Page 7

And not once—not once—has he touched anyone. Or said a word.

Then why me? Am I reading too much into this? Am I trying to find a purpose where there isn’t one?

Stalking a man will give you purpose? Okay, inner voice, shut up I’m busy. Yeah, busy stalking a man.

No wonder I hate you, you’re a bitch.

Oh, go die somewhere.

I’m working on it.

I let out a defeated sigh, my gaze drifting until it lands on the man whose touch I can’t seem to forget.

Sergei sticks out among the three of them like a sore thumb. You’d think that, coming from the same world of obscene wealth, the Russian trio would be alike.

They aren’t. Least of all Sergei.

He somehow balances the group, his silence to their chaos.

Most of the time, it feels as if he’s merely there.

Like now. Roman and Aleksandr are arguing over something neither seems willing to let go of. Sergei sits between them, saying nothing, only involved enough to stop them from getting physical when it inevitably happens.

I ignore the other two and focus on Sergei.

A copy of Crime & Punishment rests open in his hand. The spine is creased, the pages well worn, yet he hasn’t turned a single one since he opened it.

My gaze drifts to his rigid shoulders, and I realise they haven’t relaxed once. He may look detached, but he’s as aware of his surroundings as the two men beside him.

My eyes travel higher, lingering on the collar of his black cotton shirt. The first two buttons are undone, revealing just enough skin to tease.

Then there’s his neck. His square jaw, shadowed with the beginnings of a beard, as if he hasn’t bothered shaving in a day or two. I find myself wondering if it’d feel rough beneath my fingertips.

My breath catches, my gaze drops to his lips, the lower one slightly fuller than the upper. As if he can feel me staring, his tongue brushes across it.

I snap my eyes away, heat creeping into my face. I don’t do this. I don’t stop whatever I’m doing to stare at a man. I certainly don’t wonder what his beard would feel like.

As if possessed, my gaze drifts upwards. His skin is smoother than the other two’s, kissed by a faint golden warmth from long hours spent outdoors, a shade that somehow makes his light brown eyes stand out even more.

I stare into them, almost as if I want to drown. Then I realise they’re staring back.

The book now rests beside him, forgotten. For how long has he been looking at me? Have I lost my fucking mind?

I tear my gaze away and shoot to my feet. The back of my knees collide with the chair, making it scrape loudly across the floor and every head turns. So much for stalking.

Apparently, stealth isn’t my strong suit.

I turn on my heel and bolt. Sergei Zaytsev just caught me red-handed. Was it when I was staring at his lips?

Sweet mother of God. Now would be a fantastic time for a meteor to wipe me off the face of the Earth.

My shoes slap against the pavement as I run. Halfway through, my lungs begin protesting, each breath tugging painfully at my chest.

I hate running.

I lean against the wall outside the campus parking garage, only now realising I must’ve run the entire way out.

My legs feel like lead and my breathing has dissolved into short, frantic bursts.