Page 137 of Wanted

Her shape and curves call to me with their intoxicating symmetry.

Is it me that finds her body the definition of perfection because she’s my fated? Or is it because her body and face truly are perfect?

Asher said she looked enchantingly beautiful when he first laid eyes on her.

Opening my eyes now that we’re back in the bedroom, I agree wholeheartedly.

But it’s not just her body that makes her perfect.

Her soul and mind draw me like a moth to the fire.

She’s survived what most wouldn’t survive.

The strength she showed… the goodness of her heart…

Fuck, I don’t even know how to be objective here.

Is it even possible in this situation?

I grab a sleeping gown out of the dresser. It’s lacy but modest. And it absolutely looks like something Ambrose would pick for her.

Pulling out a pair of thong panties, though, gives me pause. Would she want to wear these?

Fuck it. With that juicy ass she has, she’ll look like a fucking model wearing them.

Dressing her quickly, I force myself to push away the desire to just stare at her until she wakes. I want to but can’t when there are so many other things that need to be dealt with.

Fuck. I hate leaving her here.

But moving her corpse around the house isn’t a good idea, either.

I can just see how Chloe would react to me setting up Alena’s dead body at the kitchen table.

Then waving her floppy arm at people.

Forcing myself away from the bed, I take one last look at her and wince. I truly hope she can forgive me for taking her life.

It was for her own good, but will she see it that way?

Pulling on pants and a shirt, I try to make myself somewhat presentable for the family upstairs.

“Stop staring at her,” I say to myself, and push my limbs to move to the open doorway.

We need to get the door replaced soon. Alena will need her privacy. I can’t imagine she’d enjoy the whole house hearing when I taste her over and over.

Now that I can properly focus on the world outside of this room, I hear the quiet rustle of fabric against fabric.

Stepping out of the room, I see Ambrose dancing and spinning with perfect poise.

Forever dancing, forever torturing himself in his madness.

“Brother,” I murmur to him quietly.

Twisting his dance to face me, Ambrose gives me a small smile. “I hope my dear sister rests well.”

“She does,” I say, and walk towards him. “Have you been guarding us?”

“Of course.” He dips into a graceful bow. “It is my job, after all.”

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