The bedroom door swung open. Alaric stepped inside with a smile that could make one's skin crawl—the grin of a predator certain that his prey was powerless. His gaze swept over Dola, from her silver hair down to her feet hidden beneath the cloak.
"Still here," he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Good. Very good."
He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked softly. There would be no interruptions.
Dola stood motionless in the center of the room. Her hollow eyes stared at the wall, her body rigid like a statue—or a prize on display.
Alaric approached slowly. He circled her, observing every detail. Her silver hair shimmered under the crystal lamps. The curve of her neck, the perfect line of her jaw. Her shoulders partially obscured by the cloak.
"I've wanted you for so long," he whispered, his fingers brushing against her hair.
Dola didn't move. No resistance. No sound.
