He breathed in the clean, cold scent of her—soap, ink, and winter air—his hot breath dampening the dark fabric of her skirt. Even then, her fingers did not stop. She slid her bare hand beneath the iron ring, rolling his heavy, aching balls in her palm while the glass toy teased his oversensitive head, drawing a nonstop string of broken moans and wet, ragged gasps from his lips.
She remained neat, untouched, not a single hair out of place, watching the beastman unravel beneath her hands with the quiet focus of a scholar studying an intricate mechanism.
When the pale grey light of morning finally crept through the narrow lancet windows, the heavy oak door remained shut.
Out in the corridor, the palace woke to its usual routines. Guards changed shifts. Clerks hurried past with bundles of parchment.
No one saw Mahir come out of her chamber.
