Page 19 of Desperate Crimes
She doesn’t stir.
Her perfume still clings to the air—something soft and expensive with just a hint of spice.
Lemon verbena and roses.
I’ve smelled it on her before, in passing, on silk scarves and satin pillows left in hotel rooms she thought were private.
I know her.
Better than she knows herself.
Every curve of her body, every expression she makes when she’s bored, when she’s angry, when she’s pretending to listen.
I’ve memorized it all, filed it away in a corner of my mind that’s always been hers.
Untouched by anyone else. Sacred.
I’ve waited so long for this moment.
So fucking long.
Waited while she teased the world with red-carpet smiles and barely there dresses.
Waited while she let pathetic, unworthy boys touch her hand and dream of things they’d never deserve.
I kept my distance.
Played the part.
The quiet one.
The good family friend.
But I’m not good.
Not even close.
I’ve heard the stories about unhinged men—obsessive, broken bastards who claim women like trophies. But me?
I make them look like fucking amateurs.
Because I’m not stealing Leanna Volkov from some shitty life, from bruises or bars or poverty.
Nope.
I’m ripping her out of paradise.
From her glass castle, her manicured world, where everyone bows and flatters and treats her like a doll. I’m taking her from silk sheets and private jets.
From Daddy’s approval and Uncle Josef’s security team’s watchful eye.
From a world where she’s coddled and pampered like a lapdog in designer chains.
And I’m going to show her what it means to feel.
To bleed. To want. To burn.
What it means to be mine.
