By the time I come downstairs, Anya is already in the breakfast room. She’s sitting near the window in a pale blue dress that arrived sometime yesterday, her hair loose over one shoulder, one hand wrapped around a cup of tea. Morning light softens her face, but it does nothing to hide the marks I left on her throat.
My body reacts before my mind can stop it.
Last night returns in pieces.
Her in the shower. Her hands on me. Her voice breaking when she said she wanted my cock inside her.
My fingers tighten once around the back of the chair before I sit.
“Good morning,” she says. Her voice is quiet. A little hoarse.
I did that too.
“Morning.”
For several minutes, we eat in a silence that is not comfortable but not hostile either. Anya picks at the fruit first, then eats properly once she thinks I’m not watching. I do watch. I watch the way she shifts slightly in her chair and tries to hide the wince. I watch the color rise in her face when she realizes I’ve seen it.
“You should have stayed in bed,” I say.
She gives me a look over her tea. “You say the most romantic things.”
“I wasn’t trying to be romantic.”
“Clearly.”
I almost smile.
The house is quieter than usual. No cane striking marble. No cold voice from the doorway. No Larisa watching Anya as if she’s a stain on the carpet.
Anya notices the quiet too. “Where is your aunt?”
“She left.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “Left?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before dawn.”
She sits back slightly. For a second, I see relief move across her face before she hides it. “Did she say why?”
“No.”
“Does she ever explain herself?”
“Rarely.”
Anya looks into her tea. “Good.”
That does make me smile. Only a little. She sees it and looks away too quickly, but not before I catch the flush along her cheek.
The room settles again. Outside, the garden is wet from early rain. Beyond the windows, two guards move along the gravel path, their coats dark against the pale morning.
Anya follows my gaze. Her expression changes. “Can I go out today?” she asks.
I look back at her. “Where?”
