chapter1269

Thalassa couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear at Lysander's icy gaze, which pierced through her like a

blade of winter. She quickly averted her eyes and scurried towards the kitchen where a glass of

untouched water sat next to the kettle.

"I'll get you something to drink," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Thalassa reached for the glass, intending to hand it directly to Lysander, but hesitated. Her hand

paused in mid-air before she opted for an empty glass instead, filling it with fresh water from the tap.

The abandoned glass had been filled for Callum just moments before Lysander's arrival. Given

Lysander's disdain for anything remotely associated with Callum, even sitting on the same sheets, she

dared not offer him a glass intended for another man. It wasn't worth risking his wrath on the off-chance

he would find out.

She approached Lysander with the new glass of water, offering it to him with a tentative smile. "Here,

have some water."

Lysander's deep-set eyes flicked to the glass and then back to her. "What about you? Aren't you

thirsty?" he asked, his voice smooth yet edged with something she couldn't quite place.

Thalassa forced a smile. "I’ve had some earlier," she replied. "Your saliva, remember?" She trailed off,

her tone playfully mocking.

Her attempt at humor, meant to needle him, was softened by her warm, impish grin that sparkled like

the morning sun—a comforting, penetrating light that seemed to fill the room.

Lysander's gaze shifted, a ripple of something unspoken passing through him. With a deft movement,

he lifted her chin. "Maybe you should have another sip?" he suggested, his voice low and possessive.

Thalassa recognized that intense look in his eyes—no one knew it better than she did. The fear

returned, and she quickly stepped back to avoid his touch. "No, I'm not thirsty. You drink," she insisted,

pushing the glass toward him, her heart pounding against her ribs.

She was a fool to think she could jest with him when he was in a better mood. Lysander was a real

tiger, a dangerous man who could snap at any moment.

He took the glass from her without a word, his long, masculine neck working with each swallow.

Thalassa watched, transfixed by the sight, feeling a surge of something primal and intoxicating.

Lysander's gaze slid to the nightstand beside the bed, and he cleared it with a sweep of his arm before

taking a seat himself. He then pulled her close, guiding her down onto his lap. Re?d at

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