Revenge Wears My Ring novel Chapter 249

She jerked her head up, only to find herself staring straight into a pair of eyes that had opened at some point without her noticing.

Those eyes, usually sharp and clear, were now veiled with a hazy, drunken glaze. Yet even blurred by alcohol, they were still so deep it felt as though they could pull her in.

Bennett’s hand circled her wrist—not tight, but firm enough that she couldn’t pull away.

He studied the startled look on her face. His lips, still stained with the taste of whiskey, parted slightly. His voice was low and husky, colored with a lazy magnetism, as he drawled three words:

“Spying on me?”

Gwyneth’s cheeks flared scarlet, her heart pounding like a drum.

Wasn’t he supposed to be dead drunk? How was he suddenly wide awake—and with such perfect timing, too?

She felt like a student caught cheating by the teacher: her eyes darted nervously, but she forced herself to keep her composure, trying to yank her hand free as she stammered, “I—I wasn’t! You—you’re imagining things! Why are you awake?”

Bennett didn’t let go. Instead, he used his grip to gently pull her a little closer. With his free hand, he rubbed at his temples, the discomfort etching deeper lines into his brow. His voice, tinged with exhaustion, came out in a barely-there complaint:

“My head hurts.”

It sounded almost unconscious, like a grumble—but then again… was he sulking?

Gwyneth stared at the rare show of vulnerability on his face, and all the embarrassment and bluster from being caught melted away in an instant.

“Serves you right. Who told you to drink so much?” she scolded, but her voice had softened, almost without her noticing. “Can you walk? I’ll make you something to help sober you up.”

It wasn’t until the words were out that she realized how much she sounded like a wife fussing over her husband.

Bennett’s answering “Yeah” was quiet, roughened by drink, but unexpectedly docile.

Flustered, Gwyneth all but fled the car, striding quickly to the front door. Once inside, her feet carried her to the kitchen almost on autopilot.

Bennett followed, moving more slowly than usual, but still managing to close the door behind him with his usual precision. Instead of coming straight in, he leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching her as she hurried about, more flustered than he’d ever seen her.

She nearly knocked over a jar taking out the soup mix, and when she filled the pot, water sloshed dangerously close to the rim. The image of her—so different from her usual cool and collected self—strangely charmed him.

The alcohol blurred his usual sharp edges, and in their place, something gentler began to take root.

He slipped away to the living room and sank onto the sofa, but his gaze never left the kitchen.

“Come drink your soup,” Gwyneth called, snapping him out of his reverie.

He looked up to see her approaching, a steaming bowl in her hands. Her cheeks were still flushed from the kitchen heat.

He stood and took the bowl. The warmth seeped into his palms, chasing away the lingering chill in his bones.

He watched her for a long moment, and in the chaos of this night, it felt as if something between them had quietly and irrevocably changed.

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