The Mistress didn’t retreat.

  She advanced.

  Her fingers sought the knot of Camille’s robe, grazing it with unhurried intent. Her tone wrapped around the air like shadowed silk ced with resolve.

  “Do you want to survive this house? Then let me show you how.”

  The words sank in before the sash gave way, the silk sckening. She tugged just enough to loosen the fabric, leaving Camille trembling but upright, her shoulders squared only by stubborn pride.

  “Hands down,” the Mistress said softly.

  It was not suggestion.

  It was w.

  Camille hesitated for the briefest moment, her breath shallow, her mind screaming at her to refuse. She had not been commanded like this in years—not by a rival, not by a man, certainly not by another woman.

  But something in the Mistress’s gaze held her there. Not cruelty. Not mockery.

  Certainty.

  Slowly, Camille lowered her hands.

  Her fists curled at her sides as the Mistress parted the robe inch by inch. Silk slipped open, exposing skin that had once commanded ballrooms and political chambers alike—now id bare under the unflinching scrutiny of someone who was not impressed by crowns.

  The Mistress took her time.

  Her eyes moved over Camille not with hunger, but with assessment—every freckle, every faint scar, every hidden sign of the years Camille had fought to conceal.

  Camille felt it all.

  Every second of exposure burned hotter than shame. Her breath hitched despite her effort to keep it steady.

  She hated that she couldn’t control it.

  The Mistress tilted her head slightly, studying her the way fire studies kindling.

  “Still standing,” she murmured.

  Then she stepped forward.

  The movement was gentle but decisive, her hands pressing lightly against Camille’s shoulders until the older woman sank back onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath her weight, the quiet room seeming suddenly smaller, tighter.

  The Mistress climbed over her with the slow, deliberate ease of someone utterly at home in the space she occupied.

  Silk brushed silk.

  Heat pressed to heat.

  Her hair fell forward like a dark curtain around them both.

  For a moment she simply hovered there, their faces inches apart, Camille’s breath brushing against her lips.

  The Mistress did not move closer.

  She waited.

  Camille’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her mind spun through a hundred reasons to shove her away—pride, dignity, the instinct to preserve what little control she had left.

  But none of them felt as strong as the ache rising in her chest.

  The silence stretched.

  Then Camille closed the distance.

  The kiss was not stolen.

  It was taken.

  Her lips met the Mistress’s with sudden urgency, pride cracking wide enough for something raw and desperate to slip through. The Mistress answered instantly, the slow patience gone as her mouth opened against Camille’s with deliberate pressure.

  Camille gasped into the kiss, the sound torn from her throat before she could swallow it back.

  Their bodies pressed closer, breasts fttening together, warmth blooming where their skin met. Camille’s hands lifted instinctively, clutching at the Mistress’s shoulders as though the contact alone could anchor her to something solid.

  She writhed beneath her—not to escape.

  Never to escape.

  The words spilled out in broken fragments between breaths.

  “I don’t want to disappear.”

  The Mistress’s mouth found hers again, silencing the confession before it could fully form.

  “I don’t want to be useless.”

  Another kiss answered that one, deeper, firmer, her teeth grazing Camille’s lower lip until the older woman shuddered beneath her.

  The Mistress finally pulled back just enough to look at her.

  Camille’s carefully maintained composure was gone. Her hair had fallen loose across the pillow, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling too quickly.

  For the first time since arriving at the estate, she looked uncertain.

  Human.

  The Mistress’s voice softened—not gentle, but steady.

  “Then stop fighting the fire.”

  Her hand slid slowly along Camille’s side, fingertips tracing the curve of her waist before settling against her hip.

  Camille’s breath trembled.

  The crown she had worn so carefully for so long was slipping—piece by fragile piece—under the heat of something she no longer had the strength to deny.

  And for the first time since stepping into the estate, Camille did not try to stop it.

  She softened.

  Not in defeat.

  In surrender to the fme.