The Woman in His Bed

Chapter Eight: The Woman in His Bed

I wasn’t trying to spy. Not really.

I was just... there. The hallway was dark. His door had been left slightly open. And I heard her laugh.

High. Soft. Intimate in a way that sliced through me.

I shouldn’t have looked. But I did.

She was beautiful, of course. Red silk clinging to her curves, heels still on, straddling his lap like she belonged there.

Caelum didn’t smile. He never did. But his hands were firm on her hips, his voice low and cold as he told her exactly how to move.

I watched her grind on him, her head thrown back, lips parted with pleasure. His hand moved between her thighs, slow and brutal. His jaw tight, eyes hard, like even this act bored him.

And still, I couldn’t look away.

My stomach twisted. Heat pooled low and heavy between my legs, the wrongness of it all making it worse.

I wasn’t allowed to feel this way. I was a maid. A possession. Not his lover. Not anything.

So why did it hurt?

---

The next day, I moved through the house like a ghost. Cleaning. Washing. Avoiding his eyes like they burned.

But he noticed.

He always did.

When I didn’t respond to his call, he found me in the linen room, yanked the towel from my hand, and slammed the door shut.

“What the fuck is your problem?” His voice was sharp, low, dangerous.

I didn’t answer.

So he stepped closer. “Say it.”

“I saw you,” I whispered.

He didn’t move. “And?”

“She was... on you.”

His brow lifted slightly. “I told you not to cross into my private space. You disobeyed.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“You watched me. You wanted to see, didn’t you?”

“No.” I lied.

“You’re a liar, Ardyn.”

He backed me against the wall, one hand braced beside my head.

“You’re jealous.”

I bit my lip. “I don’t want to be.”

“But you are.”

He reached for my chin, tilting my face up to him. “Why? You mean nothing to me. You’re a maid. A distraction.”

My heart cracked right down the center.

“Then why haven’t you fucked me?”

His body tensed. Just slightly. But enough that I felt it.

“Is it because I look like her?”

He went still.

“You’re scared,” I said, voice trembling. “You act like you own me, but you won’t touch me—not really. Is it because I remind you of her? The woman in the photo?”

“You do everything else. Tie me. Tease me. Control me. But you won’t take me. Why?” I was panting now, trembling but defiant. “Is it because I look like her?”

His whole body stilled.

Wrong words. Too far.

His hand tightened on my throat, and for the first time, he didn’t look cold.

He looked angry.

Pinned.

Tight.

Not choking—but not gentle, either.

“Don’t. Talk. About. Her.”

His eyes weren’t just cold now. They were haunted.

“You’re just a girl I bought. Don’t mistake the cage for affection.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

He stared at me like he hated me. Like he hated himself more.

And then he kissed me.

Hard. Violent. Desperate.

His mouth crashed against mine with no softness, just possession. His body pinned me to the wall as his hand slid under my shirt, fingers rough on my bare skin.

I kissed him back like I needed it to breathe.

Because I did.

Because I was losing myself and didn’t care anymore.

---

His room again.

The same one I had no right to be in.

He shoved me onto the bed, eyes blazing, jaw clenched.

“You want to be touched? Fine. You’ll get it. My way.”

He tied my wrists with the same black silk he’d used before.

Tighter.

Less careful.

Then he stepped back and stripped—slowly. Never taking his eyes off me.

His cock was hard. Thick. Veins standing out. My mouth watered at the sight of him.

But he didn’t come closer.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping. Needy. And still just a fucking servant.”

He kneeled between my legs, fingers spreading me open.

One stroke of his tongue and I moaned like a sinner at the altar.

But he didn’t give me more. He just watched me squirm.

“You want release?”

“Yes—please—”

“Then beg for it.”

“Please... Caelum, I need it—I need you—”

He leaned in.

His hands gripped my hips, pulled me closer, and for a second, I thought he’d take me right there—naked, tied, and aching.

But he didn’t.

He pulled back, breathing hard. Eyes dark with something dangerous.

And that’s when the door opened.

“Caelum—” a voice cut in, then stopped.

Lucien.

His voice cut like a whip—and then froze.

I turned my head, heart slamming in my chest.

Lucien Damaris. His right-hand man. His fixer. The man who always wore a smirk.

The one who undressed me with his gaze every time I passed him in the hall.

His mouth fell open slightly.

Not when he was staring directly at me—naked, tied, exposed.

His eyes locked on mine, then slowly dropped to my body.

Something dark flickered there.

Jealousy.

Hunger.

Something Caelum didn’t miss.

“Get. Out.” Caelum’s voice was pure ice.

Lucien didn’t move.

His eyes were still on me.

Then he smirked, slow and dangerous.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

But I knew he did.

And something told me—this wasn’t over.

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