“I need an assistant for the weekends only. Your main priority would be typing my handwritten book,” he said, turning to stride across the room to stand next to the lit fireplace.

“You write by hand?” she asked, unable to hide her amazement and forgetting the reason for her visit.

“Yes,” he said, his voice deep.

“And you’ve finished your new book in the Mayhem series?” she asked.

“So, you’re familiar with my books?” he asked, his attention locked on the crackling fire.

Samira wished she could see his face. She felt almost like he was hiding it from her intentionally. “Yes,” she finally answered. “My favorite is Vengeance.”

He grunted.

She eyed him. There was something so powerful but still sad about his stance. The way he moved. The way his stare was downcast. She was surprised at how strongly she needed to know what gave him such a demeanor. It, plus the dark interior of the home and neglected exterior, was all so mysterious—maybe even more so than one of his novels.

The man was an enigma. How could someone so abrupt and insolent write with such emotion and rhythm that she was forever transformed by his words? The two did not match.