Faelith stared at Ethan with a complex expression, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions swirling behind her elven eyes.
She wasn't lying.
If Ethan didn't look the way he did, she would have ripped his head off right then and there for daring to touch her.
If it weren't for that strange, almost supernatural allure of his, he wouldn't have lived long after approaching her the way he had.
Arwen, Ysara, Evelyn, Elena, Ophelia, Amelia, and even Alice and Seo-ah.
All of Ethan's wives were proud women—women who would refuse to be touched by men unworthy of them. Evelyn, after all, had literally died fleeing from the clutches of one such man.
If Ethan didn't possess that absurd beauty and charm, he would have been torn to pieces the very instant he dared, for example, to touch Arwen in an indecent manner.
Ethan, of course, took a certain pride in his own beauty, but he let nothing slip from his lips. His gaze simply followed every step the elf took toward him, quiet and unhurried.
