“I’m still burning.” He says.
I glance around. “You’re feeling the wrong kind of jealousy. Think about it, now you know about her arranged marriage. It’s better than not knowing.”
“I already knew about that. I just don’t like it when people remind me and ask her what kind of man she wants.”
I grit my teeth. What kind of man is he if he can’t even forgive his sister?
“If you’re so crazy about her, why did you make her hate you?”
His face darkens further than it already was. He doesn’t like being reminded of this either.
I fake a chuckle. “You know what? I think she doesn’t hate you that much.” Now this is a pure lie, and he knows it.
I rub the back of my neck. “Good night. Now we’re even, right?” I give him a sweet smile.
His lips curl, the shape resembles a smile, but no one in their right mind could call it one. How do these men manage to look so frightening?
I turn around and dash out of his room at a speed far surpassing my entrance.
I reach Zoan’s room instead of mine, and the sight that greets me makes me forget all about the criminal edge of my brother.
Zoan is standing in the middle of his room, his phone in hand, a single towel wrapped around his waist, leaving the rest of his goddamn—no, God-made—body on full display.
I forget to inhale or exhale. My feet move on their own toward the manifestation of the world’s entire hotness condensed in human form. Every muscle is densely packed, sculpted in vivid detail. So many muscles, do humans really have so many distinct, awe-inspiring muscle groups?
I slide my fingers across his abs, tracing droplets of water and his scars.
“What are you doing?”
I look up at his face. Oh, he has a face too.
I don’t pull my hands back. Instead, I place the other one on his stomach, letting both my palms and fingers explore every inch. My own body heats up, a delicious tingling pulsing between my thighs.
He looks down at me, but I keep my gaze fixed on his face. He grabs both my wrists and presses them down. “Why are you so shameless, Dove?” His voice has thickened.
I smile. “I have the responsibility of being shameless for both of us.”
I return my hands to him, this time on his chest.
“Why aren’t you in your room?”
I let my fingers trace the line of his collarbone. “I’m afraid Leo will kill me in my sleep.”
“If he wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t be standing here.” His voice has grown hoarse.
I look down, noticing the pronounced bulge beneath his towel. That day, the pants must have restrained it. He tilts my face upward by the chin, his grip firm. “Don’t look,” he groans.
The tingling deepens into ache. I press my thighs together tightly.
Zloban
I feel everything all the time, the subtle fluctuations in temperature around me, the exact speed of the moving air, the precise level of humidity, the number of people in the vicinity, their posture, microexpressions, breathing patterns, and the intention behind each movement. I note the rhythm of footsteps, the angle of heads, and even the minute shifts in body weight that reveal attention and intent. Every sound, every scent, every tiny vibration is cataloged in my mind.
But when I’m near her, all of that disappears. Every ounce of my focus narrows to the warmth of her hands on my skin, the way her gaze consumes me, satisfying the parts of me that belong to her more than to myself. My brain ignites with a burning, unrelenting need—an ache of my soul demanding to strip her clothes, to feel all of her pressed against all of me, and yet knowing I cannot, refusing to cross the line.
When I’m with her, the existence of the world fades. Only she can dispel the constant shadow of danger, replace the darkness that follows me everywhere, no matter where I go.
I rub my thumb along the smooth skin beneath her lower lip. “Go to your room and sleep like a good girl.” Every fiber of my body strains, audible in my voice.
