IRENE'S POV
I'm sitting here like an absolute idiot, perched on the edge of this ridiculously massive bed, watching him sleep like some kind of creepy stalker. Which, to be fair, is exactly what I'm being. But in my defense, the man is unfairly beautiful when he's not being an arrogant, manipulative asshole.
Get a grip, Irene, I told myself firmly, but my eyes keep tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair falls across the pillow like spilled ink.
What was i even doing? I slapped myself mentally.
You're supposed to hate this man. He forcefully married you, took away your choice and made you his wife without ever asking if that's what you wanted.
But god, he's gorgeous. His lips are slightly parted in sleep, soft and inviting when they're usually pressed into that infuriating smirk.
I shouldn't be noticing any of this. I definitely shouldn't be remembering how those lips felt against my neck earlier, or how his breath had made my entire body come alive with want.
