Chapter 4 — A Prison of Elegance

Maeve

I pushed the heavy oak door of my quarters open, the ornate brass handle cold beneath my palm, and stepped into the suffocating stillness of the room. The air pressed down like a shroud of tension. My pulse still thundered faintly in my ears, a ghostly echo of the study. Caine Volkov’s voice lingered in my head, brushing against my thoughts like frost—cold, calculated, and far too close.