In that one fleeting moment, her judgment clouded by kindness and sympathy, she had let him in. And now, that pristine mental space bore his permanent imprint—the unique, unshakable, deeply sensory memory of a dominant, hot-blooded man.
Cruxius wasn't naïve.
He knew he wasn't living in some pathetic fairytale where a handsome face alone could capture a woman's heart and make her obsess over him all day long.
Especially in Seleyena's case. She saw dozens of conventionally attractive men on a daily basis; charm was the absolute bare minimum requirement.
After all, the simple idea that being handsome guarantees a woman's loyalty is a complex, foolish lie.
Even if a husband is drop-dead gorgeous, his wife can cheat; even if he is filthy rich, she might stray—simply because women are wired in a way that the sheer value of physical, materialistic things—body or money—diminishes incredibly swiftly once they are accustomed to it.
