The Slave Who Dared to Flirt
"Huh," Leon grumbled, addressing the woman beneath the moonlight more than saying it aloud. "It's you?"
She tilted her chin slightly, just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye. A gentle smile played on her red lips—small, covert. The type of smile that spoke of secrets better left unspoken.
"Expecting someone else, my lord?
Her voice floated through the darkness like velvet, smooth and measured, every word heavy with unspoken implication. She held a glass of wine in her fine fingers, the liquid unmoving. Then, with slow courtesy, she raised it to her lips and drank, never shifting her gaze.
Leon didn't answer. He didn't have to.
He already knew whom she was.
Natasha.
