Page 34 of The Prince of Hidden Shadows (Runaway Prince Hotel #5)
Lost in my thoughts, I gulp what’s left of my water and put down my empty glass. Looking up, my pulse trips over itself when my wandering eyes land on him .
Lips parted, mouth dry, and eyes widening, I swallow my sudden uneasiness.
Walls shudder. Air cracks. Earth jerks beneath me.
In the blink of an eye, I move to stand as my body reacts before my mind does, drawn to him by something deep, something ancient. But I realize that I cannot run to him.
He is oblivious to me. We are strangers. I freeze.
My heartbeat turns wild. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I can’t wrench my eyes from the gorgeous stranger.
This can’t be, can it?
The young man—likely in his late twenties—saunters with a group of people, unaware of the pull he exerts. They are all laughing, and his head is tilted back just so.
I can’t wrench my eyes from him.
The resemblance is uncanny, borderline spooky.
His hair is fairer, his frame taller, and his eyes appear to be lighter.
Still, my breath stalls at the shape of him.
The fluid rhythm of his steps, the sculpted edge of his sunlit profile, the gravity of his careless confidence. Everything about him demands notice.
This can’t be, can it?
Hope surges in my chest, fierce and relentless. My mind runs a mile a minute. Maybe—just maybe—I was right to wait for him to return to me.
That’s when a detail comes into focus. The Victorian Gothic jacket. An old thing, the kind Théodore Cassel used to wear. The kind he struggled so hard to abandon for a masquerade ball. The kind you find in thrift stores these days, rare and faded from years of use.
A slow ache unfurls in my chest.
And then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, his greenish gaze flickers to me. A second of eye contact.
The world dissolves to us.
This can’t be, can it?
The stranger’s brows knit together, confusion flashing across his features. I can almost make out the flecks of gold in his intense stare. The tip of his lip travels around his sensual mouth, and I want nothing more than to nibble at it.
My heart skips a beat. My dick thickens in my black jeans. My neck stiffens as warmth spreads across every inch of my not so numb body.
All the tender kisses Théo and I shared. All the unhurried sex we partook in. All the small, mundane details of our life together come rushing back, weighty and clawing at my chest.
With a bewildered expression flashing on his beautiful face, his gaze lingers this time. Longer. Sharper. Deeper. As if seeking something he has no clue about—unless I’m fantasizing.
Frozen in place, I welcome the cold shiver coursing down my spine. Enthralled, I’m unable to register whether or not one of his friends spoke in French. Like fate carving the moment into stone, the person calls out, “You coming tonight or what?”
Fathoming that the man who piqued my interest has stopped, wrapped up in a silent conversation with me—a complete stranger dressed in a soft-colored suit—another member of the group snaps their fingers, yanking him back.
“Théo?”
*** The End ***