Yeara's shoulders stiffened as she stared at Zalthor, whose hands now hovered over the zip of his pants.
Her breath trembled in her chest, catching like fragile glass. She had never told anyone about this—not even the orphanage knew.
So how did he know? How did he know her dead father's name? How was this possible? Her mind faltered, a fog swallowing her thoughts, before they snapped violently back to him.
ZIIP.
Zalthor slowly undid the zipper of his royal trousers, and but then he stopped. Yeara's gaze locked on his, silent and questioning, almost as if asking why he had paused.
The intensity in his eyes sent a shiver crawling down her spine, more shocking than anything she had imagined.
Questions tumbled in her mind, frantic and urgent, but in that instant, even the most pressing ones died away, eclipsed entirely by the act before her.
But then…
