It’s just a man with fair skin and disheveled brown hair.
He wears a loose jacket, shirt, pants, and gloves, all in the blackest shade I’ve ever seen on a person. The layers blur together, leaving only the sharp, unyielding lines of his face and the most intriguing eyes I’ve ever seen.
Chips of pale crystalline blue, so washed-out they’re almost silver, fix on me from across the room.
Like moonstones. New beginnings. Third eye and heart chakras. They draw me in and infuse me with a strange mix of cold-heat. A shiver winds down my spine.
He gives off an undeniable force. Not gentle or cleansing like the soft, radiant hum I chat about to strangers online. No, this is akin to standing too close to a lightning rod. Every hair on my arms prickles with the danger that crackles through the air. This kind of raw voltage could fry a circuit or a heart.
I know this should throw me into a panic. That I should run.
And Iamfreaking out. My pulse thrums in my muscles, begging me to move, scream, flee. Anything rational.
But beneath the terror lies a strange, impossible flicker of familiarity. I’ve never laid eyes on this man, not once. He’s unforgettable and built like a barbarian fighter king. Yet some stubborn, buried part of me insists I know him.
As if my soul recognizes the shape of his.
Namaste.
I force a tight, brittle smile for the sake of the camera. No matter what, I can’t disrupt my only source of income. “Oh, hang on a second.” I act like I’m fielding a spam call rather than dealing with a stranger who just materialized, silent and undeniable, in the heart of my apartment.
He glides into my tiny studio, his steps thunderous on my old wooden floor. He positions himself strategically to the side of my laptop, deliberately staying out of the camera’s frame. Each calculated movement contains a fluid, predatory grace, like a shadow slipping through a crack in the light.
His energy fills the room, pushing against my skin like a physical force.
My hands twitch. I can’t tell, though, if I’m itching to push the energy he radiates away or pull it closer, and that terrifies me even more than his unexpected presence.
When his jacket shifts, the salt lamps’ light glints off the metal at his waist.
A gun.
My throat closes.
And I suppress a laugh.
Boy, did you pick the wrong house to rob. Nothing in here’s worth more than ten bucks at a pawnshop.
He reaches out with a gloved hand, his movements deliberate and almost gentle.
I’m transfixed, rooted to the floor while begging my lungs to function. This feels like a major shift.
For the better?
Common sense tells me my live stream’s about to end whether I’m ready or not, so I smile into the camera one more time. “Well, thank you for being here today, everyone. Have an abundant, prosperous day.”
His fingers touch my laptop, and he shuts the lid with a soft click. A beat later, the USB-powered ring light flickers and dies, plunging the dim room into almost total darkness.
Only he and the salt lamps remain.
I should run. Scream. Grab my phone and call for help.
Instead, I freeze, trapped in his gaze like a mouse before a snake.
Chapter 2
Kirill
Towering over the journalist’s daughter, I survey the room. If you could even call this a room. More like a closet with delusions of grandeur.
