18. Chapter 18

18

Clara

T he marble floors of Canal Place freeze my bare feet as I walk beside Leonid, his oversized hoodie barely covering what it needs to.

Security guards do double-takes. A woman clutches her Gucci purse tighter. And here I am, looking like I just escaped someone’s basement.

Which, technically, I did.

“Walk faster.” Leonid’s hand presses against my back.

“Easy for you to say, tyrant . Try prancing around on this marble ice rink without shoes. My nipples could cut glass right now.” I dig my heels in, literally, making him adjust his stride. “Oh wait, you wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you? Being all cozy in your thousand-dollar shoes while dragging half-naked women around like some discount Christian Grey—”

“Are you done?”

“I’m just getting started, actually. Would you like to hear about—?” The words die in my throat. Two women in matching Louboutins have stopped dead in their tracks, staring at Leonid like he’s an all-you-can-eat buffet. One nudges the other, phone already raised.

“Oh, my God, isn’t that Henry Cavill? The Superman guy?”

“No, you idiot, that’s Chris Evans!”

“I thought Chris Evans was shorter—”

My body moves before my brain catches up. I step directly into their camera frame, spreading my arms wide.

“Ladies, hate to break it to you, but this is just a really tall Ukrainian accountant with a face symmetry problem.”

Leonid’s fingers dig into my hip. “Ukrainian?”

“Sorry, did I offend your Russian sensibilities?” I bat my eyelashes at him. “Should I tell them you’re actually Jason Momoa’s less attractive cousin instead?”

“Clara.”

“What? I’m helping. Building your cover story. Unless you’d rather I tell them about your underground chess gambling ring—”

He yanks me sideways, practically carrying me now. My bare feet barely touch the ground.

“Put me down or lose that hand.”

“Make me.”

His fingers press into my skin, hot through the thick fabric. My body goes rigid—partly from anger, partly from something else I refuse to acknowledge.

He spins me to face him, one arm locked around my waist, the other hand sliding up my spine. I snap my teeth at his jaw, missing by inches.

“Bite me again, and I’ll show you how I like to play, malishka. ” His lips brush my ear, voice dropping to gravel. “Though something tells me you already know exactly what you’re doing.”

Fuck. My skin burns everywhere he touches. I want to knee him in the balls. I want to— No. No, I don’t want anything except to get away from him and his stupid hands and his stupid mouth and—

“I’d rather bite off my own tongue.”

“Now, that would be a waste of a very talented muscle.”

“Put. Me. Down.”

“Be a good girl, and maybe I will.” His grip tightens, fingers digging into soft flesh. “Though we both know you’re anything but good.”

I thrash against him, which only makes him chuckle. The sound vibrates through his chest and straight into places that have no business reacting to him.

“Fuck you.”

“Promises, promises.”

I twist my body, fingers finding the pressure point in his wrist that should make any normal man drop like a sack of potatoes. Should. Instead, he just looks amused. Great.

“Nice try, malishka .” His grip tightens further. “But I’ve survived worse than your little parlor tricks.”

I move my hand.

“Keep fighting me, and we’ll take the scenic route to Mitch and Elijah.”

That stops me cold. Bastard. He knows exactly where to hit.

“I hate you.”

“So you keep saying.” He finally sets me down, his hands lingering longer than necessary. “Yet here we are.”

I turn, ready to launch another string of creative threats, when I catch the gleaming letters above: “Chanel.”

My throat tightens. How many times had I walked through these doors, tossing thousand-dollar bills around like confetti? Back when my last name still meant something. Before Dad traded our family’s legacy for empty promises and cheaper thrills.

“Move.” Leonid’s hand finds my lower back again.

I dig my heels in, just to be difficult. “What’s wrong with Target?”

“Everything.” He leans close, and I’m about to introduce his groin to my knee when the door slides open. A blast of Chanel No. 5 stops me mid-swing.

“Welcome to Chanel.” The voice drips honey and commission dreams. I turn to find a blonde Amazon in four-inch pumps, her pencil skirt so tight it’s a miracle she can breathe, let alone walk. Her name tag reads “Vivian,” and she’s looking at Leonid like he’s her next meal ticket.

The urge to knee someone in the groin intensifies. Just a different target now.

“How can I help you today?” She bats lashes that definitely aren’t real, twirling a perfect blonde curl. “We just got in the most amazing new collection—”

I jam my elbow into Leonid’s ribs. “Yeah, got anything in ‘kidnapping victim chic’?”

