Lydia's skin burned as Ivan's lips pressed against her ankle.
It was such a fragile kiss, yet it carried the weight of a thousand apologies.
He kissed her like he wanted to take all her pain away. Every single one of it. Like he was worshipping her, not as a Grand Duchess, not as a woman wronged, but as Lydia. His Lydia.
Her breath shook in her throat. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might break through her ribs. She wanted to scream, to laugh, to cry. She wanted to tell him to stop, yet at the same time she wanted him to never stop.
Her body trembled, her skin on fire from that single touch of his lips.
But then Ivan froze. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he lifted his face. His voice was rough, uneven.
"I am sorry," he whispered. "I did not… I got carried away."
The silence between them was unbearable.
