Vivienne sat up, her body trembling like it had been drained of everything. Her hair stuck to her skin, her lips dry, her chest rising and falling as if she had just run across the entire estate. She wanted to breathe, to rest, to escape. But when she glanced at him, André was sitting calmly at the edge of the bed, his hand on her ankle, his lips pressing soft, deliberate kisses against it.
Her ankle.
Vivienne stared at him in disbelief. Out of all the places in the world, this bastard chooses my ankle. Who the fuck kisses ankles?
Her mind raced. She needed to get out. She couldn't stay here one more second or she'd lose her sanity. She whispered, almost too softly, "I think it's time I leave. Madame asked me to wash the draperies in the lounge in the west wing this morning."
That was it. Her excuse. Perfect.
She pushed herself off the bed, her legs shaky but determined, and began walking toward the door. Freedom was right there. But then—of course—his hand grabbed hers.
