Callan glanced at the door of the trunk right before the bodyguard slammed it shut.
Then his eyes returned to me. “Actually, it depends on my schedule.” Something warm flickered in his eyes, a barely-there softness that made my stomach twist. “I could be done in a month.”
“Wait what?” I blurted. “That’s crazy. We got over two hundred copies of books.”
Two hundred copies of books, minus the series, was a lot to cover in one month. Was he reading them or just scanning?
“Well,” he sighed, pocketing his hands. “I read really fast.”
How fast? I read about fifty books per year. On a good year, seventy-five. And I wasn’t even a busy heir of billions of dollars of a centuries old empire.
“Thank you,” he suddenly murmured, low and quiet.
“For what?” I asked, patting the pocket of my blazer as my phone vibrated with a message.
Must be my own bodyguard, Kenzo. He was really not in support of this little meeting with Callan. But that was the thing about Kenzo Takahashi. He was always suspicious of everyone, anyway. He said he was going to start blasting up my phone if I stayed more than two hours. In his words, Callan Raskov was a kidnapper.
“Thank you for helping me get some books.” A warm look rested in the depth of his eyes. He was bad at words. Lucky for him, I was nearly good at reading eyes…or so I loved to tell myself.
My fingers itched to lift and brush away the strands of white hair the wind had combed against his face.
“Anything for a friend.” I blurted. I didn’t mean to say friend. It just fucking came out.
The word felt like needles pressing into my tongue. Surely you wouldn’t think about kissing your friend. And when he subconsciously bit his lower lip earlier today, I had wanted to know what it felt like to be touched by those lips.
You shouldn’t burn for their touch, and when he held books with such care, I had wanted those hands to hold me.
Your heart must definitely not race at the thought of having a relationship with them, and right now, my heart was hammering against my chest just thinking about the possibility.
This had to be the fastest way I had ever developed a crush on any man. Even Rowan was fast but not this fast. Calling Callan Raskov a friend felt…painful, wrong.
“Should we go grab the coffee now?” I asked, shifting on my heels as the awkward air pressed into my skin. I seemed to be the only one reacting to my choice of word. He didn’t seem bothered, disappointed that I called him a friend when he literally just confessed to me… in his own cute and awkward way.
To my question though, he glanced at the café across the street. That wasn’t the one I had in mind. It was far from here. It would involve another ride through Braemont with him.
“Where’s the place–” He was saying until a low, guttural sound ripped from his lips, part growl, part agonizing howl. His hands flew to cradle his head as if something inside there was tearing him apart.
He staggered, his body buckling.
My pulse spiked, everything happening in a blur of motion; the soldier by the trunk pushing past me to steady him, the one by the wheel leaping out to hold him.
In his soldiers steady arms, Callan groaned, veins straining against his neck and temple. And his breaths were sharp and ragged.
My heart pounded, my legs shaking.
What was happening?
“No,” he whispered, barely audible, his voice thick with pain. “Not now.”
He sounded broken, desperate.
The soldiers began to usher him to the car, one of them bumping into me, who had barely lifted a foot.
“Stop,” Callan commanded, his voice trembling as he braced his hands against the door like a wild animal resisting a cage.
“I need to speak to her,” he said, his body trembling.
“Marshal–”
