Aella
The SUV’s engine hums beneath me, filling the space with a quiet but constant reminder that life, like the world outside the tinted windows, keeps moving. Roman sits beside me, his phone pressed to his ear. He’s speaking Russian, a language I can’t decipher, but the cadence of his voice is hypnotic.
The man becomes something else when he’s focused—like a sleek blade drawn from a hidden sheath.
He’s dressed today in a way that could almost be criminal: black jeans molded to his form, a white t-shirt that seems tailored to tease the imagination, and a black leather jacket that screams confidence.
His blonde hair is doing that thing again—falling rebelliously over his forehead, refusing to be tamed. Just like the first day I laid eyes on him.
I know I should be immune to his allu
