The sheet clung to her like breath to glass.
A gentle rise. A slow fall.
Silken fabric, whisper-thin and blood-red, curled around the slope of her hips, the swell of her thighs peeking from beneath the hem.
Her legs, bare and pale as moonlight on snow, lay crossed carelessly—graceful yet cruel in the way only the beautiful could afford to be.
One arm sprawled above her head, the other draped loosely across her midriff, fingers twitching against the smooth plane of her stomach.
The nightdress she wore barely reached her knees. Satin. Nearly translucent. It shifted with her breath, riding the shallow heave of her chest.
Nipples—rosy and taut—pressed subtly through the fabric, touched by the chill of the room.
Her skin, all flawless porcelain and quiet danger, glowed in the half-light like the blade of a ceremonial dagger.
The room was still. Save for her.
Her breathing was soft, slow, almost theatrical in its rhythm—as if she were letting the world believe she was asleep.
