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24
Alpha King Dimitrio. Her hair is meticulously braided at the front. Tiny baby hairs dance along the edges of her forehead, soft wisps that seem to defy gravity. Enthralled by her presence, I lift my head from the damn book, taking a look at her waist-length hair that cascades like a delicate lace against a flowing waterfall. Moons, even without the sun, she is sun kissed—her complexion is a shade of warm honey, a canvas of richness and depth. Full brows, gracefully arched—they are the guardians of her expression. When I speak to her, her wispy lashes flutter. Each blink is a silent invitation to delve deeper into the depths of her gaze, and then there is her lips—peach red, a natural fullness that hints at me, begging me to kiss it. How is possible that everything about her is so per
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