When I woke, sunlight stabbed through the latticework and painted gold bars across the bed curtains; the world smelled faintly of rose oil and dusted parchment.
For a heartbeat I lay there, blinking up at the ceiling and trying to stitch last night together from ragged scraps—Elowen's predatory smirk, the way Merol had let his hands wander until 'gentle' had become a lie.
My face flushed hot at the memory of the way they'd taken me—Merol's slow, possessive press that had felt, in the moment, like shelter; Elowen's rough, gleeful claim that had left me braced and raw.
A painful moan slipped out as I sat up. My ass throbbed in annoying, furious pulses beneath the silk of the new morning robe, a dull sting that flared whenever I shifted. The bed was neat around me—sheets tucked so precisely I could have sworn I'd never slept at all.
