He sat at the edge of the bed like a king watching a subject kneel. Tall. Dark. Towering. A figure carved out of smoke and sin.
I couldn't look directly at him. Every time I tried, shame and heat filled my face.
But I still saw everything.
The neat brows.
The straight, symmetrical nose.
Lips—full, set in a quiet line that didn't know softness.
He was beautiful. Brutal, but beautiful.
His skin was a rich, deep brown. Flawless. His black shirt hugged his chest tightly, stretched across broad shoulders. I noticed the matte watch on his wrist before I could stop myself.
And his eyes—dark, intense, almost unreadable. There was no malice in them now. No heat either. Just... stillness. A cold curiosity.
He lifted my chin with one finger, and I froze.
"You have beautiful eyes," he said, voice soft—almost low enough to be kind.
I wanted to look away. But his eyes locked mine in place. His thumb dragged lightly across my bottom lip—across the tape.
My stomach twisted again. Pain flared beneath my ribs. Still, my body reacted—shivering under the subtle touch.
What is wrong with me?