The walk back to the East Wing was a masterclass in delayed gratification.
Damien didn't touch her. He didn't have to. The heat radiating from him was a physical weight, pressing against Aria's back as she walked a step ahead of him down the long, silent corridor. Every click of her Converse on the floor sounded like a countdown.
They reached the double doors.
Damien pushed the door open.
The room had been reset. The shattered antique bed frame had been removed, replaced by a pristine, sturdy mahogany four-poster that looked like it could withstand a siege. The feathers were gone. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and Alfred's disapproval.
"Efficient," Damien noted, kicking the door shut and locking it with a heavy, decisive click.
He looked at the new bed. It was perfectly made, the sheets crisp and inviting.
"It looks comfortable," Aria whispered, her throat dry.
"It does," Damien agreed. He walked past it without a second glance.
