Chapter One
Kara Lennox
I felt like a lie wrapped in lace.
The bar I was sitting at gleamed with gold. Every inch of it screamed of wealth. I’d been here before, in places like this. They all had that same perfume of ambition and musk, and seriously deep pockets that thought they could buy the world and call it their own.
I sat at the marble gold-lined bar, legs crossed, the hem of my red and black Dolce and Gabbana dress riding up my thigh a little bit. The Louboutins on my feet pinched slightly. My wristlet rested lightly in my lap. It was Louis Vuitton, black, discreet. My entire outfit was a weapon, and I wielded it like one.
The champagne in front of me had gone warm. I wasn’t drinking it. I was too busy watching my target.
His name was Roman Markov.
He sat in a booth across the room surrounded by men who laughed too loudly, their Rolexes glinting conspicuously under the bar lights. Roman didn’t laugh with them. He was the kind of man who let people orbit him, basking in his gravity until they forgot they were only there because he allowed it.
He was a loose cannon, ARCHEON had said.
The file had also used phrases like volatile charm and unreliable loyalties.
I called him interesting.
I’d been watching him for seven minutes when his eyes finally found mine. They were sardonically amused. Calculating. Not even the slightest bit startled.
Like he’d been watching me watch him the whole time.
I smiled, stood up, and turned toward him. The soft click of my heels against the marble floor sounded like a countdown. Heads turned as I passed, but none of them mattered. They weren’t who I was here for.
He waited until I was close before he spoke, his accent a velvety thread of Moscow. “You’ve been watching me,” he said. “Either you’re a journalist or you’re trouble. From the look of you, I’m thinking trouble.”
I tilted my head, letting a few strands of my dark auburn hair fall against my cheek. “I’m offended,” I murmured. “You left out secret admirer.”
His mouth curved. “Ah. The most dangerous kind of watcher.”
“Only if you’re worth admiring.”
He gestured to the seat across from him, and I slid in. The scent of his cologne—smoky and expensive—wafted through the air between us. He watched me like a man assessing an object he might want to buy, cocking his head as his gaze slid over me.
“You think I am?” he asked.
“I think you want to be,” I said. “But that’s not the same thing.”
He laughed, the sound quietly genuine. His eyes never left mine. “And what’s your name, pretty philosopher in red?”
“Kara,” I said, sipping the warm champagne at last. “With a K.”
He smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching like he didn’t want them to but couldn’t help it. “Kara-with-a-K,” he repeated. “I am Roman. With an R.” He was showing teeth now. “Now, tell me… Are you here to sell me something, steal from me, or save me from myself?”
I let the glass rest against my lower lip, watching the bubbles climb up to the surface. “Would it ruin the fun if I said yes?”
His brow lifted slightly. That pause—barely half a breath—was enough. I saw it, a crack in his armor, small but there.
Got you.
He lifted his glass in a lazy toast. “To ruin, then.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” I said softly, clinking mine against his. “I didn’t bring flowers.”
“You lead with humor,” he said, watching me over the rim of his glass. “Most women here lead with ambition.”
“Maybe I’m ambitious about humor.”
“Or maybe you’re hiding behind it.”
I smiled. “Aren’t we all?”
He leaned back, studying me like a puzzle he didn’t mind taking his time with. “So, Kara-with-a-K, what’s your story? I don’t recognize you from the usual circles.”
“I make a point of staying out of those kinds of circles. They just keep going around and around,” I said, twirling my finger through my hair as the words left my mouth.
“Mmm. I like that answer.”
“Then I’m in the right place.”
A faint laugh escaped him, the kind that came from deep inside, the kind that showed real amusement. “You talk like a woman who’s used to getting what she wants.”
“When I’ve decided it’s worth the effort, yes.”
He leaned forward now, elbows on the table, his gaze entirely focused on me. “And am I?”
I let my lips part slightly, my voice hardly a whisper between us. “Ask me tomorrow.”
His smile widened knowingly. He reached for the bottle and poured more champagne into my glass without breaking eye contact with me. Then his hand brushed mine for the briefest moment—intentional, feather-light, and absolutely more electric than I could have ever anticipated. The kind of touch that said I want you without uttering a single word.
“What brings you to Dubai, Kara?” he asked.
