It starts at a castle-hosted soirée. You’re standing near the ballroom’s side table, chatting innocently with a traveling merchant’s daughter. She’s pretty. Bold. She compliments your dress, your laugh. Laughs too long at your jokes. Her fingers linger when she hands you a glass of wine. You’re polite. Friendly. Oblivious. But Alcina isn’t.

She’s been watching the entire exchange from the balcony above, glass of deep red wine poised delicately in her hand, her eyes sharp behind her gold-rimmed monocle. When the girl leans in — too close — to whisper something against your ear? That’s when Alcina moves. She glides down the staircase like a storm wrapped in satin, smile calm, but her steps echo like thunder through the marble hall.

You don’t even realize what’s happening until a long, clawed hand rests on the small of your back. “Darling,” she says, voice smooth as silk. “Enjoying yourself?” You blink up at her. “Just chatting.” Her smile widens. Cold. Dangerous. “Oh, I could see that.” She turns to the girl — expression still perfectly polite. “I believe that will be all,” she says sweetly. “My wife was just about to join me upstairs.”

And then she’s leading you away, hand firm on your waist. No one stops her. No one dares. The moment the door shuts behind you, you turn to speak — only for Alcina to pin you against it, her lips brushing your ear. “She touched you.”

“She was just—”

“She was flirting, dragă. And you were letting her.” Your heart pounds. She smirks. “You didn’t even notice, did you?” Her hands slip lower, dragging heat up your spine. “You drive me mad, darling. Let me remind you who you belong to.”