"Why is it taking him so long to wake up?" Abigail muttered under her breath, her gaze fixed on the man lying before her.
Roman's chest rose and fell in an infuriatingly calm rhythm — slow, steady, unbothered.
The dim amber light from the bedside lamp bathed his skin in gold, drawing sharp lines along the sculpted planes of his face.
Even in unconsciousness, he looked powerful — a man born for command, his presence almost oppressive even now.
Abigail sat at the edge of the bed, one hand supporting her chin, the other drumming impatiently on her thigh.
Her dark hair shimmered faintly, the loose strands brushing across her cheek every time she exhaled.
"Huff," she sighed, her voice sharp in the silence. "Now my work will be delayed again." Her brows furrowed, frustration pulling at her features.
The scent of Roman's cologne — subtle, expensive, and masculine — lingered faintly in the air, wrapping around her senses until she found herself inhaling deeper than she intended.
