Lady Geruth's eyes opened, "Ngh...?" A dull ache lanced through her muscles, and her skin tingled. She winced when putting her lips together, swollen and sore.
Her legs were heavy and covered in bruises.
The elegant, noble lady had vanished.
All clothes gone. Geruth's lace night gown, silk undergarments, and even the gold chain she never removed were all scattered around the floor in a mess.
When she moved, a sharp sting spread along her neck and chest; marks bloomed there, dark red and purple, fingerprints and kisses she didn't remember inviting, let alone craving.
Why did I…? Her thoughts twisted. She remembered the wine, and Alan's eyes became strange, green, sharp as a blade. His voice was deeper than she recalled. The heat of his hands on her hips. The way she'd gasped, pleaded, begged...
No, she shouldn't remember that. She had a husband, a title; her name was her shield. She was Lady Geruth of the High Table. No one did this to her—a foreign duke, least of all.
