Sylum sighed, dragging a hand down his face as if uncertain whether to scold me or laugh. “It seems no one in this house cares that I am the Lord of this manor,” he murmured dryly. “Perhaps I should begin locking doors at night.”
The dim lamplight danced across his features, half-illuminating, half-shadowing them, and for the briefest moment, I thought he looked almost haunted himself.
“Come,” he insisted at last, his voice quiet. “Before my aunt comes back and decides to add nocturnal prowling to your catalogue of sins.”
Poe clicked his beak indignantly, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like,“Nevermore.”
I followed, heart thudding in my chest, the echo of his footsteps sharp against the marble.
Poe, the little traitor, flew in after us, perching primly atop his gilded cage before hopping inside to peck at his seed as if he hadn’t just betrayed me.
Sylum closed the door behind us with a quiet click that felt far louder than it should have.
The lamplight flickered across his features. His white shirt clung to him, open at the throat, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin catching the light. He leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched me, silent and assessing.
The air between us thickened, the scent of him engulfing me.
I swallowed hard, smoothing the fabric of my nightgown between my fingers. “Have you been drinking?” I blurted before I could stop myself. The words hung there, foolish and small.
His brow arched, amused. His gaze drifted pointedly to the half-drained bottle on the desk. He lifted his glass, swirled the amber liquid, and took a slow, sinfully confident sip. When he lowered it, the corners of his mouth curved into something between a smirk and a warning.
“Have you been eavesdropping?”
My mouth fell open. “No!” I said far too quickly.
His smirk deepened, the faintest gleam of humor touching his eyes as he set the glass down.
“Then no, my love,” he murmured, the endearment rolling off his tongue with emphasis, “I haven’t been drinking either.”
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The silence pulsed, electric and dangerous. Poe shifted in his cage, feathers rustling, as if even he could feel the charge between us.
I couldn’t look away from Sylum’s eyes. They were darker tonight, rimmed in exhaustion, yet still gleaming with something unspoken—guilt or desire, I couldn’t tell.
Perhaps both.
The tension was killing me.
I threw my hands up, the sound of my own exhale sharp in the stillness. “Well, go on then,” I sighed, unable to bear the silence a moment longer. “If you mean to punish me for eavesdropping, do it and be done with it.”
A dangerous smile tugged at his lips as his gaze slipped over me. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes traced the fall of my hair, the curve of my neck, and lower still, to where my nightdress clung scandalously to my skin, the thin muslin leaving little to the imagination.
I felt the chill of the room vanish beneath the heat of his stare. My breath caught, my pulse stuttered.
When he finally met my eyes again, something dark and unguarded flashed there. “Punish you?” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety breath that sent a shiver racing down my spine.
He moved toward me with the slow certainty of a man who already knew the outcome of this moment—knew it and welcomed it. His shadow swallowed mine, the lamplight gilding his features in gold.
His words brushed the air between us like a caress. “I could think of several things I’d like to do to you,” he murmured, “and none of them involve pain.”
My pulse quickened until I thought he might hear it beating in my throat. The flickering lamplight turned his eyes near black, their depth a quiet storm that pulled at something fragile inside me.
The space between us vanished. I could feel the warmth of him now. His fingers brushed the edge of my sleeve, tracing down my arm with reverence. “Tell me what your punishment should be,” he challenged.
But I couldn’t. My throat closed. Words left me.
His hand rose, cupping my cheek with a gentleness at odds with the hunger in his eyes. His thumb traced the faint scar there, a touch so soft that it made my breath catch.
“Tell me what you want,” he urged, leaning in until his breath ghosted over my neck, deliberate and claiming.
