The air between them vibrated, stretched tight with unspoken friction, an intimate tension that thrummed with unspoken rebellion and unvoiced desires. Joon-woo's fingers grazed her knuckles, his touch dry, seasoned. It was the hand of a man who thought possession was as instinctive as breathing, a right he had never had to think twice about. He viewed the world, and the women in it, as manifestations of his will, commodities to be purchased, beautified, and showcased.
Seo-yeon allowed him to take her hand, but gave him no warmth back. Her hand was chill, nearly removed, an intentional counterpoint to his taken-for-granted intimacy. She permitted the chill beauty of her silence to build the tension, compelling him to fill it, to speak the unspoken expectations that lay between them like the heavy velvet curtains.
You're very quiet tonight," he whispered, his voice a low, smooth stroke that hardly broke the rich stillness of the great hall.
