42. Chapter 42

42

Clara

W ell, shit. Of all the ways to get caught snooping—here I am with a tear-stained face. My finger is still stuck on middle C, like an idiot. Though really, if he didn’t want people playing his secret piano, maybe he shouldn’t leave doors unlocked. Just saying.

His eyes drag over me slowly, deliberately, from my bare feet to my definitely-not-tear-stained face, like he can see right through the silk robe to the barely-there nightgown underneath. The undone bow tie hanging around his neck should make him look disheveled. Instead, he looks like sin in a bespoke suit. Perfect. This is exactly how I wanted him to find me—crying over his piano while playing dress-up in his stolen clothes. Totally nailing this whole captive-spy thing.

I slowly lift my finger off the piano key, like maybe if I move carefully enough, he won’t notice me standing here in his private room.

“I…”

The soft click of the door lock sliding into place has me freezing mid-movement.

“Care to explain this little performance?” His voice is rough, rumbling, like a diesel engine on a cold start.

My head snaps toward him, my pulse a staccato rhythm in my chest. “What?” I manage, my voice higher than I’d like.

Leonid takes a step forward, and the air in the room shifts, heavy with something I can’t quite name. His dark eyes gleam, anger simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s the heat in his gaze that leaves me breathless.

“Do you like snooping, Clara?” Another step, and I swear I can feel the heat of him despite the distance still between us. “Or was this about finding something to use against me?”

His words should sting, should make me defensive, but all I can focus on is how tightly his jaw is clenched, the way his hand flexes at his side like he’s fighting the urge to reach for something—or someone.

“I wasn’t…” My voice falters, and I hate the way he tilts his head just slightly like he’s caught a weakness and plans to exploit it.

Oh, hell no.

Clara Caldwell doesn’t stutter. She doesn’t falter, and she sure as hell doesn’t let men with God complexes and jawlines carved by Lucifer himself make her knees weak.

What is wrong with me?

He steps closer. Silent. Deliberate.

The space between us shrinks, and my breath hitches—too quick, too loud. I clench my jaw, but it doesn’t stop the heat crawling up my neck. His hand skims the edge of the piano. His brown eyes look darker now, almost black in the dim light, like they’re swallowing everything in their path. They’re locked on me.

I shift my weight, willing my body to move, but it doesn’t listen. Instead, my fingers curl tighter around the edge of the piano.

He looks like he’s planning something, like he’s already written the script. And my body… Jesus, my body is buying into it.

No. Not tonight. Get a grip, Caldwell. He’s not the boss of…

Oh, God, he is sexier tonight…

He’s too close now. Too controlled. My pulse spikes, a traitorous beat against the tension rolling off him. My shoulders square on instinct, defiance flaring, but it falters under his gaze.

Like he already knows what’s going to happen.

Like I’ve already lost.

Leonid’s hand moves faster than I expect, grabbing the edge of my robe. With one sharp tug, the knot comes undone, and the silk parts just enough to bare my shoulder, the curve of my collarbone.

My breath catches, sharp and involuntary. “Excuse you—”

“I asked you a question,” he growls, his hand sliding to my waist and holding firm.

He leans in, his lips brushing dangerously close to my ear, his voice dropping to a hiss. “Do you like snooping around, krasotka ?”

I try to take a step back, but the piano digs into my lower back, cold and unyielding. Before I can move, Leonid’s hand slides to the edge of the piano beside me, his knuckles brushing against my waist as he grips the surface. His body shifts closer, his heat pressing into the space between us, leaving no room to breathe—no room to escape.

“Let go!” I bark, shoving at his chest with both hands, but it’s like trying to move a fucking brick wall.

He’s so fucking hard. He doesn’t budge, just tugs me closer until I can feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against my hip.

This bastard. He thinks he can just manhandle me like this, make my body respond like it’s a fucking marionette on strings.

Fuck, but why do I want him to tear into me like a savage beast?

He shoves his hips into me, and my body betrays me, nipples hardening like goddamn spikes.

“Fuck…” But the word gets swallowed up as his scent hits me, a fucking freight train of smoke, leather, and animal heat. My body arches into his without my consent, like a goddamn traitor.

I grit my teeth, trying to maintain control.

“I needed to talk to you.” I glare up at him, refusing to let him see how much his touch affects me.

His brow arches slightly, a flicker of surprise breaking through the tension. “Talk?”

And then he moves in, inhaling deeply at my hair, his breath a hot caress against my skin. Goosebumps ripple down my arms, spreading to my thighs like wildfire.

I shove against his solid bulk once more. “Yes, damn it! But you need to listen!”

He chuckles again, the sound like a gravelly chuckle. “So, you decided to creep into my private room? At midnight? In this?” His gaze drags down, lingering where the robe gapes open, and I feel the heat of his eyes like a physical touch.

“Door’s not locked,” I spit out the words like a curse.

“It is now.” He brushes aside the flimsy robe, and it falls to the floor in a pool of silk, his lips crashing against mine before I can say another word.

He kisses me with a violence that rivals my own, his mouth rough, demanding, and it sets my blood on fire. I kiss him back, but my ass slams onto the piano, the force of our kiss and the weight of my body creating a cacophony of discordant notes that reverberate through the room.

I gasp, my eyes flicking to the closed door. “Elijah’s sleeping…”

But Leonid doesn’t hear me, or if he does, he doesn’t care. He’s pissed at something. My breath catches. I’ve seen Leonid angry before, but this? It’s different.

He spins me around, our bodies grinding like gears in a machine. He steers me toward the sofa, tossing me onto the cushions like a sack of meat. I let out a sharp breath, anticipation thrumming in my veins, ready to explode at the slightest touch.

“No, no, no,” I whisper to myself, struggling against the raging tide of desire, the echo of my resistance already sounding hollow in my ears.

But it’s too late.