, water cascading down them as she moved. Her nipples, already tout from the cool air, caught the candlelight – pink, perfect, blasphemous.
She reached for a sponge slowly, trailing it down her chest. Circling her breast in a motion too slow to be innocent. Her lips parted – just slightly – as the sponge dipped lower, brushing between her thigh beneath the water.
And outside the window, he watched. Morven stood frozen by the window. The curtains gently, betraying his shadow. But he didn't move.
He should have turned away. He knew that. But his body refused. His hands clenched at his sides, jaw locking as heat surged through his chest and dropped lower. He didn't see everything. Just hints. But it was enough. Her curves moved like smoke in the golden lights. Her skin looked impossibly smooth.
His pulse thundered. And beneath his robes, his body betrayed him.
Ivy moved again, slowly, deliberately. She arched her back, her hands sliding down the length of her own thighs beneath water, her neck exposed – and god, the the movement alone made his pulse stutter.
He had seen so many women. Had bedded some. But none of them looked like her. None of them made his body rage against his mind like this.
He cursed under his breath.
And yet he stayed rooted to the spot, Shane dancing with desire. Ivy was bathing – alone – and something inside him refused to walk away. Even the moon outs seemed to freeze, holding its breath.
Inside, Ivy felt it.
His presence.
Even without sight or sound, she knew. He had stopped. He was watching.
She didn't need to see him. She didn't need proof. She felt him as surely as she felt her own pulse, quickening beneath the water.
Her mind wandered.
Would he come in?
Would he dare?
Then, slowly, Ivy turned her head.
The candlelight glowed against her cheek, her lashes lowered. Her gaze shifted to the window – where he had stood, just seconds before.
But he was gone.
Only silence remained.
Still, she smiled. Not wide. Not cruel. Just soft. Certain.
She wasn't surprised he left. Men like Morven always left – lips bitten, fists clenched, desire burning like poison beneath their skin.
But they always come back. They couldn't help it.
She lifted one arm lazily from the water and rested it behind her head. She rolled her bottom against the edge of the tub, careless now, knowing he was watching even in absence. She stretched again, sinfully slow, and let herself sink until the water barely covered her chest.
Every inch of her moved like seduction. Like promise. Like skin.
Outside the window, Morven had walked away, breath heavy, fingers dug into his palms. His blood still boiled. Guilt snapping at his heels like a whip. His body ached – hard, tense, furious with him for leaving.
But he didn't turn back.
Because if he stayed, he didn't trust himself not to enter.
And if he went in….he wouldn't come out the same.
And Ivy? She simply closed her eyes still smiling, water slipping down the curve of her waist as she whispered to herself like a woman praying in the temple of desire.
He was hers now.
Whether he knew it or not.
And the taste of sin?
It longed long after the first bite.