That’s how I work.
The crew files behind me, their chatter a blur of excitement as the crisp air bites against their cheeks. Milan, to them, is a surprise layover, a gift dropped into their laps. To me, it’s a stage I’ve set, carefully arranged, and every piece is moving exactly where I want it.
I glance at Sasha.
She’s trying to pretend she isn’t impressed.
The others gawk at the town cars, but she keeps her eyes forward, her smile polite, her stride brisk. She thinks distance will keep me from noticing her, from wanting her. She’s wrong. The more she resists, the more the fire builds in me.
She doesn’t realize yet—she’s not walking away.
Not today. Not until I’m done.
As her fellow attendants try to engage her in a chat, I don’t look away from her.
I let myself drink her in, every detail burning sharp into my mind like I’ll starve if I blink.
That uniform wasn’t made to seduce, but on her it becomes a weapon. The neat press of the fabric against her curves, the modest cut that only makes me imagine what it hides. Her hair, swept up in perfect order, like she’s dared the world not to touch her. Her mouth—the polished, professional smile that isn’t for me, but I want it anyway.
Christ.
I’ve had women. More than I can count, more than I care to remember. And not one of them has ever made me feel this—this sharp, dragging thirst that claws at the back of my throat. She’s not even trying, yet I feel desperate, like I’d tear the city apart with my bare hands just to see her let go of that rigid control for a second.
It’s not just beauty. Plenty of women are beautiful. But Sasha…she’s untouchable. At least she wants me to believe that. And that makes me ache in ways I haven’t felt in years.
Every flick of her lashes, every little movement, she doesn’t know it—but she’s unraveling me.
But her control isn’t perfect.
Because I catch it—the quick flick of her eyes toward me. The way her gaze lingers a second too long before she jerks it away, pretending she never looked.
It makes me smile.
She thinks I don’t notice. She thinks she’s immune. But I know attraction when I see it, especially the kind a woman fights to the death. She’s charmed. And she hates herself for it.
The crew gathers around me as they reach the cars. Smiles, chatter, gratitude—half of them can barely disguise the glimmer in their eyes. Some of the women let their gazes linger a little too long, lips curving with suggestion. I’ve seen it all before. Normally, I’d let one of them hang on my arm, entertain myself for the afternoon.
But no.
“Thank you, Mr. Rusnak,” one of them gushes, practically batting her lashes.
“It’s no bother,” I say smoothly, my eyes already sliding past her, searching.
And there she is.
Sasha.
She’s not smiling like the others. Her arms fold lightly across her chest, chin tilted, mouth set in something between defiance and disbelief. When she speaks, it’s cool, clipped.
“You’re doing all of this for no reason.”
I lean in, close enough that my voice belongs only to her. I want her to feel the weight of it, want her pulse to trip the way mine does just looking at her.
“Don’t worry,” I murmur, my lips curving into a smile meant only for her. “You’ll like it.”
I pull back before she can fire back some sharp retort. No need to push—not yet. Timing is everything.
“Get into the cars,” I say, voice firm enough that they move without question. The drivers step forward, ushering the crew toward the sleek town cars waiting at the curb.
