In the palace library, the morning sun filtered through high stained-glass windows as Eliza slipped quietly in. Her slippers made no sound on the marbled floors. She paused at the threshold, breathing in the familiar scent of old parchment, sandalwood, and something else, something heady and musky that clung to the space like the ghost of a memory.
Her heart fluttered wildly, and not just from the thrill of trespass. She hadn't slept well. Her dreams had been fragmented flashes, paint-streaked hands, heat, the press of a body against hers, the sudden freedom of her breasts brushing against a stranger's chest, and the look in his eyes.
That look.
Her ribbon. She had to find the red ribbon.
But more than that, she wanted to return to the place where something inside her had shifted. She wasn't even sure what she was hoping to find, perhaps proof that it had all happened, that it hadn't been a waking dream conjured by a mind starved for excitement, for touch, for more.
The library was as it always was: vast, endless, silent. Yet something felt different, like the air had been stirred recently. She walked briskly past the towering shelves and into the far alcove, her corner, her favorite hidden place.
Her gaze landed instantly on the crevice between two books where she usually tucked her ribbon during her reading. It wasn't there.
Instead, something white caught her eye, a curled, torn page resting on the seat of the chaise, as if carelessly left behind.
She hesitated. Then picked it up.
And froze.
It was a sketch. A drawing.
Of her.
Not just her, but her breasts, exposed, captured in soft, careful lines as though the artist had poured reverence into every curve. The nipples were hardened peaks, her hair spilling over one shoulder like fire caught in motion. Her mouth was parted in a silent gasp.
She blinked, her breath stuttering.
Her first instinct was to look around, to make sure no one was watching. Then, as if her body had betrayed her, she pressed the page to her chest, to the very place it depicted.
Shame. Thrill. Fear. And something darker, arousal, rushed through her in hot waves.
He had drawn her.
She didn't remember him having anything in his hands during their fall. But the accuracy was uncanny. He had seen her like that, perhaps only for a moment, but he had captured it so intimately it felt like he had stared at her for hours.
Or dreamed of her.
Was that possible?
Did he replay it in his mind too?
Did he imagine her like this… again and again?
Her knees weakened.
She clutched the sketch tighter, feeling the paper tremble in her grip. She slipped it inside the back cover of her journal where no one would find it, not even Elena. Her fingers lingered on the cover as if the drawing burned through it.
Her mind spiraled, how could she confront him? Should she?
What if he drew more?
What if… she wanted him to?