“Business,” I said.
“What kind?”
“The kind that pays for pretty dresses like this.”
His gaze dipped, just long enough to trace the line of lace over my body before returning to my face. “Then I should invest.”
“You couldn’t afford me,” I said.
It wasn’t arrogance. Just fact.
He laughed again, but there was a flicker of a challenge and heat behind it this time. “You have an interesting version of flirtation.”
“I have an interesting version of most everything.”
The music changed to a quieter, more rhythmic song. I took another sip of champagne and leaned forward, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of jasmine on my skin. “You want to know a secret, Roman?”
“Always.”
“I think you like pretending to be dangerous more than actually being dangerous.”
His expression didn’t change, but I saw the brief tension in his jaw, the smallest flicker of surprise in his eyes.
“Maybe…” he began his reply gradually. “Pretending is safer.”
“For whom?”
His gaze dropped to my lips. “That depends on who you ask.”
I smiled, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t calculated. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
He tilted his glass toward me again. “To getting along.”
I met his toast, the crystal chime soft and sweet. Then for a moment—just a heartbeat—I forgot why I was really there.
Roman’s gaze caught mine over the rim of his glass, hooded and heavy with heat. The air between us shifted, less conversation now, more electricity, like the moment before a storm when everything stills. He set his drink down, his fingertips resting on the glass as if the gesture itself was calculated.
“So tell me, Kara-with-a-K,” he murmured, “what does a woman like you want out of a night like this?”
I leaned in, crossing one leg over the other, the lace of my dress whispering against my skin. “Maybe I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “What about you?”
He smiled faintly. “I think I just did.”
My pulse stuttered in my throat. I told myself it was strategy, that I was only reading him, studying his tone, mapping the rhythm of his control, that this was just a job, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me.
“Careful,” I said lightly. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.” His fingers brushed the stem of his glass, not looking away. “You walk like someone who doesn’t wait for permission. You smile like you’re used to getting what you want, and you watch people the way men like me watch the stock markets.”
“That sounds a lot like flattery.”
“It’s simply a little bit of analysis.”
I laughed quietly. “Is that what you do for fun? Analyze women in bars?”
“No,” he said. “Usually, I’m the one being analyzed. Tonight’s a pleasant change.”
I tilted my head, studying him openly now. “You handle being watched very well,” I said.
He smiled at that, his eyes twinkling just the slightest bit. “Comes with practice.”
“I imagine you get a lot of it.”
“Not from anyone worth my time,” he replied. Then more softly, “Until now.”
The words hit me harder than they should have. He was too smooth, too good at this, and I was supposed to be better than to fall for it. And yet I stayed seated, my body leaning slightly toward him as if I was actually interested.
He reached for the bottle and topped off both our glasses. “Tell me something true,” he said.
“Truth is overrated.”
“Humor me.”
I thought for a moment, then said, “All right. I like control.”
His brows lifted just slightly. “In everything?”
“Almost everything,” I answered smoothly. “Sometimes, though, it’s more interesting to give it away.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound dark and rich. “That,” he declared, “was a very risky thing to admit.”
“I like risky.”
He leaned forward again, voice dropping to a murmur. “Then we understand each other.”
The music changed again, this time to a slower song. He stood, offered his hand. “Dance with me.”
“I don’t dance with strangers.”
“Then get to know me.”
I hesitated just long enough to make him wait before I slid my hand into his. His palm was warm, his touch igniting a fire beneath my skin. He drew me close, one hand at the small of my back, the other holding mine loosely. The rhythm was lazy, the kind meant for late nights and whispered confessions.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” I said.
“I’ve earned the right to be.”
“Confidence or arrogance?”
“They’re the same currency,” he said, his breath brushing my ear. “Depends how you spend it.”
I laughed quietly, trying not to show how much the sound of his voice affected me. The scent of his cologne was a mix of smoke and citrus, expensive and unapologetic. He moved with the kind of confidence that came from always being the most powerful person in the room and maybe, for tonight, I didn’t mind letting him think he still was.
When the song ended, he didn’t release me right away. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“To my place. It’s quieter.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a man who likes quiet.”
“When the company is right, quiet is too.”
