Saoirse
Alone with him.
Zaver didn’t move back.
If anything, he stepped closer. Close enough that I caught the faint rasp of his breath when he spoke.
“You always look at strangers like that?” His voice dipped low, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear.
I tilted my chin up, refusing to let him have the upper hand. “Like what?”
He smirked—God, that slow, crooked kind that says I already know I’ve got you curious.
“Like you’re deciding whether to stab me… or let me buy you a drink.”
I didn’t even blink. “Maybe both.”
That earned a soft chuckle from him, but it wasn’t the kind you hear from someone amused—it was the kind that makes your skin prickle because they’re cataloging you.
“You’re Michael’s daughter.” He said it like he was trying to taste the words, see if they were
