ALEXANDER
I can hear her breathing. Slow, steady, too even to be real.
She’s pretending to sleep.
One thing I’ll always give Emmaline is her stubbornness. She refuses to bend, even when I call her out. Even when I tell her plainly that I can smell her arousal, she clings to her little act as though silence might somehow protect her. My wolf bristles, restless beneath my skin, urging me to rip the blanket away and force her to acknowledge me. He wants me to show her exactly what happens when she tempts me like this.
But I don’t move. I stand there, watching her in the low glow of the lamp, my jaw clenched so tightly it aches.
The red lace clings to her curves in a way that feels designed to test me. Thin straps that barely hold, the hem riding scandalously high on her thighs, the sheer
