The Prisoner of Silk: 7. The Silk Cracks

The morning after the table, she expected him to vanish again, to retreat behind his walls of silence and control.

But he didn’t.

He stayed.

He stood at the window, tie loosened, jacket discarded, watching the city with restless hands. He hadn’t shaved. His composure, once a fortress, now looked frayed, ragged at the edges.

And she knew she had done that.

Slipping from the sheets, she walked barefoot across the marble, the red gown torn and ruined, her body still marked by his hunger. She could feel the ache of him between her thighs, but instead of shame, there was fire in her chest.

She stopped behind him, so close she could see his shoulders tense at her presence.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, fingers ghosting along his arm.

His jaw tightened. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe I like the burn.”

He turned then, and she saw it in his eyes—the storm she had lit inside him. His hand shot up, cupping her throat again, but