Page 14 of Desperate Crimes

---

I frown and wait, see if she’ll stir some more before I press it to her sweet face.

Her eyelashes flutter again but she’s still out.

Good.

“No waking up yet, Princess. Soon,” I whisper, dropping the bag with the handkerchief.

When it’s tucked away, I can’t resist brushing my finger across her cheek.

I wonder if she’ll cry when she wakes.

I kind of hope she does.

Not because I want her hurt. But because I want her raw.

Open. Bleeding. Real.

The world’s never let her be real.

She was born into silk sheets and million-dollar smiles.

Taught to walk like a Volkov, talk like a Volkov, seduce like a Volkov.

I watched her master every move, every smirk, every fake giggle designed to kill a man.

But me? I see the cracks.

The loneliness in her eyes.

The hunger she never let show.

She tries to hide it behind smiles with the girls and casual flirtations with men who aren’t good enough to touch her.

Pretty boys. Safe boys. Soft.

But she doesn’t need safe.

She needs me.

And yeah, I waited. Watched. Endured.

Through the debutante years, the security details, the fucking trips to Vegas, Milan, London, and Paris.

I watched her grow.

Saw her bloom.

While I sharpened myself into the kind of monster who could hold her without flinching.

And now?

Now I’m done waiting.

She looked too fucking perfect tonight.

Too ripe.

Too tempting.

---