Yelena's lips pressed into a thin line as her fingers lingered at the hem of her nightgown. She was the elder here, the one who should have been setting the rules, commanding respect.
In any other situation, it would have been her voice that carried weight, her hand that dictated when things began and when they ended.
Yet under Mika's gaze, unyielding, steady, and heavy with authority, her chest tightened. It was as though the very air pressed down on her, demanding obedience.
Her pride screamed at her to resist, to tell him "no."
But her hands betrayed her.
Almost of their own accord, her fingers curled into the fabric and slowly tugged it upward. She hated how natural the motion felt, how powerless she suddenly seemed.
Still, even as the fabric rose and the curve of her legs came into view, she caught onto the last threads of her pride.
