Yet here I was, a girl from the tiny part of Braemont that I could swear was not even on the map, standing next to the possible heir of that very empire.
Yes, Callan Raskov, the man I met at the book signing, was the only son of the late Eugene Raskov—co-founder of Lochborne Academy of Arts.
And I was not dreaming. Because the slice made by a glass shard on my palm earlier this morning, burned now that the painkillers I took had worn off.
“You’re staring.” His voice was rich, a tiny bit of Russian slipping out.
He had picked me right from the school’s parking lot, much to Kenzo’s disapproval. We drove around—more like the brooding soldier behind the wheel drove around for nearly 30 minutes, searching for the best bookshop, talking about anything we passed by.
Well I was the only one doing most of the talking. He either nodded to what was barely a question, ignored me completely, hummed underneath his breath, or just stared at me for five seconds—probably wondering what kind of a lunatic he had picked up—then returned his gaze to the window, staring at heaven knew what.
“Is there a problem?” He snapped the book he was holding shut, keeping it in one hand. Then he lifted his forefinger, nudging gently at the thin-framed glasses perched on the delicate slope of his dainty nose.
The answer to his question though, wasn’t forthcoming. It felt like my brain had jammed and my tongue was too heavy to make a speech. Heat crawled up my cheeks as he continued to stare, waiting for a reply.
“There must be a problem.” He chose to draw conclusions from my silence. I couldn’t believe he was finding it hard to tell why I was staring. When you stared at someone this way, flushed red, it usually meant you found them attractive, right? So why couldn’t he tell? Why did he look so curious?
“N-no. No problem.” I said something, but wasn’t exactly sure. Maybe I spoke French or the little German I knew? I was too dazed, charmed, overwhelmed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, the furrow in his brows deepening, and I found it really cute.
Then he tilted his head to the side, almost robotically. “You’re…” he trailed off, as if careful not to say the wrong thing. “…red, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth.
I told him my name was Beth. It was the name I told everyone since we arrived in Scotland. The name inked across all my legal documents. Mother chose it when she erased Juliette, my birth name. She didn’t even ask about my opinion, never cared if I liked the new name.Beth. I had always wondered if it came from Elizabeth or Annabeth. Or if it was simply…Beth. I disliked all possibilities.
Well, I thought I did until he called me Elizabeth. Until the name rolled off his tongue so carefully, like a secret, a quiet promise between him and I. And I fell in love.
“Are you okay?” he asked, genuinely concerned this time as I had zoned out again. Something raw and fervent roared beneath the depth of those amber hues.
Wait, he asked me a question right? I couldn’t remember if it needed an answer. I was lost in those eyes. A consuming fire that burnt even without a brush of his fingers, a sea of flame that was calling out to moths like me.
He wasn’t much of a talker, wasn’t good at emotions. I could tell from that very encounter at the book signing. But his eyeswere a traitor to his silence. Telling stories he wasn’t speaking of, a whole novel in a single glance. And each word was a cupid’s arrow aiming straight for this reckless, naïve heart of mine.
“Elizabeth.” I heard a snapping sound, like a jolt pulling me out of a daydream.
I had been staring, creeping the poor man out. But if he was disturbed, he didn’t show. He watched me still, curious…amazed, even, like I was a strange entity that crashed into the planet. And studying me was the most intriguing his moments had ever been.
He was looking at me like the way he had looked at every book he found interesting today.
He found me interesting.
That truth alone made my face burn more. He found me special.
How exactly did I get here? How did we even get here?
In what universe could I possibly be standing in the same room, exchanging oxygen like acquaintances do, with a man who exuded the type of elegance that only could have been believable if it was between the pages of a high fantasy or romance book?
“Are you sure you’re okay–”
“–Can I ask you a question, though?” I said, cutting him off.
“You’re already asking,” he noted, returning the book in his hand to the shelf.
“Oh…yeah,” I murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I refused to say anything after that.
“So…” he urged, crossing over to the opposite shelf as another book seemed to have caught his eye. He was so indecisive. Like a kid who couldn’t decide which stuffed animal to sleep with, afraid the one left behind would feel lonely. He was too cute, I wanted to squeeze him.
