I reach for my glass.
Lemon water. Clear. Simple. Nothing like what they assume. But they don’t need to know that. In this room, perception carries as much weight as truth.
“To loyalty,” I say.
The room echoes it back with lifted glasses and low voices, the word folding into the architecture of the estate like it’s always belonged there.
“To loyalty.”
I drink.
And as I lower the glass, my eyes drift upward. To the staircase.
Timofey is there. Leaning lightly against the banister, watching everything unfold below. He told me he would let me own the room without his interference, and he’s doing exactly that.
Our eyes meet.
And for the first time in days, something in my chest settles completely.
I smile.
He smiles back, and something snaps in my chest.
I set my glass down and clap my hands. Right on cue, maids come out of the side rooms with trays of food. As the guests turn their attention to the meal and the talking starts up again, I find my opening. I slip away, drifting up the stairs and straight into Timofey’s waiting arms.
He pulls me in close, his voice a low growl against my mouth.
“You look so fucking hot,” he murmurs, his hands heavy on my waist. “I want you so bad.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper as he kisses me. “You can have me.”
He groans, pressing me back against the banister. “Fuck.”
From here, I can see everyone downstairs. They’re talking, laughing, and eating, completely unaware of us. My eyes flutter shut when Timofey’s hand slips under my dress, sliding higher up my thigh.
“I want to take you right here,” he says, his breath hot against my ear. “While you look down at your subjects.”
I gasp when his fingers find me, sliding inside easily.
“You’re so wet and needy for me.”
I let out a low moan and bite my lip to keep from crying out.
The rhythm of his fingers is steady and cruel, pushing deep and then slowing down just to hear me catch my breath. I grip the wood of the banister, my knuckles turning white as I watch the crowd below. They have no idea that their queen is being undone just a few feet above their heads.
“Look at them,” Timofey commands, his voice vibrating through my spine. “Watch them while I do this.”
I try to keep my eyes open, watching the blur of the party, but the sensation is too much. Every slide of his hand makes my knees weak. I’m leaning heavily against him, my head falling back against his shoulder as the heat builds into a tight, aching knot.
Just as I’m about to break, he suddenly pulls his hand away.
The loss of contact makes me whimper, my body leaning back into him, searching for the warmth. I turn my head, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps, only to see him reaching for the belt of his trousers.
The sound of his zipper moving down is loud in the quiet of the landing. It’s a sharp, heavy sound that cuts through the distant music from downstairs. He doesn’t take his eyes off me—those dark, hungry eyes that promise to finish exactly what he started.
“Turn around,” he mutters, his hands moving to my hips to guide me. “Keep your hands on that rail. I want you looking at everything you’ve won while I take what’s mine.”
I obey, my hands trembling as I grip the cold wood of the banister. Below, the party continues—the clinking of silverware and the low hum of voices—a world away from the heat radiating off Timofey behind me.
