Page 3 of Twisted Prince
It’s almost unnerving, and yet, his fluid, graceful prowl is so natural to him that I can’t help but admire his stealthy poise. The sight of his dangerously attractive, almost feline, angular features and striking green eyes steals my breath away in an instant.
I don’t usually find men so appealing. Just as the mouse doesn’t find a house cat particularly pleasing to the eye. But Gleb has tall, dark, and handsome down pat, with a flourish of dark, brooding savior complex to top it off.
It certainly doesn’t hurt his case that he’s the one who saved me from a lifetime of servitude as some sick bastard’s sex slave.
“Show me what, Melody?” he asks, his silky-smooth Russian accent and soft, even voice sending goosebumps rippling across my flesh. He never calls me by my full name.
“If I show you, will you promise not to get mad?” It’s a cheap trick, I know—getting him to promise without knowing what he might get mad about. But all I can think about is how much trouble I’ll be in.
Because Gleb is going to be furious when he finds out what I’ve done. Lie low. Don’t do anything that might draw unnecessary attention until the danger has passed. Those were his only instructions. And what did I do? Apply to a top modeling agency that could potentially put me on the cover of a very prominent New York magazine, not to mention the very public New York modeling scene. I know he won’t like what I did, so I’m hoping my trick will help soften the blow.
His angular brows dip, forming sharp downward lines that confirm his suspicion. “Why would I get mad?” Gleb’s eyes narrow, his perceptive gaze penetrating my soul with ease, and I feel as though he already knows what I’m hiding but is waiting for me to say it.
“Just promise,” I plead, my heartbeat quickening as a frozen knot of anxiety drops into the pit of my stomach.
“Okay. I promise I won’t get mad.” His tone is dry, a sure sign that he’s laughing at me—at least on the inside. I have yet to hear Gleb actually laugh. And after what I’m about to tell him, I know today won’t be the day either.
Still, it makes my palms sweat.
I shouldn’t care so much about what a man thinks. I generally don’t care about what men think of me. But with Gleb, I can’t seem to help but want his approval. It’s probably just some kind of trauma survivor’s complex—my gratitude for him saving me has amplified to an unhealthy degree, so it feels like I have a massive crush on him.
All I know is that the inexplicable devotion I feel toward him has had me tangled in knots for weeks. But that doesn’t explain why my stomach flutters every time he enters a room.
And I hate the thought of disappointing him far more than I should.
Which is why I really don’t want him to know what I’ve done.
Because he hates it when I question his rules or challenge his decisions. I would know. Because I do it a lot.
“Well, remember how Silvia’s photographer friend Dani came by the house a while back? And we did a photoshoot?”
Gleb follows my movement like a silent shadow as I return to the kitchen table. Reluctantly, I open the manila envelope to pull out my photos as I go.
“Yes?” he says, his answer coming out more like a question. Then his eyes fall on the headshots I spread across the table once more. I can read the riot of emotion that flickers in their depths. Yet his face remains still, serene, like the surface of a lake that mirrors the sky, not giving anything away.
Swallowing hard, I press onward. “Well… she might have suggested I try sending these into a few agencies—to see if I could get some kind of fashion or modeling opportunity out of them.”
Gleb’s eyes snap sharply up to meet mine, and I can see the anger in them despite his promise.
Still, I forge ahead, knowing it’s better to rip the Band-Aid off than to drag this out any longer. “I have my first professional photoshoot next week,” I whisper, my voice almost apologetic, though I’m not sorry for my success. I just don’t like disappointing Gleb, and I brace for the full force of his wrath after having confessed my defiance of his wishes.
“And this is going to help you keep a low profile, how?” he asks, his voice as smooth and undisturbed as the glassy surface of a mountain lake. Then he releases an aggravated sigh, his first true expression of the frustration that I know lies within. Closing his eyes, he massages his temples as if searching for the excessive amount of patience it takes to deal with me.
“Gleb?” I say tentatively, leaning closer as my anxiety consumes me. I hate when he closes his eyes because they’re the only way I have an inkling of what he’s really feeling. And right now, I’m not sure if I’ve taken Gleb to the end of his rope and should perhaps consider running.
Not that he’s ever laid a hand on me or has even hinted that he might. But I’ve learned the hard way that men are not to be trusted—regardless of how considerate they might pretend to be at first.
Gleb’s eyes snap open, finding mine with a terrifying intensity that makes my stomach tremble.
“You promised not to get mad,” I remind him, my last wall of defense, before I really do make a run for it.
“I’m not mad,” he growls, his tone suddenly gruff. And for a fraction of a moment, I think he might reach out and grab me. Then he shoves his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks as if to keep them occupied until he can calm down and control himself. “I suppose I’m proud of you for being bold enough to follow your interests.”
Am I going crazy, or does he actually sound like he means it? That’s not at all the reaction I was expecting. “Really?” I blurt, unable to contain my disbelief.
Maybe I got myself all worked up for nothing. Maybe I misunderstood Gleb’s warning—or maybe he came by today to tell us that the danger’s passed. That Mikhail Sidorov won’t be coming to collect his stolen goods, and we don’t have to keep hiding. I hadn’t even thought of that possibility.
“I just wish you might have picked something that didn’t entail risking your life,” Gleb states. He keeps talking, but all I can hear is that he’s proud of me. He’s not mad. He thinks I’m bold.
