Jaxon
Mia is asleep.
I watched her fight it off with all her strength, arms crossed over her chest, gaze fixed stubbornly out the window. But in the end, she gave in. Her breathing slowed, her long lashes rested against her cheeks, and her jet-black hair spilled over her shoulders, partially covering a face that, in sleep, looked almost angelic. Her body relaxed against the seat.
Now I watch her, the car gliding silently over the asphalt still damp from the night, while the streetlights cast shifting shadows across her face.
She looks younger than she wants to appear. When she sleeps, when she lets her guard down, when she stops provoking me with that sharp tongue of hers, she almost looks fragile. But I know she’s not. Mia is fire, rage, a storm waiting to break. She’s made of thorns