He was testing me, seeing if I’d flinch. I didn’t. Instead, I smiled like I was still deciding.
“And where, exactly, is your place?”
“The Eclipse Tower,” he answered. “Top floor.”
Of course. The Eclipse was one of Dubai’s newest jewels, a glass monolith overlooking the marina, half hotel, half luxury residences. It was the kind of place where the parking garage smelled like new leather and the concierge spoke six languages.
“Let me guess.” I tapped his shoulder with my index finger. “The penthouse?”
He smiled. “Naturally.”
I pretended to think about it. “You know, I barely know you,” I mused.
“That’s what makes it interesting.”
“Or foolish.”
“Life’s better when you don’t always think about the consequences of which one it is.” He took a step back and extended his hand again. “Come on, Kara-with-a-K.”
For a long heartbeat, I considered saying no, but curiosity won out and I slipped my hand into his.
Outside, the night air was warm, laced with the scent of the sea. A sleek black Bentley waited at the curb, engine humming softly like a satisfied cat. The driver stepped forward, opening the rear door without a word.
Roman guided me into the vehicle. The seats were dark gray leather, the air cool and faintly perfumed. When the door closed, the rest of the world disappeared, and the city’s noise reduced to a distant whisper.
He sat beside me, close enough that the heat of him brushed against my bare arm. The car eased forward, gliding through the glittering veins of the city. Outside, skyscrapers shimmered against the dark water.
He poured two glasses of an amber liquid from a crystal decanter built into the console. “To dangerous company,” he said, offering me one.
I took it, the glass cool in my fingers. “You make that sound like a compliment.”
“It is.”
The Bentley’s engine purred, and the city lights strobed across his face, gold, blue, then shadow again. I watched him for a long moment, the strong line of his jaw, the faint scar near his temple that the dossier hadn’t mentioned. Real things like that never made it into files.
He caught me staring and smiled, more than a little sure of himself. “You still thinking about whether this is a good idea?”
“Definitely.”
“And?”
“I’ll let you know when it’s too late to turn back.”
His laugh filled the car, low and genuine. “Something tells me, Kara,” he whispered, leaning close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath against my throat, “it already is.”
I smiled, looking out the window as the Bentley curved along the marina road, the city unfolding in kaleidoscopic light. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was too late.
But then again, sometimes danger was exactly the point.
[divider]
The elevator rose in perfect silence, its glass walls reflecting the sprawl of Dubai below, light against light, like the city had forgotten what darkness was. My reflection shimmered beside his, ghostly over the skyline. Roman stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a tumbler of scotch he hadn’t touched. He watched the city like it belonged to him.
Maybe it did.
He was the kind of man who seemed to claim space without effort, almost like gravity bent slightly toward him.
Dark hair, cut close at the sides but longer on top, swept back with a sense of careless effort that was probably intentional.
Eyes the color of glacier melt—pale blue with the faintest ring of silver—cool, intelligent, and far too observant. His jaw was clean, strong, the kind that somehow spoke of both discipline and indulgence. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, just enough to reveal the top of his chest, a hint of dark chest hair rising above the fabric and the edge of a gold chain that wasn’t for show.
He looked like money and sin all wrapped into one. I knew enough about him to know that he wasn’t the kind of man who chased. Instead, he waited for the world to come to him.
Just like I did.
When the elevator doors opened, the air changed. It was cooler, scented faintly with cedar and a darker aroma, almost like campfire smoke. The penthouse spread before us, a cathedral of glass and shadow. The view stole the breath from my lungs. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the marina far below, where yachts glimmered like pearls in the dark water. The city stretched beyond, glittering and pulsing with life and obscene wealth.
Inside, the space was sleek, masculine, all charcoal and marble. Everything was expensive without trying too hard. A black grand piano stood near the window, its surface gleaming like spilled ink. Art lined the walls, some modern and others abstract, the kind of pieces that cost six figures just to sit there on the wall and look unbothered.
“A minimalist,” I said finally, turning in a slow circle.
“I like things uncomplicated,” he replied, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it across the back of a chair. “Too many details ruin things.”
I smiled faintly. “So says the man with a Picasso hanging above his fireplace.”
“Exceptions prove the rule.”
