Page 9 of Blackwell Manor: A Lesson in Submission

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The Game Begins

The library was bathed in the soft, flickering glow of candlelight. The air smelled of aged books, leather, and something deeper—something sinful.

Lillian sat in one of the high-backed velvet chairs, a glass of red wine in hand, her body draped in a silk robe that did little to hide the curves beneath it.

Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile as she traced the rim of her glass with a lazy finger.

“Darling,” she purred, eyes gliding over Isabella’s form. “You came.”

Isabella swallowed, her throat dry, tight, burning.

She should say something.

But her mind was blank, her body suddenly too aware of the way Lillian was watching her, as if she were something delicious, something already half-devoured.

Lillian gestured to the empty seat opposite her.

“Sit.”

Isabella hesitated for a single breath. Then, she obeyed.

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The Trap Closes

Lillian sipped her wine, the silence stretching too long, too thick, too unbearable.

Then, she set the glass down and leaned forward, voice soft, teasing.

“Tell me, Isabella,” she murmured, her fingers tracing lazy circles along the stem of her glass. “Did you think about my touch after dinner?”

Isabella’s pulse jumped.

The question was a dagger wrapped in silk—sharp, deliberate, meant to cut her open and expose her.

“I—”

The door clicked shut.

Isabella froze.

Because she knew—before she even turned her head—who had just entered the room.

Elias.

The air shifted, thickened, grew heavy with something dark, something inevitable.

His presence was suffocating, drowning out the candlelight, the very air in her lungs.

When Isabella turned, he was standing by the door, watching them, his posture relaxed, yet terrifyingly controlled.

A man who had planned this moment.

A man who had been waiting.

For her.

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