Page 37 of Beneath Scarred Vows
I wipe the condensation from the mirror with my palm, creating a clear circle in the fog. My reflection stares back at me, and I notice the changes. There's color in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the hot water. My eyes look alive, and I have this new feeling coursing through me. I'm unable to explain it—even to myself—but I like it.
There's also the fact that I can't believe I'm actually looking forward to tonight. Just a little. Not too much, of course.
"It's just because of the dress," I mutter to myself, running a comb through my wet hair. "That's all."
The dress Emma helped me pick out earlier is admittedly stunning. It's emerald green, and the material shifts like water when it moves, with a neckline that dips just low enough to be interesting without being vulgar. It's the kind of dress thatmakes a woman stand taller, speak more confidently, even if she knows men's eyes may wander.
But I know that while I can hype the dress up to myself all day long, I can't bury the fact that I'm lying to myself. It's not just the dress.
It's been three days since I found Ares in his office at 3 AM—three days of something shifting between us. He's still intimidating, still controlling, but now I see the weight he carries. The man beneath the monster. And it doesn't seem so suffocating anymore.
I shake my head, droplets of water spattering across the mirror. I still have this instinct to stop this train of thought immediately—my feelings of sympathy for Ares Kastaris. It's a slippery slope, and I'm teetering at the top, unsure if I want to slide down.
I take one last look at myself in the mirror, pushing wet strands of hair behind my ears, and turn toward the door. Emma has laid out everything I'll need on the vanity in the walk-in closet—makeup, jewelry, and of course, the dress.
I open the bathroom door, and the cooler air of the bedroom hits my damp skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.
And then I freeze.
Ares stands in the middle of the bedroom, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs.
My brain short-circuits. All coherent thought evaporates like the steam.
His back is to me, and it's the most well-defined back I've ever seen. I can't help myself, and my eyes wander down. Oh my goodness, has he always looked this good and I'm just noticing?
I feel like I just walked into someone else's bedroom. Not my own with my husband standing there looking like he does. My eyes shift quickly as he turns to look at me.
I try to move, but something has rooted me to the ground, prohibiting me from moving.
His body.
I figured that Ares was in excellent physical condition. You can tell he's mostly muscle even in his suits. Also, from the strength in his hands when he gripped my wrist that first night. But seeing him like this?—
His shoulders are broad, tapering down to that perfect V shape. His chest muscles are well-defined—hell, every muscle of his is well-defined.
And to make this all so much more intense, it's not just muscle that catches my eye. It's his two perfectly placed tattoos.
Over his heart is a Spartan warrior on one knee, holding his shield with one hand and a long spear in the other.
On his right pec muscle is a beautiful owl design made to look like a mix between ancient and modern times. Beside it, in small Greek letters, is the goddess Athena's name.
And while I try with every fiber in my body, my eyes continue down, taking him in. I see the outline of his cock, the bulge very noticeable through his briefs.
A heat pools low in my stomach, and I feel myself getting wet.
Why does Ares Kastaris have to look like a fucking Greek god?
I shoot my eyes up, and they lock onto his gaze.
I should look away. I should retreat to the walk-in closet. I should do anything but stand here staring at him like I've never seen a half-naked man before.
Instead, my mouth moves without permission from my brain. "I didn't realize you were in our room."
Our room. It's the first time I've called it that.
"I figured I'd get ready a little early," he says, gesturing to the suit on the bed.
I nod, still unable to tear my eyes away from him. From the tattoos. From the lean muscle of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hip bones above the waistband of his boxers.