He put down his glass from the car, poured two fresh drinks from a crystal decanter on a coffee table, and handed me one. His fingers brushed mine, just enough to draw another pulse of heat through me. I took a sip, letting the scotch burn its way down. It was smooth, peaty, and most likely incredibly expensive.
“GlenDronach?” I guessed.
His mouth curved. “You know your whiskey.”
“I know my vices.”
He studied me for a long moment. “And which one am I?”
“I’ll let you know when I decide whether you’re worth the hangover.”
That earned me a laugh, quiet and genuine. He leaned against the glass wall, the city burning beneath him. The soft lighting turned his eyes into shards of ice, bright and unreadable.
“You’re different from the usual company I keep,” he said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was.” He paused. “Most people want something from me.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“I think you might want something you haven’t revealed yet.”
The words landed too close to the truth, and I hated that he could see it. I walked toward the piano, trailing my fingertips along its smooth surface. “Maybe I just like beautiful things,” I said softly.
“Then you came to the right place.”
I turned back to him, one brow lifting. “You always this sure of yourself?”
“Yes.”
He moved toward me slowly, albeit with obviously deliberate intent. When he stopped in front of me, he was close enough that I could see the faint shadow of stubble across his jaw.
“Most men,” I commented quietly, “would already have made their move by now.”
His smile was the kind that could ruin people. “Most men mistake movement for power.”
“And you don’t?”
“I know power doesn’t chase. It waits.”
“Confident. Maybe even cocky,” I murmured.
“Russian,” he corrected with a smirk, that faint trace of accent curling through the word.
The sound of it slid down my spine. “So that’s your secret,” I smiled. “You hide behind mystery and vodka.”
“Sometimes truth works better. No need to hide at all, then.” He tilted his head. “Would you like to see the terrace?”
“I think you just want to show off a little.”
That earned me another faint smile. He gestured toward a set of sliding glass doors. We stepped out onto the terrace, the city stretching out in every direction, the Burj Khalifa piercing the sky to the east, the water shimmering to the west. The lights looked like spilled diamonds, rubies, and sapphires scattered across the surface of the sea.
Roman stood beside me, hands in his pockets, watching the view. “Do you ever get tired of pretending?” he asked suddenly.
The question caught me off guard. “Pretending what?”
“That you don’t already know what you want.”
I turned my head toward him. “You think you do?”
His gaze met mine, steady and calm. “I think you’re not here for scotch or conversation.”
I let a smile edge at the corners of my lips, sharp enough to cut. “Maybe I’m here to see if the rumors are true.”
“What rumors?”
“That Roman Markov can make anyone forget who they are for a night.”
He chuckled, the sound low in his throat. “That’s flattering. Maybe a bit daring, too.”
“I like daring,” I said with a wink.
“I know.” He took a step closer, so close that his shadow merged with mine on the terrace floor. His voice softened. “You don’t strike me as someone who lets go easily, Kara.”
“Maybe I haven’t met anyone worth letting go for.”
His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch was almost reverent, but his eyes held that same quiet challenge. I could feel my pulse hammering beneath my skin, the line between control and surrender blurring fast.
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “You shouldn’t play with fire if you’re afraid of the burn.”
I turned my head slightly, just enough to whisper back, “Who says I’m afraid?”
His smile was slow, dark, and utterly devastating. “I didn’t think so.”
The city glittered around us while I finished my drink, feeling the heat of it bloom low in my stomach. Roman’s eyes lingered on my mouth, his voice barely a murmur when he spoke again.
“Stay awhile,” he said. “You’re not someone who runs, are you?”
“I’m not.”
I walked past him back inside, the echo of my heels trailing through the penthouse.
Then I offered him my glass, meeting his eyes. “One more drink,” I said. “Then I go.”
He nodded, that faint knowing smile still on his lips. “Of course.”
We both knew I was lying.
[divider]Chapter Two
Kara
I told myself I was staying for the view.
That was the lie I picked first. It was clean, elegant, and easy to swallow, the kind of lie ARCHEON would approve of. It kept the mission at the forefront of my mind and my pulse under control, but it was hard to think about anything else with Roman Markov standing half a room away, loosening his collar and rolling up his sleeves, never taking his eyes off me.
Because fuck me.
