13. Chapter 13

13

Clara

“ W ho the fuck does he think he is?”

My back hits the bedroom door, waiting for the click of a lock that never comes.

“Controlling piece of shit,” I mutter, stalking toward the walk closet. “Self-righteous, arrogant—”

The words bounce off the walk-in closet’s mirrors, and— Oh.

Well, shit.

My reflection tells me exactly who he thinks he is: the guy whose white shirt is currently doing a piss-poor job of covering anything important. The fabric is so thin that I might as well be wearing nothing. And speaking of nothing, the lack of a bra is making things… obvious.

My nipples are hard under his shirt, poking through the thin fabric like they’re begging for attention. The shirt’s slipped off one shoulder, and my hair’s a wild mess, making me look like I’ve been thoroughly fucked instead of… kidnapped.

Biting down my lips, I roll my shoulders back, trying to shake off the rising tension crawling up my neck.

“Shit.”

I hate that he’s right.

Hate even more that I liked watching his jaw tick when Joker checked me out.

Fuck, girl, you’re only reacting like this because you haven’t had a man for the past five years.

Sucking in a breath, my nostrils flare as my gaze catches on a section I missed last night—a hidden panel sliding open to reveal rows of casual wear. Because of course the perfectionist Russian would have a secret compartment for his fucking sweatpants.

The closet is a testament to expensive taste and control issues—everything arranged by color, texture, season. Probably alphabetized, too. I run my fingers along a row of identical black suits.

“Let’s see how you like someone messing up your perfect system, Kuznetsov.”

I grab the first pair of joggers I find—charcoal cashmere because of course they are—and yank them on. They slip past my hips immediately. Great. I cinch the drawstring as tight as it’ll go, bunching the fabric until I look like I’m wearing a garbage bag. A very expensive garbage bag.

Next comes the hoodie hunt. I pick the bulkiest one I can find, dark blue with some Cyrillic text I can’t read. It smells like him—cedar and something darker, dangerous. I absolutely do not inhale deeper as I pull it over my head.

The end result in the mirror is ridiculous. I’m drowning in fabric, looking like a kid playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothes. The thought makes me snort. Leonid would hate being called Daddy .

Unless…

No. Not going there.

I roll up the sleeves eight times before my hands appear. The pants are a lost cause, pooling around my feet like I’m standing in a fabric puddle. But at least nothing’s showing through anymore.

“Take that, you controlling bastard,” I mutter, then immediately remember the cameras he probably has everywhere. “And yes, I’m talking to you, creep.”

I flip off the nearest corner of the ceiling for good measure.

The hoodie keeps slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times I adjust it. Between that and the way I have to keep hitching up the pants, I look like a drunk trying to get dressed in the dark.

But it’s better than giving his men another show. And if Leonid has a problem with me ransacking his closet… Well, he shouldn’t have kidnapped someone with such excellent taste in revenge-wear.

I’m about to leave when I spot them—a row of perfectly aligned silk ties. Black, navy, charcoal, repeat. The temptation is too strong.

Five minutes later, I’ve used one as a belt (it matches the joggers; I’m not a complete heathen), stuffed another in my pocket for later because who knows when you might need to tie someone up, and deliberately rearranged the rest in rainbow order.

Take that, you obsessive-compulsive mobster.

I do one final check in the mirror. Still drowning in fabric, still looking absolutely ridiculous, but at least now I’m decent. And if the outfit happens to smell like him… Well, that’s his fault for not providing proper clothes.

“Alright, Kuznetsov,” I say to my reflection, practicing my best fuck-you smile. “Let’s see how you like this look.”

The smile turns real when I imagine his face. After all, he did say to change.

He just never specified how.

The bedroom door creaks open, and I nearly faceplant into a wall of hard muscle.

Leonid.

He fills the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His double-take would be comical if it wasn’t so satisfying—the almighty Bratva boss, staring at me like I’m some alien creature that crawled out of his closet.

Which, technically, I did.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Your spring collection.” I strike a pose, one hand on my hip, careful not to step on the pools of fabric around my feet. The garbage bag of cashmere joggers shifts dangerously low despite the silk tie holding them up.

