Page 4 of Dark Desires
A pause.
His gaze darkens, dragging heat across my skin.
Slow. Undressing. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with hands.
“Should I be freaked out that a stranger had his eyes on me all this time?” My voice trembles, but it’s mine.
Barely.
His laugh is dark velvet, the kind you feel in your spine.
“This stranger kept you alive.”
Hard to argue.
I glance at the bodies. The blood. The silence they left behind.
My knees threaten to give. I lean into him.
His hand finds my waist—firm, grounding.
Possessive in a way that should scare me. Maybe it does.
I’ve grown up with shadows.
But this one? He’s darker. Sharper.
Beautiful in a way that promises ruin and delivers it in moans.
“Come, devotchka,” he says, the Russian curling around the word like smoke.
Devotchka. I know that one. Girl. The syllable lands like a brand and something in me answers to it whether I like it or not.
We step out of the alley.
His car waits—sleek, predatory, a forest-green beast made to outrun sin.
Made to hold secrets.
He opens the door for me like a gentleman.
Like a threat dressed in manners.
Every bone in my body knows better. I’ve had killers open doors for me before—but never like this. Never with a touch that doesn’t ask, doesn’t force. Just waits.
I hesitate.
Then I slide in, and the leather greets me like sin.
His scent is already there—clean, dark, expensive.
The kind of cologne you’d find on a lover who ruins you in a hotel room and leaves you wanting the ghost of him forever.
He gets in beside me.
No words. Just presence.
His thigh brushes mine.
