She woke with her head tucked into the crook of his arm, blinking slowly as she chased away the lingering remnants of sleep. She barely moved, too comfortable and content in her position to bother shifting.
A moment later, her gaze drifted upward, and she became fully aware of the man lying beside her.
His eyes were still closed, lashes dark against his skin, his chest bare where the covers had slipped low. Morning light spilled into the chamber in pale ribbons, softening the sharp planes of his face. She studied him in silence, taking in the masculine beauty of his face. His dark brows, the strong line of his nose, the supple curve of his lips and the scar that cut across his brow.
By all accounts, the scar should have marred his appearance. It should have detracted from it. Instead, it did the opposite. It lent him a severity and irresistibility that often stole the breath from her lungs each time she looked too closely.
