Heat slid through me, low and unwelcome.
I wasn’t prudish. I understood desire. I’d had lovers. I’d been wanted.
But this—this was something else. This was being held on the edge of choice.
My mind flashed to Connor again. The way his eyes had lingered. The way he’d stepped aside as I passed, courtesy wrapped around restraint. The way he’d gone still when his full name was spoken.
The man in the photograph looked like he knew exactly what he could take without asking.
And the woman looked like she’d already given permission without saying a word.
My fingers tightened around my camera strap.
Amaya watched me watching. “This speaks to you,” she said.
“It shouldn’t,” I said automatically.
Amaya’s smile was slow. “Shouldn’t is boring.”
I swallowed. “I’m not?—”
“Not what?” she asked, genuinely curious.
I couldn’t finish the sentence. Not out loud.
Not the real version:I’m not the kind of woman who wants to be possessed.
And yet my body, traitorous, hummed in agreement with the image.
I forced myself to look away and found Luc in the corner, staring at a painting with such intensity it seemed like he was in a private argument with it. His earbuds were gone. For once, he looked approachable.
“Luc,” I said, tentative.
He glanced at me. “Mila.”
“Do you … like this?” I gestured at the room.
He shrugged. “It’s not for liking.”
“What is it for?”
He studied me for a moment. “For telling the truth you pretend you don’t have.”
My stomach flipped. “That’s ominous.”
Luc’s mouth curved faintly. “Art is ominous. Life is ominous. Paris is …” He searched for the word, then gave up. “Paris.”
I laughed softly, surprising myself. It loosened something in my chest.
Luc nodded toward my camera. “Did you take pictures?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
I hesitated. Because it felt rude. Because I felt exposed. Because taking a photograph meant admitting that something mattered.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
