The fight with Marcus still echoed in Amaya's mind. She hated herself for caring what Adrian thought, for letting his touch haunt her even when she swore to hate him.
That night, Adrian found her in the music room, her fingers trembling on the piano keys.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"And yet, here I am," he replied softly.
When his hand brushed hers, she didn't pull away. When his lips claimed hers, she didn't resist. The kiss burned—hungry, desperate, forbidden.
By the time they pulled apart, both were breathless.
"This changes nothing," Amaya whispered.
But the way her body leaned into his told another story.