Page 47 of Forced & Obsessed By the Bratva King
He’s not looking at me.
Definitely not.
My eyes drift back to the computer screen, but thirty seconds later, they’re on him again. A part of me wonders if he feels the same way about me. If he spends most of his time trying to decide whether I’m attracted to him.
I immediately hate myself.
He’s speaking to a yacht owner who happens to be one of the wealthy regulars. The older man is gesturing animatedly while Leonid listens with the same detached expression he wears around almost everyone.
Then something catches his attention.
His head turns straight toward the office, and our eyes meet through two layers of glass and half a marina. The corner of his mouth lifts with something that doesn’t quite look like a smile.
It’s the sort of look that says he knows exactly what I was doing and what I’m thinking. His gaze pierces right through my soul, as if he can read all the dirty, fucked-up thoughts in my head.
I drop into my chair so quickly I nearly knock over my coffee. For the next five minutes, I become extremely interested in the spreadsheet in front of me.
Unfortunately, spreadsheets don’t stop me from being aware of him.
Or from wondering whether he’s still looking at me.
The worst part?
I want him to be.
I force myself to focus on work.
A few minutes later, movement outside catches my attention.
A supply truck rolls through one of the service gates near the fuel dock.
Nobody stops it.
Nobody searches it.
The guard barely glances at the driver before waving him through.
Interesting.
I watch the truck disappear down the access road leading to the main highway.
For the second time since arriving at the marina this morning, I find myself studying the place differently.
Not as a charter manager.
As someone looking for a way out.
The marina is nothing like Leonid’s mansion.
There are tourists everywhere, making it easy to blend into the crowd. Workers moving between docks add to the chaos. Delivery vehicles come and go throughout the day. Boats arrive. Boats leave.
Freedom is right there.
Close enough to touch.
Don’t try to run, or I can’t promise your best friend or parents will be safe.
My grip tightens around the mouse.
