Craving The Enemy's Husband
God, her eyes.
Those sharp, calculating eyes had lost none of their edge. Bloodshot, rimmed with smeared mascara that trailed down her cheeks like war paint, they still glittered with something dangerous, something unhinged.
I exhaled slowly, tamping down the sharp sting of irritation that clawed at me. My jaw ached from the restraint.
“Bella,” I said evenly, forcing my voice to remain steady, “move.”
She didn’t. She leaned in slightly, close enough that I could see the redness in her eyes, smell the bite of alcohol on her breath. Close enough that her presence pressed against me like a wall I didn’t want to scale.
Bab Populer