She didn't love him for his tawny lion's hair, or for the faded silvery marks that scarred his skin
She didn't love him for his tawny lion's hair, or for the faded silvery marks that scarred his skin.
She didn't love him for his slender artist's fingers, for the deftness with which they applied Marks, or for the grace with which they danced across a keyboard.
She didn't love him for the way his golden eyes danced when he laughed, or for the way they burned when he was angry.
She didn't love him for the cloak of sarcasm he wore to protect himself, or for the secret vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.
She didn't love him for the way her voice tremble, her cheeks blush, and her heart pound.
She didn't love him for the way he said her name.
She didn't love him for his graceful courage, his stubborn insolence, his infuriating arrogance or his awkward chivalry.
She didn't love him for his jealous protectiveness or his fierce gentleness.
She didn't love him because he loved her.
No.
She loved him because he was her brother.
At least- that's what she constantly reminded herself, what she tried so hard to make herself believe—what her heart knew wasn't true.