I’m not.
Because this stranger with the icy eyes just tilted his head—slightly, curiously—like I’ve caught his attention too. And something tells me that is far more dangerous than anything Monaco has to offer.
I tear my gaze away, pulse thundering in my throat, and turn back to Jerry.
“Pardon me,” I say gently. “Can you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” he says so politely.
I give him a practiced smile, then turn—away from him, away from the stranger, away from the intensity of that stare that still burns against the back of my neck.
My heels click softly against the marble as I move toward the exit. Down the short flight of stairs. Away from the crowd and its watching eyes.
The moment I’m outside, I inhale sharply.
Gosh.
I’ve never met a man who owned me like that—not with words, not with touch, just…a look.
A single, devastating stare that felt like it stripped me bare.
It stole my breath, my composure, the careful mask I always wear. I press a hand to my chest for a second, steadying myself, then walk toward the stables.
It’s quiet here.
The purebreds are already being showcased elsewhere, so these corridors are blessedly empty—no photographers, no staff, no predators disguised as gentlemen.
Just the scent of hay, leather, and calm.
I let out a slow breath as I approach the stable corridor. My hand lifts to touch the wooden frame, craving the grounding comfort of silence.
But just as I’m about to step inside, my skin prickles.
A presence shifts behind me. Not a sound, not a word—just the unmistakable awareness of someone entering my space.
My breath catches.
Before I can turn, a low voice murmurs behind me, “You look like you were made for trouble.”
The voice is deep, accented, threaded with amusement.
Russian. Smooth and lethal all at once.
I turn with a gasp, just as a body presses into mine, pinning me against the stable wall with effortless strength.
The impact steals my breath—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous. His cologne hits me next: dark,expensive, a blend of smoke and chilled spice that coils around my senses until I’m dizzy.
It’s the stranger from earlier.
Up close, he’s devastating.
Sharp jaw, a faint shadow of stubble, hair a shade of gold that catches the dim light like fire. And those eyes—God. Cold, icy gray.
And right now they glitter with wicked amusement, like he’s laughing at a joke only he knows.
Heat surges through me.
Actual heat—low, consuming, unfamiliar.
