But his eyes?
His eyes didn’t ask permission.
They promised ruin.
His fingers grazed my ankles, feather-light.
I sucked in a breath. Sharp. Too loud.
He didn’t stop.
His touch skimmed higher, along my calf, slow enough to ache.
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
“I won’t take what’s mine tonight,” he said. His voice was a caress—low and rough and steady as sin. “But I will remind you it is.”
His palm slid higher—stopped just below my knee.
Every inch of skin between us burned.
He didn’t touch where I thought he would.
That was the worst part.
The restraint.
The waiting.
The not-knowing.
“You’ll beg, Persephone,” he whispered. He leaned in, breath brushing over my collarbone, warm and electric. “But I want you to want it when you do.”
My breath caught.
His didn’t.
He stood slowly—unhurried, controlled.
I sat frozen, flushed and trembling and painfully untouched.
“Sleep well, wife.”
He turned and walked away.
Each step was quiet.
Each one echoed.
And I stayed there on the bed, robe clutched around me, heartbeat wild and aching and angry.
He hadn’t touched me.
Not really.
But it still felt like I’d been devoured.
I hated him.
