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"Um, I used to have it often, but I've been so busy with everything that I haven't had any in a while."
"Good. Then you can enjoy this one." He sounds pleased.
I watch in silence as he works, filling the little teapot with water and placing it on the burner, which he ignites with a quick twist of his wrist. It's all very methodical, and he works with a kind of silent focus that's mesmerizing. I try to imagine him doing something like this as a job, and the idea is amusing.
"What are you thinking about?" His voice makes me jump.
"You," I blurt, then immediately feel like an idiot. "I mean, I was just wondering what you do for work."
“I don’t work much anymore,” he says simply and offers no more information.
The pot starts to whistle, and he turns, snatching it from the stove and pouring it into a small ceramic mug. He sets it in front of me and places two things next to the cup—a tiny glass jar full of honey and a small spoon. "This will help."
I frown, reaching for the mug. The scent is floral, and the warmth seeping through the mug is nice. "What is it?"
"Chamomile. With honey."
After stirring some golden honey in, I raise the cup to my lips, inhaling before taking a tentative sip. The taste is sweet and delicate. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He stands there, watching me, and his intense stare makes me fidget.
This entire situation is so bizarre that it’s impossible for me to go with the flow anymore. "What's your name?"
"I'm not important. You are."
That doesn't answer my question, and the frustration building since this morning surges up, and I set the mug down with a clatter.
"Who are you? Why have you been following me, and why were you in that alley when Andrew grabbed me?"
He shakes his dark head. "Drink, angel."
Oh my God, is this guy serious? "What? No!"
When he speaks again, his voice is so rough that I can almost feel it running across my nerves. "Alina..."
My name on his lips sends a rush of heat through my core, and I tighten my thighs against the pulse of arousal blooming there. It's ridiculous, but somehow hearing him say it like that—so deeply, so possessively—is insanely sexy.
"Please," I whisper, "Just tell me what's going on."
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and for a second, I wonder what it would be like to do that for him. The dark locks look soft, and I'm overcome by a powerful urge to reach out and touch him.
"What's going on? Well, that's complicated."
"Complicated?" I repeat.
"Yes. Complicated. You see, I'm a very private man. But I've been watching you, and I can't seem to stop."
"Watching me?" My eyebrows fly up.
He leans forward, and his proximity, along with the intensity of his gaze, has my heart picking up its pace. "Yes. Watching you. And when I saw him touching you, I nearly lost it, Alina. It took everything inside of me not to kill him."
"So you, what, decided to beat him up instead?"
He huffs a laugh. "He's alive. Isn't that good enough?"
"Is it?" I ask, and his expression changes.
"You're angry with me," he murmurs, looking confused. "Why?"
