I don’t want to think about it.
I don’t want to admit how my body is still humming, restless, greedy for his touch.
How my thighs press together now, seeking friction, desperate to chase that edge again.
Because it wasn’t just foreplay or sex.
It wasn’t just a release.
It felt like possession.
Like worship. Like a vow without words.
And I hate myself for liking it.
Because if I liked that, what else might I let him take?
Amber makes a noise in her throat, snapping me from my reverie.
“Yes, well, Lords will do as they will, won’t they, Lady Phoebe?”
“What? Why are you calling me Lady Phoebe?”
“You are the Lord’s intended viyella. It is your station now.”
She says it very sternly, though polite, the way a strict teacher might scold while handing you a gold star.
I swallow.
She reminds me of Mrs. Torino, my fifth-grade teacher who never once smiled at me, not even when I brought in homemade cupcakes.
Great. I’ve been kidnapped into a world where my new maid is basically Mrs. Torino with horns hidden under her bun.
I smooth the dress I woke up in—it’s soft, clings in ways I’m not used to, but at least it’s comfortable.
I’d kill for jeans, but I’m grateful because the air is warm and the breeze swirls the fabric around my ankles like something alive.
The whole castle—or keep, or whatever you call this place—has huge windows and doors, some stretching all the way to the floor.
There aren’t any screens or shutters on the tall, arched windows, but nothing unwanted seems to come in.
Not a single gull, not a fleck of salt spray, not even a stray draft.
Magic, maybe.
Because why not add that to the ever-growing list of things that don’t make sense?
The air itself is different here—so fresh it almost stings my lungs, like breathing in crushed mint and seafoam.
A constant breeze slides along my skin, carrying the taste of brine and something sweeter, like kelp and crushed shells.
Every surface glimmers faintly with a pearlescent sheen, as though the walls and floors were dusted with the inside of oyster shells.
It’s beautiful in a way that feels a little unreal, like walking through the inside of a seashell palace from a fairy tale.
“So, what is Nightfall? Like, are we on another planet? Or is this, um, Hell, or something?” I ask, the words sounding stupid even as they leave my mouth.
Amber laughs softly, not unkind.
