She listened harder. The hush of fabric sliding over skin followed, then a low moan, muffled but laden with feeling. Not pain. Not surprise. An intimate sound.
Her spine straightened; every muscle snapped taut. Is someone injured? She sampled the noises again. No—no cry for help, no distressed rustle—only that tender, involuntary release people make when words have left them.
Heat surged beneath her collar. The library was holy ground, a vault of living memory. A place for study, prayer, and quiet revelation—never for what her imagination suddenly painted in vivid color. She should step back, gather a patrol maiden, enforce discipline. Instead she stood rooted.
