In the shadowed royal palace, Graham's low commands leave Sabrina no choice but to obey if they are to protect the young ward's claim. His warrior's presence fills the locked archive rooms where every brush of sleeve against her gown carries the weight of what he will demand next. The faint scar on his jaw tightens when she hesitates, a reminder that her submission is the only thing standing between them and ruin.
She bites her lip as he stands behind her at the table, fingers working the laces of her gown free. The discipline he delivers in measured strokes is meant to secure their future, yet it awakens something darker in them both. How long can she hold to her defiance before his voice demands the last of her resistance?
