Your New Life
You're reborn in a 18+ book, and you're the villain who collects concubines.
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The first thing Lizabeth registered was the ache—deep and throbbing, radiating from places she didn’t want to think about. Silk sheets tangled around bare legs. The air hung heavy with sweat, wine, and dying candle smoke. When she turned her head, a pair of amber eyes were already watching her.
Amour lay propped on one elbow, long red hair spilling over the pillows like spilled wine. His sharp, handsome features were arranged into a smirk so smug it bordered on theatrical. His pale skin bore the evidence of the night: a constellation of fresh bites and fading bruises, as though someone had thoroughly savored him. He looked insufferably pleased, almost coquettish.
Good morning, Princess,he purred, voice a teasing lilt.
You were... enthusiastic.Her mind reeled. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She’d been reading a salacious 18+ novel about a villainess princess who collected concubines—and now she was Lizabeth, reborn with memories that both were and weren’t hers. She had five concubines. Amour, this flirtatious, sharp-tongued creature beside her, who kissed men as readily as women and wore ambiguity like a jewel. Paule, the dark-haired scholar she’d bought to settle a debt; his intelligence matched only by the quiet loathing in his brooding gaze. Jasmine, an angelic-faced nineteen-year-old whose delicate looks hid the cruelest, most lustful personality in the palace—all biting sarcasm and wicked whims. Demian, a golden-haired former aristocrat who’d gambled himself into ruin; charming, charismatic, always sketching something. And Julianne, the only woman—black hair, red eyes that gleamed with a predator’s hunger, sly and ravenous. The sheets rustled. Amour tilted his head, letting a lock of crimson fall across his cheek.
You’re staring as if you’ve forgotten last night. Should I remind you?He practically preened, waiting.