The house was quieter than it had any right to be. Too quiet. Evan and Dad had left for Belgium, supposedly some urgent business, and just like that, the mansion felt… hollow. Except for Mom, Mara, me, and the endless shuffle of the staff. But even with them around, I couldn't shake the weight of the night. Her—Mara—her presence lingered everywhere. In the bed I'd barely slept in, in the faint scent she left behind, in the echo of that soft laugh that could start wars and end them just as easily.
I wasn't hungry, but the staff brought breakfast anyway, placing silver trays like offerings I had no appetite for. I sat at the table, fork untouched, staring at the way sunlight streamed through the windows and landed across Mara's hair. She was already there, moving gracefully as if she belonged, pouring tea for Mom, smiling politely at the staff. But I knew better. I knew what lingered under that composed exterior. I could feel it—the same heat that had stolen my sleep.
Her eyes flicked to mine once, briefly, a tilt of her head that spoke volumes. I swallowed hard. "Morning," I said, my voice sounding foreign to me.
"Morning," she replied, smooth, casual—but I caught the tremor of something else. Something alive beneath the surface, something that made my stomach knot and my pulse hit double-time.
I sipped the tea I hadn't intended to drink, trying to anchor myself, trying not to let my mind replay the night in vivid, aching detail. Her hair, damp, falling across her shoulders in careless perfection. Her lips, those impossible lips that whispered my name with an authority that should have terrified me. Her hands on me, pulling me closer. God, Mara…
"You didn't eat much last night," she said, as if reading the thoughts I hadn't wanted to form. Her voice was soft, teasing, dangerous all at once.
"I wasn't hungry," I muttered, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. I hated how breathless I already felt just hearing her voice in the light of day.
Her eyes lingered. Too long. My chest tightened. And then—just like that—she leaned slightly forward across the table. Not a touch, not yet. But close enough that I could see the soft curve of her jaw, the subtle warmth in her eyes, the faintest invitation that made my knees weak without her even trying.
"Not even a little?" she asked, arching one brow. "I expected my sister-in-law to have a better appetite."
I froze. My sister-in-law. The words hung between us, sharp and unyielding, like a warning I didn't want to obey. And yet, they only made my blood thrum faster.
"I…" I faltered, staring at the china in front of me, pretending to focus. Pretending. My mind was anything but.
The staff shuffled about, unaware of the silent war waging across the breakfast table. Mom chatted about trivial matters, about errands and her latest plans for the garden, and Mara smiled politely, her eyes flicking to mine more than once. I could feel the electricity crawling along my skin, like a secret current connecting us, invisible but undeniable.
"You're quiet this morning," she said finally, voice dropping, closer to a whisper. "Something on your mind?"
I wanted to tell her everything. To confess the way my body remembered her, the way my thoughts had been prisoners of her all night, the way every heartbeat had called her name. But I didn't. I shook my head lightly.
"Nothing," I murmured.
She tilted her head, and I saw it—the faintest smirk, the kind that said she knew I was lying. "Hmm," she said. "You're terrible at hiding things, Ayla."
And just like that, my stomach did a backflip.
The morning dragged on, slow and torturous. Mara moved around the house, in and out of rooms, occasionally crossing paths with me. Each time, she would brush past me—just slightly, nothing overt—but enough that I felt the ghost of her touch trail along my skin, igniting every nerve ending. My hands twitched, my pulse flaring, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
At one point, we were in the hallway, a whisper apart. She turned to me, voice soft, teasing, dangerous. "Do you ever wonder why some things feel… inevitable?"
I froze. My mind screamed at me to answer carefully. To not let the wrong words slip. But my lips betrayed me.
"I… I don't know," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe some things just… are."
Her gaze softened for a fraction of a second, and then—smile. That smile. The one that had haunted my dreams since last night. "Maybe," she said. And then she walked on, leaving me standing there, trembling, aching, utterly undone.
The rest of the day was a slow torment. Every glance, every laugh, every small movement of Mara's body was a reminder of what had happened and what was possible. I was trapped in this delicious, impossible tension, and with Evan gone, there was no one to police us. Just us. And the heat simmering between us like wildfire, waiting for a spark.
By the time the sun began to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the house, I knew one thing: whatever boundaries we thought existed—past lives, family roles, societal rules—they didn't matter. Not really. Mara and I were tangled in something ancient, unstoppable, and I didn't want to resist anymore.
And that was terrifying. And exhilarating. And all-consuming.