The first wave hit as soon as I woke, a burning pulse that threaded through every muscle, every nerve. My chest ached, and heat pooled low and urgent, twisting my body in ways I didn't understand. I sat up slowly, my mind foggy, and the realization hit: I didn't have my phone. Not in my pocket, not on the nightstand. No way to call anyone. No one even knew I was here.
The house was quiet. Servants never entered my room except while I was asleep, and even then only briefly. My mother had stopped by earlier, her gentle knock echoing in the empty corridor. I hadn't answered, but I knew she sensed something. A subtle pause behind the door, a whispered call of my name, and then the retreating footfalls. I couldn't let anyone see me like this.
And worse—Zander wasn't here.
Every memory of him—the tilt of his head, the brush of his sleeve, the sharp edge in his voice—flooded my mind. My body responded before I could think, muscles tensing, skin flushed, every nerve alight. I shifted restlessly on the bed, heat twisting through me with no relief.
Three days stretched like a slow, endless fire. I paced the room, tried to read, tried to eat, but nothing distracted me. Every sound, every shadow, every recollection of Zander made the ache sharper. My thoughts spiraled, alternating between longing, frustration, and desperate curiosity.
By the third night, exhaustion pulled at me, but the heat didn't leave. It simmered, a constant ache beneath the surface, whispering for release I couldn't give. I curled under the covers, gripping the sheets as my mind wandered to Zander again, imagining what it would be like if he were here, close enough to calm the fire—or ignite it further.
Isolation, secrecy, and desire mingled in every heartbeat. I was utterly alone, yet completely consumed, aware in a way I had never been before of just how powerless this body could be—and how desperately it craved him.
And I knew, deep in the fire of it all, that nothing would ever be the same once he found out.