Camilla's POV
I stood outside the door.
My breath hitched in my throat, shallow and uneven. The air in the hallway felt thick, heavy with the memory of last time. I stared at the pale, matte wood of the door, my eyes tracing the faint grain patterns. A soft, warm light spilled from the narrow gap beneath it, a golden line against the dark floorboards. It felt like a taunt. An invitation to a place that had already ripped me open once.
My right hand trembled at my side. I tried to lift it, to make a fist and knock, but my muscles refused. They were locked, frozen by the memory crawling up my spine like a living thing—something with claws and teeth and a hunger that mirrored my own.
Last time.
The black dress. I could still feel the ghost of it against my skin. Silk, so thin it was almost liquid, sliding over my hips, my thighs. Nothing beneath it. I had been completely bare. The memory of that exposure made my skin prickle now, a flush of heat rising from my chest to my throat.
