The council hall was still soaked in stunned silence. Allen stood tall amid the wreckage—Nyra collapsed at his feet, the knight still twitching in a pool of blood and piss, and the stench of domination thick in the air.
Then his eyes landed on her.
Lady Rhelgar.
She stood across the room with the posture of a noblewoman born—rigid spine, sharp jaw, arms folded like she was ready to slap the taste out of God's mouth. But even through her outrage, Allen saw it.
She was hot.
Her dress—gods, that fucking dress—was rich emerald silk, clinging to her like a second skin. It shimmered when she moved, parting slightly at the thighs with every step to reveal long, toned legs wrapped in sheer black lace. A diamond choker framed her throat. Her cleavage sat proudly in a sculpted bustier that did nothing to hide the soft swell of her tits, pushed up like an invitation she'd pretend wasn't there.
