Morning light streamed through the gap in the curtains. The man extended his elegant, long fingers from under the blanket, propped himself up, and pressed against his aching head.
Fragments of last night's drunken madness gradually came back to him. Ignatius Leclair seemed slightly regretful as he looked at the disheveled bed and Delphine curled up under the blanket.
Seeing her swollen, red eyes—her brows furrowed even in sleep—and the marks he'd left on her porcelain skin, his striking phoenix-shaped eyes flickered. He had only been mildly intoxicated last night. His actions were rooted less in drunkenness and more in his own dissatisfaction and momentary tumult—a mix of truth and pretense.
The old man's pressure to marry had escalated to the point of disregarding family bonds. His strategy of stalling wasn't a long-term solution.
Ignatius furrowed his brows, got up, and headed for the shower.
