The bedroom door slid open, and a gentle wash of candlelight spilled across the polished floor.
Jett stepped inside, the muted glow tracing the sharp lines of his shoulders and gleaming against the buckle of his belt.
He kept Eleonora's hand in his, her skin warm and steady, a silent declaration of her place beside him.
The maid's silver hair cascaded in liquid sheets down her back; each strand caught the light like threads of moonlit silk, framing eyes that shimmered the same rare hue.
Beneath the crisp black-and-white uniform, her voluptuous silhouette pressed confidently against tight fabric, every curve speaking of devotion rather than vanity.
Rose petals dusted the linen-draped bed, their subtle fragrance mingling with the faint bite of freshly poured wine that waited on the sideboard.
She's glowing, Jett realized, drinking in the small, delighted tremor that fluttered through her shoulders when his thumb traced lazy circles across her knuckles.
