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“Ooo, let’s watch that,” she said excitedly.
“I haven’t seen the first season.”
“What?” She sat up straighter. “How can you not have seen this yet?”
I remembered that she loved reading fantasy novels. Of course, this would be her thing.
“I prefer documentaries.” I shoveled some rice and chicken into my mouth, grunting at how good it was.
“Serial killer and murder documentaries, sure. But none of that can compare toThe Witcher.”
“You watch murder documentaries?”
“Yes…and?” She sipped her tea, eyeing me.
“Doesn’t seem like something you’d like.”
She arched a dark blond brow and set her glass down. “There are lots of things you don’t know about me, sir.” Her voice had fallen into a silky register that made my dick twitch. Especially when she called mesir. “I have layers.”
Tamping down the primitive thoughts I was having, I asked, “What’s so intriguing aboutThe Witcher?”
“The books are better than the show, but I love both.” Her mouth quirked into a smile, and her expression turned thoughtful. “First off, the writing is brilliant. And the monsters the author creates are unique, even compared to so many other fantasy books I’ve read.”
“Why do you like fantasy books so much?” I asked, finishing off my plate.
She swallowed a bite, brows scrunching up. “I think it’s the pure escape into another world that feels so real. Where there are villains and heroes and impossible magic. But really, I love the unique and magical worlds, and just being a part of it for a while.”
“So you read to escape?”
“Not completely.”
“But partly.”
“Yes.” Her brown eyes were dark and impenetrable in the dim light.
“What do you need to escape from?” Concern pinched my chest. “Is something wrong?”
Her pensive look lightened suddenly with a laugh, a sound that rippled straight to my heart. “Nothing’s wrong,” she assured me. “I have a good family and a good life. I have nothing to complain about.” Her gaze dropped.
“But?”
Her eyes lifted. “I always feel this pressure.” She placed a hand over her sternum, her plate still in her lap. “It’s not necessarily my parents. Or my brothers. But sometimes, it is. I feel this need to bemoreor to be perfect or to be whatever it is they think I’m supposed to be.”
You are perfectnearly fell from my lips. I bit back those words but couldn’t let it rest at that. “Anna, your family only pushes you because they love you.”
“I know that.” She let out a sigh. “I know that. But it doesn’t make the pressure any less. Or the feelings of…inadequacy go away.”
“Inadequacy?” My shock was evident in my voice.
Her gaze found mine again, expression wondering.
“There are so many words to describe you, Anna, but inadequate is not one of them.”
She now held her plate by the sides, perched on her lap, her dinner forgotten. “What words would you use to describe me?”
Dangerous. So dangerous.
Still, I told her. “Courageous. Talented. Intelligent.”
