“With friends like those, you wouldn’t need to,” I say. “You’re a wolf; Rodion is a lion, apparently. You all are too busy cosplaying as animals to realize you need serious help. Psychological help. You’re f*****g deranged.”
Timofey presses his shoulders back, his chest straining against the buttons of his shirt. I catch glimpses of golden skin peeking through the material. Instinctively, my heart jolts. Some weak-willed spark flutters deep in my core. I tear my eyes away from him and beat the poor thing into submission.
Absolutely not. We are not ogling our blackmailer.
Maybe just one more peek, though.
I glance back. Timofey has folded his arms across his chest. His biceps bulge. “What are you doing?” My voice comes out in a rasp.
He chuckles. “Watching you pretend not to watch me.”
