The moment I woke, I thought he was gone. That last night had only been another cruel dream.
Because that's the thing about me. I've always found it harder to accept it when good things happen in my life. And when they do, I'd doubt them until there's no room left for denial. I know it's a habit I should break, but that was just how I have been functioning all this time.
But no. He wasn't gone.
He just strolled into the room that was supposed to be the nursery, the room I've been sleeping in, shirtless and with two glasses of blood in hand. He placed one onto my bedside table, his sweatpants hung low on his hips. His body leaner, harder like he had spent the last few months doing nothing but working out.
Then he dropped onto the armchair across the bed, sipping his glass lazily, his red eyes never leaving mine.
"Hello there, beautiful," he drawled, grinning into his glass like he was saving more than blood.
It was then that I remembered why.
I was naked.
