"Come, Yilan. Let me wash you."
"Yu'er..." she whispered, her voice a fragile thread that sounded more like a plea for mercy than a title of respect.
"No more titles, Yilan," he countered softly. His fingers traced the elegant curve of her spine through the lavender silk, a touch so possessive it made her breath hitch. "Tonight, there is only us. No Matriarch, no nephew. Just a man who has waited a decade to claim what has always been his."
He moved behind her, his touch deft and purposeful. With a slow, agonizingly deliberate grace, he undid the silken ties of her outer robe.
Yilan stood frozen, her eyes fluttering closed as the fabric loosened, sliding off her shoulders like a dying memory to pool in a lavender heap at her feet.
