The sheets still held the heat of her body. Damp where sweat and surrender had soaked in. Camille y there. Chest rising and falling. Robe tangled beneath her. Skin humming as if the Mistress’s touch still lingered in every nerve.

  Her lips parted to speak. To recim some fragment of poise. But nothing came out except a shaky breath. Across the room, the Mistress was already composed again. She poured herself wine. The motion slow, deliberate. As if nothing of consequence had happened.

  She didn’t gnce at Camille right away. She didn’t need to. Camille shut her eyes. Trying to gather herself. I should hate her. I should despise her for this. Her fists curled against the sheets. Instead… I want more. The thought burned. Humiliating. But it would not leave.

  The Mistress finally turned. Sipping zily. Her robe hanging open without concern.

  “There,” she said. Voice calm as ever. “Now you’ve learned what it feels like when fire bends metal.”

  Camille tried to push herself upright. To summon the sharpness that had carried her through courts and councils. Divorces and betrayals. But her body betrayed her—the tremor in her arms. The weakness in her thighs. When she spoke, her voice cracked. “You—” She bit down on the word. Furious with herself for sounding fragile.

  The Mistress’s smile deepened.

  “You think it was weakness,” she said. Crossing the room. She crouched at the edge of the bed. Eyes holding Camille’s like a snare.

  “But that wasn’t weakness. That was truth. You broke, and yet you’re still here. That is survival.”

  “I won’t yield to him,” Camille spat. The words brittle, defiant.

  The Mistress reached out. Her hand gliding up to Camille’s face. Thumb stroking her cheek almost tenderly. The gesture was intimate. But the fire in her eyes left no illusion of gentleness.

  “You already have,” she whispered. “Just not to him yet.”

  Camille’s breath caught. Chest tight. She hated the way her body leaned into that touch. The way her heart hammered as though it agreed.

  The Mistress withdrew. Rising with slow elegance. She set her gss down. Not looking back as she adjusted her robe.

  “Get dressed,” she said coolly. “When he calls, you’ll remember tonight. You’ll remember that the crown cracked first in my hands.”

  The dismissal was final. Camille sat in silence for a moment. Robe slipping down her shoulder. Skin still flushed from where the Mistress had marked her with pleasure. Shame coiled hot in her stomach—but so did something else. A craving she didn’t want to name.

  She stood. Retied her robe with trembling fingers. And left the chamber. Her steps were steady. But the echo of her climax still clung to her. Each stride reminding her of what she had given up… and what more might be demanded.

  The corridor outside was cooler. Quieter. But inside, Camille still burned.