Vivian’s perfect smile freezes. Her blue eyes dart between my bare feet and Leonid’s hand still on my waist.

“Of course.” Vivian’s heels click against marble as she leads us deeper into the store. “We have some absolutely stunning pieces that would be perfect for—” she glances at my bare legs “—your style .”

Leonid’s hand slides from my waist to my hip. “Show us everything.”

“Everything?” Vivian’s eyes light up like she just won the commission lottery. “Well, let’s start with our new collection. The dresses are simply—”

“Pants first.” I yank the hem of Leonid’s hoodie lower. “Unless you want the security cameras to get an even better show.”

“Actually,” Leonid’s fingers trace my spine through the fabric, “let’s start with lingerie.”

I stomp on his foot. He doesn’t even flinch.

Vivian’s already moving toward a display of lace that probably costs more than my car. “We have this gorgeous matching set in black—”

“Red.” Leonid’s voice drops an octave. “Show us the red.”

I spin to face him. “I am not your personal dress-up doll.”

“No?” His thumb brushes the exposed skin of my thigh. “Then I guess we can take our time looking. Maybe try on everything in the store. I’m sure Mitch and Elijah won’t mind waiting another few hours.”

Bastard.

Vivian returns with something that’s more string than fabric. “This is one of our most popular—”

I cut her off, a plan forming. My eyes scan the store. “Actually, bring me every piece of lingerie you have. In my size.” I tap my chin, pretending to think. “No, make that a size up and down, too. Just to be safe.”

Vivian blinks. “Every… piece?”

“Problem?” I mirror Leonid’s earlier tone. Then spot a leather jacket that probably costs someone’s kidney. “That, too. And that entire rack of sweaters. You know what?” I wave my hand at the whole section. “Just bring everything.”

“Everything?” Her perfect smile trembles.

“Did I stutter?”

Her eyes dart to Leonid like a tennis match.

“You heard her.” He doesn’t even blink.

“Everything?” Vivian squeaks.

“You heard her,” he repeats.

Vivian swallows hard, glancing at the growing pile.

“R-right away.”

She’s clicking away on her heels, barking orders at wide-eyed assistants, who start pulling items off racks like their lives depend on it.

As the counter starts piling up with everything from jackets to sweaters to shoes, something catches my eye—a hint of black lace in the chaos. It’s a matching bra and panties, barely there, teasingly sheer.

I grab it before an assistant can whisk it away and dangle it between two fingers, raising an eyebrow at Leonid.

“Vivian,” I say, holding up the lace. “Where’s the fitting room?”

She blinks, caught mid-chaos, before pointing toward the back. “Just over there, ma’am.”

“Perfect,” I say, turning on my heel and walking toward it without waiting for her to lead.

I disappear into the fitting room and slip into the lace, the delicate black fabric hugging my body like it was made for me. The mirror confirms it—dangerous, bold, exactly what I need.

I step out, hoodie slung over my arm, and spot Leonid lounging by the counter, watching the chaos like it’s his personal entertainment. His eyes flick to me, scanning from head to toe. Ignoring him, I walk toward the side of the counter.

“Shoes.” I point to a wall of stilettos. “All of them.”

“Feeling petty, dorogaya ?”

“Me? Never.” I grab a pair of red-bottomed heels. “Just making sure I get my money’s worth. Oh, wait—it’s not my money, is it?”

He steps closer, voice dropping. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Good thing I like dangerous.” I snag another jacket. “This, too.”

Twenty minutes later, the counter is piled high with designer everything. Vivian’s typing frantically into her register, mascara slightly smudged from stress-sweating.

Leonid just watches, looking amused. “Done?”

“Almost.” I grab one last thing—a silk scarf that says $2100 on it. “Now I’m done.”

“The total is…” Vivian swallows hard.

“Card.” Leonid doesn’t even look at the number.

I feel a tiny stab of victory. Until his hand finds my waist again, pulling me close.

“Hope you enjoyed yourself, malishka .” His lips brush my ear. “Because now you’re going to model every single piece. Starting with that red lace.”

My elbow’s already cocked back for his ribs when I catch it: a flash of movement in my peripheral vision. A face in the mirror-lined wall that makes my blood freeze.

Same jaw. Same eyes—except it isn’t him.

I whip my head back to Leonid, then to the mirror again. The face is gone…