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The first thing I noticed was the scent of rosemary and cold steel that has seeped into the hallway. Ethan had already begun his morning, the way I taught him to. The brass tray on the footboard of my bed was laid out with meticulous precision. A single red rose, a glass of chilled water, a notebook bound in black leather, and a slender silver key I gave him last winter. He knows the key does not open any lock. It is the symbol of my permission to bear his devotion.
I slipped out of the silk sheets and stepped onto the cold wooden floor. My boots clicked, echoing off the painted walls like a metronome. He was waiting, kneeling at the base of the doorframe with his eyes lowered and his hands clasped behind his back. “Good morning, Mistress,” he murmured.