My mouth goes dry. Arrangement? What arrangement? My brain's screaming for answers, but my body's yearning for touch.
I'm incapable of looking away as each extra inch of his chest is bared.
Wait. Knox is the love interest. Every romance reader in America would love to have a chance at a genuine book boyfriend, and this one wants to fuck me. One roll in the hay—well, silk sheets—isn't going to ruin my life, right? I can still get a divorce.
Debauched thoughts rise wild and free, because hello, the man is sexy as hell, and who doesn't want to fuck a werewolf one day?
You know… the ones in romance books. Not the ones in horror movies.
Anyway.
Never mind, author. Go take a vacation.
The last button slips free, and Knox shrugs off his shirt. It falls to the floor with a whisper. My eyes trace the contours of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen. A thin trail of hair disappears beneath his waistband, and I force my gaze back up to his face.
His amber eyes burn with intensity. There's hunger there, but it's cold. Calculated. This isn't about desire or passion, and my intelligence surges back into the forefront of my brain when I realize it.
"Knox," I croak out in panic. "What are you doing?"
He pauses, one eyebrow arching. "Fulfilling my end of the bargain. Isn't this what you want?"
Want? My mind races, trying to piece together the fragments of information I have about this life, about our relationship. A marriage of convenience, yes, but what does that entail?
For some reason, I'd assumed these two never shared a bed. This is what I get for assuming, I guess. Why else would he be coming at me so aggressively? It's like he assumes I'll just drop trou.
Which I was absolutely going to do a few seconds ago when my brain dragged me straight into the gutter with gusto, but now I'm having second thoughts, okay? And those thoughts are: something. is. wrong.
"I'm not sure I follow," I mutter, pulling the blanket tighter around me. It's surprisingly hard to stand up for myself when the other half of my brain is still chanting yes please, book boyfriend, let's do this.
Knox's lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Come now, Vivienne. Don't play coy. You made your desires clear when we married."
Shit. What desires? At no point in the book does it say she demanded sex. In fact, the book made it pretty clear they had a cold war between them.
Knox is undeniably attractive, but this isn't right. Not like this. I'm no shrinking violet—and not a virgin—but I'm not ready to have sex with another woman's husband, even if I'm in her body. Especially when it isn't something my partner actually wants to do.
Even if I spent the last minute eye-fucking him as he got half-naked.
Look, okay, I have morals. Even if they're… er, minorly delayed.
"Wait," I blurt out, holding up a hand. "I don't... I mean, we don't have to do this."
Knox freezes, his hands hovering over his belt buckle. His eyes narrow, searching my face. "No?"
I swallow hard, trying to find the right words. How do I explain this without revealing that I'm not the Vivienne he knows?
"I'm not feeling well," I lie, hating how weak it sounds. "Maybe another time?"
He unbuckles his belt, staring straight at me. "You said you were fine."
Oh no, oh no. My morals are backsliding again and my mouth is dry.
No! Stay firm.
Stay firm.
Like him and his—
No.
Damn it, wake up and smell the death flags!
"I lied," I choke out, hoping he has no idea what internal struggle I'm facing.
"That's your usual," he agrees, and I blink.
Okay. So, Vivienne's a chronic liar. But what kind of lies? The list of things I need to learn about this new life is growing by leaps and bounds. I'll have to write them all down.
"I'm gross. I need a shower. I've been sweating all day and my armpits stink." Shit. He's a werewolf. He can smell the lie—literally.
He straightens, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, he simply stares at me, and I fight the urge to squirm under his gaze.
"I see," he says, his tone flat. "Of course. How inconsiderate of me to proposition my wife when she's unwell."
The sarcasm in his voice is unmistakable. I wince, knowing I've somehow made things worse, even as it makes no sense. It's clear he didn't want to have sex, but now he's acting like he's been rejected.
Seriously, what is the dynamic between these two?
"Knox, I—"
He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "No need to explain, Vivienne. I understand perfectly."
Damn it, why do I feel so guilty? The man doesn't even want it! He's doing it because of whatever bizarre arrangement Vivienne has with him. And yet I feel my stomach twisting, like I did something wrong.
The original Vivienne's nominal husband retrieves his shirt from the floor, slipping it on with fluid grace. As he buttons it up, hiding his magnificent chest from view, I feel a pang of regret or two.
When does a girl get to bang the hot male lead of a romance novel? Um, never, obviously.
What a waste.
I hope I'm not drooling.
"I'll leave you to your rest," he says, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Wait," I call out, my voice trembling a little as I desperately try not to stare at his ass. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
He pauses at the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. "Didn't mean to what, Vivienne? Change the rules of our arrangement? Or are you just having second thoughts about our entire marriage?"
The bitterness in his tone catches me off guard. What the hell, what the hell, what the hell? Did I mistake the book I'm in?
But I don't know how to answer him.
"I just had a rough day," I mutter, unable to hold his gaze.
"It's two in the afternoon."
"A rough morning," I amend. It's only two? Really?
"I've had all your sleeping pills removed from the house. Your sister prescribed a few vitamins. Every prescription is under lock and key." The way he fiddles with his cuffs, setting them just right, has me distracted.
His hands are gorgeous. Large and tan with thick veins and long fingers and—
When he glances at me, I nod, replaying his words in my mind and reigning my eyeballs in from their ogling.
Ah. He's worried about another accident. Well, it won't happen again. I have no intention of losing this sudden and unexpected second chance at life. "Okay."
A faint frown tugs at the corners of his lips. He inspects my face, and I contrive to look as harmless as possible.
"Is there something you wish to tell me, Vivienne?"
I hesitate. My plan was to come up with a reason to convince him divorce is the best option, but—what if a simple question is all I need?
What the hell. Let's go for it.
"Knox…"
"Yes?"
His eyes are so damn intense, I can't keep contact, and return to staring at the wall. "You don't like this marriage." Okay, it's more of a statement than a question, but I have cold feet, okay? It's my first time being married and asking for a divorce.
This life isn't even mine. I'm so lost, and there's no guidebook for what to do when you wake up and realize you're in a damn book.
His eyes narrow, and he steps back into the room, approaching with a slow, measured pace. "Why would you say that, Vivienne?"
Clearing my throat, I scoot back, giving myself that extra half-inch of space between us as he continues inexorably forward. "I'm not blaming you, Knox."
He stops at the foot of the bed. "What are you trying to say, Vivienne?"
Meeting his eyes, which are surprisingly turbulent instead of detached, I blurt, "We should get a divorce."