Page 35 of Hunt Me
The word sends ice down my spine. Because I believe him. Because Alexi Ivanov doesn’t separate work from obsession, he doesn’t know where the line is between hunting and wanting.
Neither do I.
11
ALEXI
Ipull up outside her building at precisely 8:00 PM.
I straighten my jacket—Tom Ford, black on black, because fuck subtlety—and press the buzzer for unit 4 B.
Static crackles through the intercom. Then her voice, cool and measured.
“You’re punctual.”
“Surprised?”
“Disappointed. I had money on you showing up early to prove a point.”
I grin at the camera mounted above the door. “Who says I haven’t been here for an hour?”
Silence.
The door buzzes open.
I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the elevator. Energy burns through my veins, the same manic buzz I get when I’m close to cracking an impossible system. My fingers drum against my thigh as I climb.
Third floor. Unit 4 B sits at the end of a narrow hallway that smells like someone’s cooking curry.
I knock once.
The door opens.
Everything stops.
Iris stands in the doorway wearing a black slip dress that skims her body like water, elegant and lethal. Her platinum hair falls loose around her shoulders instead of being pulled back, softening features that are usually sharp enough to cut. Dark lipstick. Minimal jewelry—just a silver chain at her throat that catches the light.
She’s fucking devastating.
I forget how to speak. Forget how to breathe. My brain—the same brain that processes terabytes of data without breaking a sweat—completely flatlines.
“Are you going to stand there gawking, or are we doing this?”
Her voice snaps me back. I blink, force my expression into something that resembles control.
“Not gawking.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Adjusting my expectations.”
“Expectations?” One eyebrow rises. “You expected me to answer the door in sweats?”
“I expected beautiful.” I step closer, deliberately invading the space between us. “I didn’t expect?—”
“What?”
Devastating. Disarming. Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with code.
“—this,” I finish lamely.
Her lips curve into a smile that’s pure victory. “Lost for words, Ivanov? I should mark this date on my calendar.”
