Lorraine stared at him, stunned. Breathless. Not from his touch, not yet, but from the way he looked at her.
He spoke of the Swan Divina with reverence. Touched her like a man bewitched. Desired her with an intensity she'd never received as Lorraine, his wife. Her husband, who barely met her eyes, who had spent nights in silence, treating her like a duty, a burden, a porcelain doll too broken to be unwrapped…
Now, this same man stood before her, eyes lit with hunger, voice rough with need, for the woman she pretended to be.
She was not pretending to be a noble wife, one suitable for a crown prince, and not as the pampered daughter of House Arvand.
But he was mesmerized by Lazira—The madame of the courtesans and the Swan Divina—A woman cloaked in sin and secrets.
And he wanted her. Badly.
A bitter flame curled in her belly. So… this was the kind of woman who stirred him. Someone with fangs. With mystery. With bite.
