5 Zara

5

Zara

Hayden loosened his grip on my hands and stepped back. He didn’t say anything and raised his hand for me to accept it. I looked at him and his calloused strong hand, muscles and veins prominent all over his arm. He was giving me a choice and space to tell him no and go back to my home, the Golden Palace.

I didn’t want to be alone on my birthday, I wanted him.

I accepted his hand, relieved to see his expression soften when he led me to his suite. He opened the French double doors, inviting me in as I awed at the luxurious interior.

But I was more interested in him.

Hayden had just hung his suit, which I noticed was Tom Ford—the man has good taste, a hitman or not—on the wooden coat hanger and asked me if I wanted something to drink or eat. I shook my head, stepping towards him.

“I want you to kiss me,” I said, my tone more of a demand.

His dark eyes slid to me, his index finger tapping my nose. “Good things come to good girls who are patient, Princess,” Hayden said, his voi