His dark hair falls over his brow, so I brush it away and stroke his jaw. My fingers drag over the scratch of his stubble, and I bite back a pained groan. I can’t stop touching him or marveling at how perfect he is beneath all that fear and anger, which he wields like sharp weapons to keep others at a safe distance. My heart pounds harder when I wrap my fingers around his throat. The urge is there to steal the last breath from his lips. Maybe then he’d wake up and fight me. I squeeze lightly, careful not to wake him.
