Camille rose from the table with effortless grace, the silk of her gown whispering against her skin. His hand settled at the small of her back—firm, assured, guiding without demand.

  “Not here,” he said, his voice low and even.

  The dining hall’s candlelight faded behind them as the heavy doors sealed shut, muffling the resumed murmur of conversation until it felt like the house itself had turned its gaze away. They moved into the corridor, his measured stride matched perfectly by hers. Her heels clicked softly against the stone floor, each step deliberate and composed, yet the echoes seemed to linger in the air like unspoken promises.

  She stole a gnce at him from the corner of her eye, a knowing smile curving her lips.

  “You humiliate a board in public,” she murmured, her tone ced with velvet challenge, “and in private… this is where you collect your spoils?”

  He kept his eyes forward, unhurried.

  “This isn’t plunder,” he replied. “It’s instruction.”

  Her smile sharpened, eyes gleaming with the fire of experience. “Instruction? I’ve taught men twice your age the true meaning of kneeling. I assure you, I’m not here to be educated.”

  His hand pressed a fraction firmer against her back, steering her onward without breaking their rhythm.

  “You followed,” he said simply.

  The words struck deeper than their quiet delivery suggested. For the first time since leaving the hall, Camille faltered—just half a step, almost imperceptible—before she continued beside him, her pulse quickening beneath the surface calm.

  She ughed then, soft and dismissive, yet threaded with pyful heat. “Careful. I tend to repeat my mistakes… especially the enjoyable ones.”

  At the corridor’s end, a door swung open. Savina emerged from the Mistress’s chambers, her face still etched with the irritation from the exchange she had abandoned moments before. She halted abruptly.

  Her mother.

  Him.

  Together, advancing toward his private quarters.

  She caught no words between them, but none were needed. Camille offered no resistance to his lead. She did not slow her pace. She did not gnce back.

  Savina folded her arms tightly across her chest, the pressure biting into her ribs. Her jaw tightened, yet the unshakeable certainty she usually wore cracked—not shattered, but undeniably shaken.

  Because Savina knew her mother intimately.

  Camille never walked beside a man unless she had already decided she owned him.

  Yet here she was, following.

  The door to his quarters closed behind them with a soft, final click that carried the weight of inevitability. Savina stared at the polished wood long after the tch had settled into pce, the corridor suddenly too still around her.

  Her voice emerged as little more than a breath.

  “So that’s how it begins.”