In Arabella's chamber, she leaned forward over the edge of her bed, one hand braced against the mattress while another man's hand slipped around her neck.
It was unmistakably a man's hand, large, warm, and far too familiar in its intention.
The touch itself was gentle, almost reverent, yet it carried an unmistakable presumption that made her spine stiffen. Her eyes were closed, but her mind remained painfully clear, every sound and scent registering with sharp awareness.
The glasses scattered across the table had clearly been disturbed. Some were half-filled, others nearly empty, their contents catching the candlelight. The room was saturated with the scent of alcohol, sweet and cloying —evidence of indulgence and anticipation. Yet Arabella herself had not touched a single drop.
When a man placed his hand around a woman's neck like that, the implication was obvious. It was never a gesture made without expectation.
There was only one witch in the palace.
