"W…what are you both doing?!!!!"
Rosaluna and I both snapped our heads toward the doorway. Our mother—Isabella—stood frozen there, eyes wide, pupils trembling, the faintest shake in her hand as it rose instinctively to cover her mouth. The lamplight spilled across her face, picking out the pale wash of shock that had drained all color from her cheeks.
The scene needed no explanation. Rosaluna lay sprawled on her back across my bed, hair spilled in a dark, tangled halo, her chest still rising and falling with uneven breaths. Her gown was rucked high over her hips, the soft curve of her thighs bared, and I was crouched between them—so close my breath still warmed her skin—one hand cupping the firm swell of her right breast through silk, my thumb idly circling as though my body hadn't yet caught up to my mind.
There was no way to pretend. No lie clever enough to mask the truth Isabella had walked in on. Every detail told its own story, painted in sweat and heat.
