The words hung between them like smoke that refused to fade.
And if I do, what will you do for me?
Metheea's tongue felt heavy in her mouth. No answer came. Her throat worked, but the silence stretched on, wrapping her in heat and shame. His gaze held her pinned to the chair, unblinking, dark as storm clouds.
She could not move.
Her fingers tightened on the porcelain cup. She remembered the taste of his kiss, the press of his mouth, the way he had forced past her resistance. The memory struck her with such clarity that her breath faltered. Her lips still burned as if the moment had branded her.
Azrayel leaned back slightly, studying her, as though he read every flicker of her face. "You remember," he murmured, not quite a question.
Her heart leapt. She opened her lips to deny it, but the words died in her throat. The silence betrayed her.
