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It freezes me.
And it was only under those circumstances that I allowed myself to be dragged to New Orleans.
Retsos. That fool. He couldn’t even keep a single man from stealing me away, right from under his nose.
… Or maybe Leonid is just that impressive, limp or not.
Mindlessly slipping his shirt back on, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare ahead, directly at the blinking camera. By now, it’s become part of the décor. I hardly even notice it most of the time.
But as my stomach rumbles with hunger, all I can do is look into the black lens and think one thing.
Where are you, Leonid?
It’s not that I’m worried about him. Clearly, the man can take care of himself.
No. I’m worried about me.
Because I’m locked in a room full of books—a situation that would have seemed like a dream to me just two days ago—and the last thing I want to do is read.
The earthy scent on Leonid’s shirt now feels like a pale imitation of the real thing. The stories of knights in shining armor and charming princes with golden hair and deep blue eyes seem almost… childish.
They fade out to black. Lonely darkness. Cold emptiness.
There is an army of men out there killing for me. But I can only focus on the one who might just kill me.
And it’s not because I’m afraid of him.
Well, I am. I’m not dumb enough not to be afraid.
But what scares me more than his savagery, or his muscles, is just how much I fucking crave them.
Leonid is no prince charming. This is no fairy tale. When the stories in my books fade to black, our story begins.
Together, we are beastly and naughty and filled with conflict and scorching angst.
And I’ve never been more addicted to anything in my entire life.
* * *
I fucking hate this.
Turning another page, I desperately try to focus on the words. But it’s no use. My attention has been stolen. By dreams have been stolen. My mind has been stolen.
Leonid Barinov is all I can think about.
The books might as well be useless.
With a frustrated cry, I toss the hardcover to the floor and glare towards the camera.
“Is this on purpose?” I ask. “Are you torturing me?”
The camera doesn’t answer. It just keeps blinking. Hell, I don’t even think anyone is watching. The lens just feels… empty.
Alone.
Why is this happening?
My stomach twists in knots, a combination of nerves and hunger.
