The palace corridors blurred as Eliza fled, her heart thudding against her ribs like a captive bird. She barely registered the familiar frames, the guards who straightened and bowed as she passed, or the servants carrying trays back from the kitchens. Her only thought was escape, to get away from that maddening hallway, from the heat still clinging to her skin, from the ghost of his touch that haunted her chest.
Outside, the midday air was crisp, cooled by the gentle breeze that stirred the tall hedges and rustled the lavender bushes. It kissed her flushed cheeks, but did nothing to calm the fire within. Her steps quickened, slippered feet crunching softly on gravel as she made her way past the orchard, past the reflecting pool, past the marble nymph whose coy gaze now felt like mockery.
She needed to breathe. To think. To feel something that didn't involve the press of him between her legs.
She reached her sanctuary, an overgrown corner of the garden walled by ivy and roses. A place only she and Elena knew. Here, a low stone bench sat beneath a gnarled willow, and bees hummed lazily among the jasmine vines. It had always brought her peace.
But not today.
Eliza collapsed onto the bench, one hand clutching her bodice as if it might betray her again. Her breath trembled. She closed her eyes, willing her body to forget. Willed her heart to calm. But memory was cruel, and her skin, her traitorous skin, remembered everything.
The fall.
The warmth of his chest.
The sound of his breath when her hair brushed his jaw.
The weight of his arousal pressing into her thigh.
And gods help her, the look in his eyes when her breasts had spilled free. Not disgust. Not scandal. But reverence. Hunger.
She covered her face with both hands.
"What's happening to me?" she whispered.
She had heard things. Whispered things. Court gossip shared by bold maids, things half-understood and scandalously described. But none of it prepared her for this. This ache. This tightness low in her belly. The heat curling like smoke between her legs.
Her nipples still tingled beneath her bodice. She could feel them rubbing against the silk lining, hard and needy. She squeezed her thighs together, shocked by the dampness gathering there.
This wasn't her. She was the quiet princess. The good daughter. The bookish girl who read poetry and drank tea while others danced.
And yet…
Her mind betrayed her again. She remembered how her body molded to his like water to stone. How her nipples had ached when they brushed against his chest, how they ached still.
What was this wanting?
She needed guidance. Clarity. A voice that could speak sense into this storm of feelings.
"Elena," she murmured aloud, as though the name itself might bring order.
Yes. Elena would know. Her maid was not only a woman of stories, but a woman of experience. She had loved. Had burned. Had lived beyond propriety once. Eliza would ask her. Tonight. Quietly. In whispers. Just enough to understand what was happening inside her.
Because something had been awakened.
And it would not be put back to sleep