“I’m thinking of calling it ‘Kidnapped Chic. ’”

His eye twitches. Actually twitches.

His gaze travels from the rolled-up sleeves that took five minutes to arrange down to where his thousand-dollar pants puddle around my ankles like expensive drapes.

“Those are Brunello Cucinelli.”

“Really?” I hitch them up for the hundredth time. “They look more like a potato sack to me. Very slimming, though.”

The muscle in his jaw jumps as his eyes catch on the silk tie around my waist. “Is that my Hermès?”

“Oh, this old thing?” I give a little twirl, nearly tripping over the pants legs. “I had to improvise. But don’t worry, I color-coordinated. And I took the liberty of reorganizing your tie collection. Rainbow order really brightens up the space.”

His face does something complicated—like he’s trying to decide between strangling me or laughing.

“Kayla left clothes for you on the bed.”

“Did she? Must have missed them while I was redecorating your closet.”

The look he gives me could freeze hell twice over.

“Put on something else.”

“No thanks.” I start down the hallway, the pants swooshing with each step like some demented symphony. “I’m quite comfortable. Though your taste in sweats is a bit pretentious. Would it kill you to own something from Target?”

His hand wraps around my elbow, and suddenly, I’m facing him again. “You’re doing this to provoke me.”

“Is it working?” I bat my eyelashes, even as my pulse kicks up at his proximity. The hoodie slips off one shoulder again, and his eyes track the movement like a predator.

“Everything about you is provoking.” His thumb brushes my exposed collarbone, and I absolutely do not shiver. “The clothes. The closet. That smart mouth of yours.”

“Funny, I don’t remember asking for your opinion.” I try to step back, but the pants tangle around my feet. His arm shoots out, steadying me before I can fall.

Great. Perfect. Just what I needed—his hands on my waist, his chest against mine, that cedar-and-danger scent making my head spin.

“Let go.”

“Why?” His breath fans across my cheek. “So you can fall on your ass in my twelve-hundred-dollar joggers?”

“Twelve-hundred—?” I sputter. “Who pays that much for glorified pajamas?”

“Says the woman who used a five-hundred-dollar tie as a belt.”

“It’s called fashion, asshole. Look it up.” I manage to untangle my feet and break away, heading for the elevator. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on my son.”

“Elijah’s with Dmitry in the garden.”

The tie slips from my waist as I yank it free. “You left my son with the Siberian Slaughterer?”

His eyes track the silk sliding through my fingers. “Planning something?”

“ Maybe .” The pants slip lower without their makeshift belt. “Want to find out?”

I snap the tie taut between my hands. His lips curve—and then I’m swinging. The silk whistles through the air, but he’s already moving. His fingers catch the tie, using my momentum to pull me forward.

The joggers hit the floor, leaving me rocking the no-pants revolution in his hoodie like it’s a high-fashion statement.

I release one end, letting it slide through his grip as I duck under his arm.

The move brings me behind him. Perfect . I jump, wrapping my arm around his neck—but he’s ready. His hands grip my thighs, and the world spins. My back slams into the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.

“Amateur.” His body presses me harder against the wall, his hand slides up the side of my neck, fingers curling just enough to remind me who’s in control.

“Get off me.” The words come out breathless. Angry. Definitely angry, not—

His teeth graze my neck. “Make me.”

I buck against him, trying to break free. Bad idea. The friction sends heat pooling low in my stomach, and his grip on my neck tightens enough to bruise.

“I know you’re angry, Clara Caldwell.” His lips brush my thundering pulse. “So angry at the person who killed Jake Caldwell.”

My vision blurs.

Everything goes red.

“Do not speak his name.” The words rip from my throat. Grinding down my teeth, I try to headbutt him, but his hand tangles in my hair, holding me still. “Fuck. You.”

“Such fire, krasotka .” He drags his mouth up to my ear, and I hate how my body arches into him. Hate how his heat bleeds through the thin shirt, making my skin burn.

“But I’m not the killer you’re looking for…”

I blink rapidly, trying to clear my mind, to make sense of his words.

Wait. What?

What the fuck did he just say?