The whispers at the compound—Runes’ daughter, the one who thinks she's too good for the club, running off to play fashion designer.
So I soften. I adjust. I make myself palatable.
But tomorrow, Greer wants the unsoftened version. The real one.
The thought is terrifying and exhilarating.
And—
I stop walking.
Someone is watching me.
I feel it before I see him—that prickle at the back of my neck, the animal awareness of being observed.
My father's daughter.
A lifetime of growing up surrounded by men who notice everything has given me instincts I can't quite explain.
I turn slowly, scanning the shadows.
He's standing near the corner of the stable, half-hidden in the darkness where the light from the windows doesn't quite reach.
Tall. Broad shoulders.
A stillness that feels deliberate, like a predator who doesn't need to move because he knowsexactlywhere his prey will go.
My breath catches.
I can't see his face clearly—just the suggestion of sharp features, dark hair, the glint of eyes that are definitely, absolutely fixed on me.
I should be scared.
Some strange man lurking in the shadows of an estate that's crawling with mafia security?
Every survival instinct I have should be screaming at me to run.
Instead, I take a step closer.
"You know," I call out, my voice steadier than I feel, "most people say hello when they're staring at someone."
He doesn't move, doesn't even respond.
The silence stretches and my heart hammers against my ribs.
Then he steps forward, out of the shadows, and?—
Oh.
The stable light catches his face, and I forget how to breathe.
He's beautiful.
Not pretty, not handsome—beautifulin the way a blade is beautiful.
All sharp angles and carved cheekbones and a mouth that looks like it was designed for sin.
Dark hair, a little too long, falling across his forehead.
