I roll my eyes at my own vanity.
Yeah, because impressing your kidnapper with your morning glow is totally the goal here. Idiot.
“Looks like you’ve had a good night’s sleep,” a deep voice rumbles.
As my vision clears, I see him, and my heart does a traitorous little flip.
Son of the bitch.
He’s standing there in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, and tailored pants that hug his legs in ways that should be illegal. He looks like he’s about to walk into a high-stakes poker game or maybe assassinate a rival mob boss.
Either way, it’s annoyingly attractive.
Who gave him the right to look this good at whatever ungodly hour it is?I think, irritation and something else I refuse to name bubbling in my chest.
It should be illegal to be that put-together after kidnapping someone.
I clear my throat, trying to match his cool. “Well, considering I wasn’t in a shallow grave, I’d say my standards are fairly low right now.”
He chuckles, stepping closer, a plate in one hand. “Bread and butter for breakfast,” he announces as if he’s offering me a peace treaty. And damn, it smells like heaven.
“How domestic of you,” I retort, but my stomach betrays me with a pathetic growl. “Planning to butter me up before the interrogation?”
“Do you need buttering up?” he shoots back, amusement flickering in his eyes.
“Not particularly,” I snap, but then my gaze drops to the bread. “But I’ll take the bread.”
He places it on the nightstand, just out of reach, the tease. “First, tell me who you are.”
I stiffen. This is the part I dread—not because I’m scared to tell him, but because I’m terrified that he’ll figure out everything. Like the fact that I’m his baby’s mother. I laugh internally at the absurdity.
Clara Caldwell, you’re not in a soap opera.
But it sure feels like one.
“Who I am?” I feign confusion, batting my eyelashes. “I’m the Devil’s favorite demon, come to drag you to hell. Ready for the ride?”
“Very funny,” Leonid deadpans, sitting down at the edge of the bed, disturbingly close.
“You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?”
“I prefer ‘complex individual,’” I correct him, crossing my arms and trying not to notice how good he smells. Like soap and something ruggedly outdoorsy. A wave of unbidden thoughts crashes over me—memories of how those arms felt, the heat of his body.
Damn it, Clara, focus.
“So, what’s the plan here?” I ask, aiming for casual.
He’s silent, his gaze crawling over me like I’m on display.
“Eyes up, jerk,” I grumble, tossing him a glare. “You gonna kill me or just keep staring?”
He quirks an eyebrow, and suddenly, it’s like I’m looking at Elijah, all wide-eyed over a new Pokémon. Except, this is no game—I’m not a Pokémon, and he’s definitely not Elijah.
Leonid leans in, and his weight shifts on the mattress beneath him. The motion drags me a notch toward him like we’re connected by this stupid wave of movement.
“Do you want me to kill you?”
I snort. “Do you always offer death with breakfast?”
