Redemption of Royals (Royal #1: Book 3) | ✔

27

I pause, my feet retreating to the bed as I tuck them behind, waiting for him to finish.

"If he sleeps in that position, he'll have nightmares."

I chuckle. "What even? He's fast asleep. And what does position have to do with your nightmares?"

"He sleeps better."

I sigh exasperated. "And I thought he developed an AI to hack into world's strongest securities. Turns out, you're only his nanny." I wrap my arm around the set of heavy, broad shoulders and with a grunt, drag him to sit with his back against the headboard.

"I can hack into world's strongest securities." To my surprise, Yara gets offended.

I smile in amusement. "Sure," unfolding the quilt, I use it to cover Shourya's body from the cold.

"I can." He states, his tone defensive.

I hum.

"Boss was right calling you foolishly stubborn. Good night."

Gasping, I look at the speaker in shock. "Excuse me?" He doesn't respond. My eyes dart back to his boss. "I'm not foolishly, stubborn, you Grinch!" I slap him on the arm. He doesn't even budge. "Ungrateful brats." Snorting, I get off the bed and storm over to the couch.

Lying flat, I huff out an angry breath. I shouldn't have returned. He definitely was drowning himself in alcohol thinking I've made my mind to never come back. I know him. He's obsessed with control. And he's smart enough to know so much alcohol will strip him off the same thing he adores the most. Maybe I should have stayed a day more or two. But I didn't have any excuse to make to my brothers. I'm a newly wed bride. Typically, I should be thinking of spending as much time as I can with my husband. So I had to play my part and pretend to be happy to come back here, in this cold, blood sucking hell hole.

Yanking the sheets over my head, I close my eyes and force myself to fall asleep. The couch is uncomfortable. But it's better than sleeping with him on the bed. After what happened tonight, I don't trust myself with him. Not because he's drunk, but because when horny, I tend to have loose morals.

I wake up first the following morning. My muscles ache in the small space. So I sit up and stretch them to their limit, groaning in relief. Releasing a deep breath, I sit leaned in, back hunched, hands interlaced in the gap between my knees, my eyes on the man on the bed.

He has got rid of his shirt somewhere in the middle of the night. And his trousers are unbuckled, hanging low on his hips. The waistband of his Calvin Klein briefs show. I lick my lower lip. He is no where pure muscle mass. His waist is surprisingly small. I'd kill to have that kind of waistline. It's not fair. But his shoulders are unnaturally broad, almost glorious, godly. I focus more on his sinewy arms. Beautifully wrapped in tempting veins, twitching every time he moves.

For times than I remember, those large arms have been around me, swallowing me like the sea embracing a wrought ship. It's strange, being more familiar with his body than him. I remember every detail of how it felt to be leaning on him in the moments of intimacy, both physical and emotional.

I'm really foolishly stubborn.

I was so determined on believing that he's two different people, that I never realised the familiarity with which he handled me everytime we were close. His one hand on my cheek, the other wrapped around my waist, his body always supporting mine, him burying his face into my neck after a heavy, passionate make out session. Everything was so clear. It was I, who had a blindfold on.

But I can never forgive him.

He had me torned between a dream and a reality. I was so ashamed to be feeling so intensely for two men that were as different as day and night. How did he do it? How did he even face me in the light after deceiving me in the dark? Did he never feel bad for me? Did he never stop to think what toll it took on me? The confusion, the mental strain, the sleepless nights, I was a mess.