The lock on the VIP holding room door clicked with a finality that echoed louder than a gunshot in the silent room.
Aria sat on the white leather sofa, engulfed in layers of black-and-gold silk. The Consort Li costume was a masterpiece of historical accuracy, which meant it involved three under-robes, a heavy outer coat, a stiff obi-style belt, and enough embroidery to weigh down a small horse.
Damien was still kneeling in front of her, his hands resting on her knees. The heat radiating from his palms seeped through the thick fabric, branding her skin.
"Fix me," he had said.
Aria swallowed hard, her heart hammering against the stiff collar of her dress. "Mr. Sinclair, I can't treat you effectively while I'm wearing twenty pounds of imperial brocade. My range of motion is... limited."
Damien's golden eyes darkened. He stood up, towering over her, and then leaned down, placing a hand on the back of the sofa, caging her in.