He crossed to a small console table and pressed his finger to the touch screen built into the glass. A low hum filled the space, followed by the quiet crackle of vinyl. Then jazz music.
Ella Fitzgerald, if I wasn’t mistaken.
He poured another two fingers of scotch into my glass and handed it back to me. “You’re quiet now,” he said.
“Just observing you.”
“And what do you see?”
I took the glass, letting my fingers graze his and my eyes meet his. “A man who likes control just as much as I do,” I answered.
He smiled, but it wasn’t the smooth one from before. It was darker and my heart skipped a beat in my chest. “You’re not wrong.”
He moved closer, close enough that the faint heat of his body brushed my skin through the thin lace of my dress.
I didn’t step back.
“Control is overrated sometimes,” I said, my voice lower than I meant it to be.
“Only if you’re afraid of losing it,” he countered.
I laughed softly, because that was exactly the sort of thing men like him said when they thought they were winning. “And are you afraid?” I asked.
He set his glass down, eyes never leaving mine. “No. I’m curious.”
His hand came up, fingertips grazing my upper arm, light as static. He didn’t push. Just tested the space between us, waiting for me to flinch.
I didn’t.
He took that as permission.
His hand slid smoothly around my waist, the cautious drag of skin against lace. My breath caught despite myself. He was careful. The way he touched me wasn’t just lust, it was simply that he was in command of the situation: practiced, confident, and patient.
I swallowed heavily and lifted my chin.
He pulled me closer until my glass brushed his chest. I could feel his chest rising and falling through the crisp white of his shirt, steady and unhurried. His palm rested on the small of my back, low enough to make my skin prickle, high enough to pretend it was innocent. A masterclass in seductive suggestion.
“This doesn’t seem very complicated,” I murmured, trying to sound amused even as the room tilted slightly around him.
He smiled, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You think I’m simple?”
“I think you want to be seen that way.”
“Maybe I want to see what happens when you stop pretending that you’re the one in control.”
My pulse stuttered. For a man who’d spent the entire night indulging my wit, he was suddenly the one setting the rules.
“That’s quite an assumption,” I retorted, stepping back just enough to force him to move with me or lose contact. He followed.
Of course he did.
He traced a line down my spine with his fingertip. It wasn’t overtly sexual. It was worse. It was curious. Like he was testing a theory he already knew the answer to.
“You’re trembling,” he spoke softly.
I gulped, the sound too loud in the room. “I’m not.”
He tilted his head, blue eyes catching the dim light. “Then why are you holding your breath?”
I hadn’t realized I was. I quickly exhaled through my nose. “Occupational hazard,” I said, forcing a smile.
“Of what?”
I hesitated, hating how my body betrayed me, my heart beating too fast, mouth too dry. The part of me that belonged to ARCHEON screamed for distance. This was fieldwork. Data collection. He was just an assignment, not a man I could have any aspirations with.
But Roman looked at me like he already knew I was lying.
I set my drink down beside his, the ice clinking softly against crystal. “Of getting too close,” I said finally.
“And yet, here you are.”
He brushed a thumb under my chin, lifting my gaze until the rest of the room disappeared. He didn’t kiss me yet. He just stood there, the weight of his stare heavy enough to make me forget what I was supposed to say next.
I told myself it was all part of the game. That I was only letting him pull me closer because proximity made people talk.
Because ARCHEON wanted results.
That was the truth. This mission demanded intimacy. Everything else—the way my stomach flipped when his breath brushed my skin, the way his accent curled around my name—was all just noise.
And I was very, very good at ignoring noise.
Or, at least, I was before him.
He leaned closer, his mouth a whisper from mine. “Still think I’m pretending?”
“I think we both are,” I replied, my voice coming out quieter than I intended.
His smile deepened, his thumb tracing the edge of my lower lip. “Maybe. But one of us is better at it.”
“Then I guess we’ll find out who.”
“Indeed,” he murmured.
Still no kiss. Instead, he reached behind me and switched the lights to low, until the room was nothing but the shimmer of the city bleeding through glass and the hush of that old jazz song looping quietly through the room with us.
“This is the part,” he said, his voice rougher now, “where you decide how much truth you can handle.”
I smiled the kind of smile that hid more than it revealed. “You should know that I don’t scare easily.”
“Good.”
