The air in the chamber had shifted.
Minutes ago, it had been thick with sweat, moans, and stolen sin. Now, it was perfumed with incense and tension, silence laced with the faint rustle of Catherine's silk dress as she sat once more in her rightful place—a viscountess, polished and untouchable.
Her hair gleamed under candlelight, carefully combed to perfection. Rouge touched her lips, and the lace of her gown hugged her body in practiced elegance. She wore the mask of nobility with centuries of refinement behind it. But no powder could hide the faint flush in her cheeks, nor the reddened curve of her neck, nor the glow in her eyes—the unmistakable aura of a woman who had been claimed.
Arina noticed at once.
Her warrior's instincts catalogued everything in moments: the softness in Catherine's lips, the looseness of her posture, the quiet afterglow clinging to her like a second skin. A glow no battlefield ever gave.
