Freya slumped against the headboard, the plate of half-eaten chicken abandoned beside her on the rumpled sheets.
Her body felt like a live wire—humming with frustration, heat, and a restless ache she couldn't name. She'd never done this before—never dared to touch herself, never surrendered to the urges that flickered in the dark corners of her mind.
Masturbation was beneath her, a surrender to weakness, a crack in the iron discipline she'd forged her life around.
She was a queen, her composure a fortress, her control absolute. Or so she'd always believed.
But now, alone in the dim light of her room, that fortress trembled.
A soft, involuntary "Nnh—" slipped past her lips, her blue eyes widening as a sharp, electric jolt of pleasure shot through her.
Her fingers, hesitant and unpracticed, pressed against the fabric of her dark pants, tracing slow, uncertain circles over the heat pooling between her thighs.