He held out his hand again. “Then dance with me, Kara-with-a-K.”
And I did.
Not because I wanted to.
Not because of the soft way his thumb stroked the small of my back or how the rhythm of the song matched the beat of my heart.
Not because my body was already betraying me in a dozen small ways.
I did it because it was part of the job.
Because ARCHEON needed me to get close.
Because sometimes, the only way to learn a man’s secrets was to let him believe he’d already learned yours.
“Relax,” he dictated, his voice soft enough that it felt like it wanted to make a home inside my skin.
“I am relaxed.”
He smiled against my temple. “No, you’re waiting to run.”
I forced a laugh that sounded too light. “You think too much.”
“It’s my occupational hazard,” he returned. “I learned to read people long before I learned to trust them.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“Efficient,” he corrected. Then quieter, “You understand efficiency, don’t you?”
My throat tightened. He didn’t know how close he was.
I dropped my gaze to the open collar of his shirt, to the smooth column of his throat. A pulse beat there, slow and strong. My fingers twitched with the urge to trace it, to see if his heartbeat would quicken the way mine had.
Don’t.
Don’t blur the line, Kara.
ARCHEON’s voice whispered like static in the back of my mind, all clipped consonants and discipline. Never let emotional entanglement compromise operational integrity. It was practically tattooed behind my eyelids.
Roman’s thumb drew small circles against my spine, each one erasing another inch of training.
“You’re somewhere else,” he said quietly.
“Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how you like to win.”
He chuckled softly. “And you don’t?”
“I prefer knowing the odds.”
“Then what are they tonight?”
“Terrible.” I grinned up at him.
He laughed, a genuine sound that vibrated through my ribs. “At least you’re honest.”
The silence stretched between us, taut as wire. Outside, lightning flared faintly over the gulf, and for a moment the reflection of it lit the room, the two of us caught mid-motion, bodies too close, eyes locked together.
His fingers brushed my jaw, coaxing my face upward until I had no choice but to meet his eyes. The city’s light fractured there, twin shards of blue and silver. He looked at me like he could see through every lie I’d ever told and a flare of electricity spun right through me.
“What is it you want from me, Kara?”
The question hit like a blade. It wasn’t what he said, it was how. Quiet. Certain. As if he already suspected there was more beneath the surface.
“Does it matter?” I demurred.
“It does if it’s real.”
“Maybe nothing about me is.”
He smiled faintly. “Then I’ll enjoy finding out what is and what isn’t.”
His mouth brushed my cheek, not a kiss, just a test, a feather-light promise of one. My skin burned anyway. The breath caught in my throat wasn’t part of the act; it was self-betrayal, pure and simple. My hand found his shoulder for balance, and he took that as invitation, sliding his palm from my back to the curve of my hip. The movement was slow enough to give me time to stop him if I wanted to.
I didn’t.
Control slipped through my fingers like water.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was meant to steer him, guide the conversation, keep him curious enough to talk. Instead, I was caught between the press of his hand and the seductive rhythm of his breath.
He leaned in, lips near my ear. “You’re shaking again.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
“No,” he retorted. “You’re lying.”
The words ghosted over my skin, and a part of me cracked open—a quiet, electric thing. He wasn’t wrong, and that made it worse.
I closed my eyes for a heartbeat too long. When I opened them, the room seemed smaller, the city farther away. He looked down at me like he’d already figured out which of us had just lost the game.
“Still think this is just a dance?” he asked.
“It is only a dance,” I lied.
“Then why are you holding on so tight?”
I glanced at my hands. They were fisted in the fabric of his shirt. I released him quickly, stepping back, but he followed, erasing the space again. I hit the edge of the piano, the cool lacquer pressing against my backside. His hand lifted, palm open, not touching—just waiting.
He was giving me a choice.
That was the most dangerous thing of all.
I should have walked away. I should have remembered why I was here, who had sent me, what depended on this. Instead, I tilted my chin, a challenge disguised as permission.
Roman’s smile was gradual and confident. He moved closer until his breath mingled with my own. His hand rose to the side of my neck, thumb brushing the frantic beat there. He didn’t kiss me. He just looked at me, and somehow that was worse.
Because in that knowing gaze, I saw every rule I was about to break.
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