The plum-colored silk of my bustier clung to my skin like a second, more dangerous layer of identity as I stepped into the dim light of the kitchen. The satin trousers flowed around my legs, whispering with every step, revealing the silhouette of my thighs with a deliberate, calculated grace that I hadn't dared to show before.
I had freed my hair from its usual chaotic bun, letting it cascade over my shoulders in light, fragrant waves. My makeup was subtle but sharp—eyes darkened just enough to project an expression that was both meticulously composed and lethally inviting.
As I descended the grand stone staircase, the low, masculine grunts echoing from beneath the kitchen's massive, soot-stained arches reached my ears. Varg was already locked in a battle of endurance at the crack of dawn, his body a machine of constant war. I leaned against the cold marble of the kitchen island, my movements fluid and cat-like, as I poured myself a glass of blood-red wine into a crystal flute.
