Maeve used every trick in her arsenal to ensure Layne experienced unparalleled ecstasy. Only when he finally collapsed beside her into an exhausted slumber did a dark, twisted smirk curve upon her lips.
Slipping silently out of bed, she slid into her slippers and padded out to the terrace. Certain that she was entirely unobserved, she pulled out a lighter and ignited the cigarette resting between her lips. The biting night wind shredded the smoke as she exhaled, revealing a chilling, ruthless glint in her beautiful eyes.
The moment Maeve left the bed, Layne had sensed the shift and quietly followed her. Out on the terrace, she wore nothing but his oversized white dress shirt, her bare thighs exposed to the freezing air. He had intended to step out and carry her back to bed, only to freeze when he saw her smoking.
It was a cold, rebellious demeanor he had never witnessed. Layne's gaze instantly turned predatory, yet he remained hidden behind the heavy drapes, meticulously tracking her every move. He watched her scroll intently through something on her phone. The eerie blue backlight illuminated her pale face and crimson lips, making her look utterly sinister in the darkness—like a vampire that had just feasted.
The curtain rustled slightly. Startled, Maeve instinctively snapped, "Who's there?"
She quickly snuffed out the cigarette, hopped off the terrace bench, and hurried back inside. Layne was already back in bed, feigning a deep, even breathing pattern that caused Maeve's sharp vigilance to fade. She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes slowly softening back into the gentle gaze he knew.
Her supposed ankle injury didn't seem to hinder her in the slightest. Maeve slipped into the master bathroom, brushing her teeth three times in rapid succession. After heavily spritzing breath freshener to ensure no trace of tobacco lingered, she crawled back under the covers beside him.
She nestled into his embrace, guiding his arm around her waist. Only after her breathing leveled out into genuine sleep did Layne's eyes snap open in the dark. He stared at her peaceful sleeping face, haunted by the icy, calculating expression she had worn on the balcony.
To him, Maeve had always been the epitome of quiet fragility. She had confessed her dark history with the Sterling family, and he knew she had endured unimaginable suffering. She never shared the gruesome details, only wrapping her arms tightly around him with tear filled eye begging him never to force her to relive it.
Because she couldn't bear the trauma, Layne had never once doubted her. Whenever she seemed sad, he instinctively bent to her will, terrified of causing her even a fraction of pain. et the woman He had just witnessed on the terrace felt worlds apart from the fragile girl in his arms. It was as if she housed two entirely fractured personalities.
He didn't want to doubt the woman he loved. Yet, staring down at her face, a horrifying chill crawled up his spine.
He couldn't help but think of the tragic romance between Leonie and Dorian Fletcher. Leonie had fallen blindly into Dorian's tender trap—a manipulation that ultimately led to the gruesome deaths of Layne's parents.
The realization hit him like a physical blow to the head, instantly sobering him. Maeve was resting on his arm, her dark hair fanning out like seaweed across the pristine white pillowcase. If he shifted even slightly, she would wake.
He had no choice but to hold her
tightly, lying there with his eyes wide open until the first light of dawn broke through the windows. It wasn't until she finally rolled over
that he was able to pull his am free. After maintaining the exact same posture all night, his entire limb had gone entirely numb.