Days passed in a blur of torture disguised as routine.
Every morning at dawn, Selene knocked on those heavy carved doors. Entered with breakfast. Set the tray carefully on the table while Damian worked at his desk or dressed for the day.
Every evening at sunset, she returned. Stoked the fire. Turned down the bed. Made sure everything was prepared for the night.
Brief encounters. Professional. Polite. Nothing improper or unusual.
But charged with something Selene couldn't name. Or refused to name. Because naming it would make it real, and she couldn't handle it being real.
The mate bond hummed between them constantly. Selene felt it every second she was in his presence. A pull. A connection. A thread tying her to the man she'd sworn to kill.
Her wolf was in heaven. Finally close to their mate. Finally able to scent him, see him, be near him daily.
Selene was in hell.
