Impossible.
Yet here she is.
She’s small but with curves that could make a priest question his calling. Dark, wet hair tumbles past her shoulders, clinging to what appears to be an equally soaked white blouse. Her boots are leaving muddy prints on my mahogany floor, and she’s clutching an oversized bag like it’s a lifeline.
And then she sees it—my portrait.
Her lips part, and her cheeks flush so deeply it looks like she’s burning from the inside out. For a moment, I think she might combust right there in front of me. But it’s her face that holds me transfixed—those flushed cheeks framed by rain-dampened strands of hair, wide ocean-blue eyes that seem to shift withevery flicker of light and lips that move incessantly as she… talks to my portrait?
I lean forward on the chaise, previous rage forgotten, as I watch her gesture animatedly at the painting. Her face grows redder by the second as she stares at it—atme.
Fuck me, she’shot—not pretty, not beautiful, not any of that bullshit. She’s got this raw, primal beauty that hits you like a goddamn freight train.
The audacity. The sheer, unfiltered audacity.
My sanctuary, my private space—the one place on this cursed property where no one dares intrude—and this woman just strolls in, dripping water onto my floors like some kind of bedraggled woodland nymph.
I don’t move from my seat, not yet.
I can see her, but she can’t see me.My pulse beats slow and steady, honed from years of control, but my mind is already cycling through possibilities.
Assassin? Highly unlikely. Unless the Bratva has recently adopted a new strategy involving soaking wet women armed with oversized bags.
A prank? Also doubtful. No one in my employ would dare. That leaves… What? A stray? A lunatic?
I should call security. I should already have a dozen armed men in here. Instead, I’m stuck, my eyes following the water dripping down her neck, disappearing under the edge of a black bra that’s doing a damn good job of highlighting just how perfect her breasts are. Her rain-soaked shirt clings to her body, turning sheer enough to show every curve. The lace of her bra peeks through, like some twisted joke I can’t look away from. I should be interrogating her, throwing her out—anything but sitting here, frozen, like an idiot in my own house.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters at the painting, waving her hand as though shooing it away. “You’re a painting. You have no right to judge me.”
I lean forward, unable to stop the grin tugging at my mouth.
Is she actually talking to the damn thing?
Her hand twitches at her side, and she narrows her eyes at the canvas. “Why do you look like you’re plotting world domination but could also recite poetry to seduce someone while doing it? That’s not fair. Pick a lane.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. She’s flirting. Withme.Or at least, the version of me on the canvas.
I cock my head to the side, the thought flickering through my mind:Did she escape from a mental hospital?
She’s pacing now, muttering to herself, her cheeks flushed a deep pink that spreads down her neck. I can’t catch every word, but snippets reach me—something about my portrait, bad decisions, and… asex toy?
Her eyes dart to the bag that she tosses onto the armchair, and I can’t help but follow, catching the brief flash of frustration as she slaps her own cheek.
A sex toy?The corner of my mouth twitches, amusement flickering through me despite myself.Surely I misheard.
I take a sip of the cognac, the liquid warming a path down my throat as my grip tightens around the glass. It steadies me, but not enough to quell the strange pull she stirs.
Today has taken a turn I didn’t see coming. Absurd? Absolutely. Fascinating? For sure.
She freezes suddenly, her attention caught by the mirror beside my portrait. For a moment, she just stands there, staring at her reflection, and I’m struck by how still the room feels, the air heavier somehow.
Her lips part slightly, and her expression softens, uncertain. Vulnerable.
And then her eyes meet mine.
Except she doesn’t know it.
Through the one-way glass, her gaze locks onto my hidden vantage point, and for a second, I forget to breathe. My chest tightens, and my fingers flex against the glass of cognac as though holding on will keep me grounded.
