Page 32 of Desperate Crimes
Because he knows me.
Not just my face.
Not just the pale media image.
Not just the curated version of Leanna Volkov that smiles for cameras and makes polite small talk at charity galas.
No.
He knows my favorite flower.
He knows the brand of lip balm I hoard in every purse I own.
He knows how I like my lighting—soft and golden like candlelight, not harsh fluorescents.
He knows.
And that’s what scares me.
Not because I think he’ll hurt me.
I mean, he might. I don’t know.
I’m certain he’s capable.
This man could break me apart, piece by piece, if he wanted to.
But that’s not what makes my stomach twist and my pulse flutter.
It’s that some dark, shameful part of me likes it.
Wants it.
Maybe even invited it?
Because I’ve dreamed of this.
Not the kidnapping part—not exactly—but of being seen.
Truly, deeply seen.
Wanted not for my name or my net worth or who my family is, but because someone chooses me.
Needs me. Obsesses over me.
Someone who would burn the world down just to have me.
And I know how that sounds.
I know how twisted it is.
But I can’t help the way my heart clenches in my chest, not from terror—but from this aching, desperate hope.
Because there’s one man I’ve secretly loved since I was old enough to understand what love even was.
One man I’ve imagined in every dark fantasy.
One man I’ve written into every faceless book boyfriend in my head.
