Ophelia woke with a dull ache pressing behind her eyes. The night had been a blur of half-dreams and restless turns beneath the sheets. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again — Darren stepping from the shower, towel hanging low on lean hips, water gliding over skin that looked carved from stone and arrogance. His smirk had followed her into her dreams, carved deep and taunting.
She told herself she despised him. Despised the control, the games, the way he could turn silence into command. But hatred did nothing to cool the heat that lingered in her body. It only made it worse — because the part of her that reacted wasn't listening to reason.
