"Is that any way to greet an old friend, Lara? Or have you forgotten me already?"
Lara stared, her mind still reeling from the whole disastrous evening. Isla, the troublemaking shadow from her youth—smiling, wicked, and lounging in Lara's own bed as if she'd never left.
The years had not softened her; if anything, they'd sharpened her beauty, turned her voice silkier and more dangerous. She'd always known how to unsettle Lara, but tonight, the surprise was too much.
"How did you even get in here?" Lara managed, taking a wary step back, arms crossed over her chest as if she could physically shield herself from the chaos Isla always brought.
Isla just smiled, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, unbothered by her near-nudity.
"A very nice man brought me," she purred. "Polite, helpful. Even told me which chamber to find you in. I was impressed—Celestian hospitality, at last. Or maybe demons have finally taught these folks about real pleasure."
Lara's brow furrowed, suspicion blossoming. "Who? Which man?"
Isla only shrugged, as infuriatingly coy as ever. "Wouldn't you like to know? He didn't tell me his name, just said you might enjoy some company. And judging by the state you're in—" her eyes dropped meaningfully "—I'd say he wasn't wrong."
Lara clenched her fists. "Get dressed, Isla. This isn't a brothel. You don't get to show up in my bed just because you're bored and want to see if you can make me blush."
"Oh, but you're already blushing," Isla teased, shifting on the mattress, the sheet barely clinging to her hips. She stretched, feline and languid, then crawled forward, knees making slow indentations in the soft bedding.
"Let me help you, Lara. I remember how to make you forget everything for a night. Isn't that what you need?" Her hands reached for Lara's belt, voice dropping to a low whisper. "Let's not waste all that heat."
Lara grabbed Isla's wrists, hard enough to sting. For a moment, Isla's eyes flashed with challenge, daring her to follow through. "You know you want to," Isla breathed, lips close enough for Lara to feel the brush of air.
But Lara's patience already worn thin snapped.
In one fluid, practiced movement, she twisted Isla's hands behind her back and pushed her up and off the bed, ignoring Isla's startled laugh.
She marched her to the window still open to the summer night, curtains billowing—and with absolutely no ceremony, shoved Isla out.
There was a brief yelp, followed by the soft thump of someone landing on the garden hedges below.
Lara leaned out, saw Isla sprawled among the roses, hair wild and a sheet trailing behind her. Isla, ever unflappable, grinned up at her. "Still strong as ever, darling! Call me if you change your mind!"
Lara shook her head, shutting the window and locking it for good measure. She drew the curtains tight, banishing the image of Isla's sly smile from her mind.
Her heart still pounded, but the flush of lust had been replaced by cold clarity—she needed to cool off, literally and figuratively.
She peeled off her boots, stripped out of her sweat-soaked shirt and the rest of her clothes, and stalked to the bathing chamber.
The tiles were icy under her bare feet, the moonlight painting pale rectangles across the stone.
She cranked the tap and let the water run cold—frigid enough to steal her breath as she stepped beneath the spray. It hit her like a slap, shocking away the last of Isla's touch and the persistent memory of Sarisa's golden skin.
Lara braced her arms against the wall and let the water sluice over her body, her thoughts a tangle of frustration, desire, and confusion.
It was all too much—the almost-kiss of disaster in Sarisa's room, Malvoria's taunting, Isla's sudden reappearance.
And beneath it all, the ache that came not from unfulfilled lust, but from the longing that wouldn't die, no matter how she tried to drown it.
She stayed under the water until she was shivering, until her skin was raw and her head finally mercifully cleared.
She scrubbed herself clean, as if she could wash away the entire day. Finally, when she was numb inside and out, she wrapped herself in a towel and padded back into her room.
The sheets were rumpled and smelled faintly of Isla's perfume, so she yanked them off, tossing them aside, and fetched fresh linen from the armoire.
The act of making the bed tight corners, crisp sheets was a small comfort, a ritual she could control. She dressed in soft cotton, pulled the blankets to her chin, and lay back with a heavy, exhausted sigh.
She stared at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the sounds of the castle distant voices, the click of boots in the hallway, the hush of wind against the windows.
The events of the day replayed in her mind in fragments: Sarisa's startled eyes, Malvoria's wicked grin, Isla's teasing fingers.
None of it compared to the feeling that lingered in her chest—sharp, sweet, impossible to banish.
She wondered, just for a moment, what Sarisa was thinking now. Whether she was angry, amused, or if she'd locked the door and crawled into bed with memories of Lara's foolish intrusion still flickering behind her eyes.
Lara let out a shaky breath. "Tomorrow," she muttered to the empty room. "I'll apologize tomorrow. Again."
She closed her eyes, the image of Sarisa—flushed, golden, scolding—swimming behind her eyelids, impossible to erase. Even a cold shower and a night of chaos hadn't lessened the pull.