Page 34 of Desperate Games

I nod slowly, the air crackling between us.

He comes closer. And just like that, the plan is in motion.

Only now, I’m the one who feels like prey.

And Remy? He’s standing in my tiny living room now.

Like some devastating, green-eyed hallucination cooked up by my lonely subconscious and a dangerous cocktail of hormones and delusion.

Only this hallucination has the nerve to smirk.

“What do you want then?” he asks, voice low and velvet-smooth, like he belongs here.

Like he’s not making every nerve ending in my body vibrate with awareness.

What do you want then?

I’m trying to process that question. My throat tightens. My brain short-circuits.

But my body? It knows.

“Andy?”

I blink. Literally forget how to function for a beat. Because—good God—the man wears a suit like it’s a weapon.

The dark gray fabric stretches across his broad shoulders like it was tailored just for him.

His shirt is black. Everything he wears is black.

Like the midnight sky just decided to come down from the heavens and envelope him completely.

A hint of tattoo ink peeking at the collar.

Just enough to remind me that this isn’t some generic bodyguard in a tux.

This is Remy. And he’s here for me.

Sort of. I mean, he is technically here to work.

The gala. The whole reason I requested an escort in the first place.

The reason he’s looking at me like I’ve grown an extra head.

Because I’m still in shorts and a T-shirt.

No makeup. Hair up in a messy knot.

Definitely not dressed for an upscale event.

“You don’t want to go to the gala. But I’m gonna need you to tell me what you do want, Baby.”

Silence.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he takes a step closer. Just one.

But it feels like gravity’s shifted, tilting the world in his direction.

He tilts his head, reading me like a damn dossier.