70. Chapter 70

70

Clara

J ust act normal. Just act normal. Just. Act. Normal.

The garage door hums closed behind us, the sound echoing off gleaming black epoxy floors that reflect our distorted images like dark mirrors. My hands shake slightly as I fumble with my helmet strap.

Why won't it—Ugh .

The clasp is stuck, because of course it is, and I'm probably turning purple trying to—

"Let me." Leonid's voice rumbles close to my ear, and suddenly his hands are there, warm and steady against my neck. I freeze.

He loves me. He loves me.

He wants to marry me. Marry me? Is that even real?

Because that’s insane. Absurd. Completely unhinged.

His fingers brush my skin as he works the clasp free, and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact. Of his chest barely inches from mine. Of the way he smells like leather and wind and him .

The helmet comes loose, and I stumble back a step. My hair tumbles free, probably a mess, and I try to smooth it with trembling fingers. Get it together, Clara.

"Thank you," I manage, my voice embarrassingly breathy.

I sound like a teenager.

I feel like a teenager, all racing pulse and butterflies, which is ridiculous because I'm a grown woman and a mother and—

"Clara."

I realize I’ve been staring at the Ferrari 812 Superfast as if its matte red finish holds the secrets of the universe. Leonid hasn’t moved. He’s watching me with those chocolate eyes, intensity rolling off him in waves. My knees feel weak.

Traitors .

“You’re thinking too loud,” he says softly.

A laugh bubbles up, slightly hysterical. “Well, someone just dropped quite a bomb on me back there, so excuse me if I’m a little—” I wave my hands vaguely, nearly dropping my helmet.

He catches it easily, setting it on a nearby workbench without taking his eyes off me. The garage lights catch the planes of his face, throwing shadows that make him look carved from marble. It’s unfair how beautiful he is. Unfair how his simple black t-shirt stretches across shoulders that could carry the weight of empires. Unfair how he’s looking at me like—

“Like what?” His voice is rough.

Oh God, I said that out loud.

“I meant it,” he says, taking a step closer. “Every word.”

My back hits cool metal—the Bentley we just rode. I hadn’t even realized I was retreating. Leonid stops, leaving space between us, but his presence fills every molecule of air.

“You can’t just—” I swallow hard. “You can’t just say things like that and expect me to function normally.”

A smile tugs at his mouth, something soft and dangerous all at once. “Since when have we ever been normal?”

“That’s not—” I press my palms against the car behind me, seeking anchor. “Fourteen years, Leonid. Fourteen years of thinking—and now everything’s different, and you’re looking at me like that and saying these things, and I can’t think when you—”

He moves then, one hand bracing against the metal behind me, the other coming up to cup my face. “Then don’t think.”

His thumb traces my bottom lip, and my breath hitches. “Elijah—”

“Will have everything we didn’t,” he promises, his voice fierce with conviction. My fucking heart stops.

“A father who’s present. A mother who isn’t alone. A family that’s whole.” His forehead touches mine. “Let me give that to both of you.”

God. Help. Me.

The tears come without warning, but before I can brush them away, his lips find mine. The kiss is gentle at first, a question more than a demand. But then I make a sound I’ll deny later, my hands fisting in his shirt, and everything ignites. He kisses like he fights—all-consuming intensity and deadly precision. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the angle until I’m gasping against his mouth.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide, and I can feel his heart hammering where my palm rests against his chest.

“ Ya lyublyu tebya ,” he murmurs against my temple. “My fierce, beautiful Clara.”

I let out a watery laugh, hiding my face against his neck. “I’m a mess.”

“You’re perfect.” His arms tighten around me. “And you still haven’t answered my question.”

I pull back just enough to meet his gaze, seeing everything I feel reflected there—hope, fear, love so intense it burns.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, to all of it.”

His smile—God, I want to spend forever making him smile like that.

Unable to resist any longer, I tug him back down, my fingers threading through his hair as our lips meet again. This kiss is different—hungry, desperate. His hands span my waist, pressing me harder against the Bentley’s cool surface as he deepens the kiss. A sound escapes my throat, half gasp, half moan, and I feel his responding growl vibrate through his chest.

His mouth trails fire down my neck, and my head falls back, giving him better access.

“ Solnishka ,” he murmurs against my skin, the Russian endearment making me shiver. His hands roam possessively, leaving trails of heat everywhere they touch.

“Leonid,” I breathe, dizzy with want. The garage spins around us, the polished cars mere blurs in my peripheral vision. Nothing exists but this—his solid warmth pressing me into the car, his hands mapping my curves like he’s memorizing every inch, his mouth reclaiming territory too long denied.

The last coherent thought I have is that the security cameras are probably getting quite a show before Leonid’s lips find that sensitive spot behind my ear, and thinking becomes impossible.

His mouth claims mine again, hungrier this time, my fingers twisting through his dark hair as I pull him closer. The cool metal of the Bentley presses against my back, a stark contrast to the heat of his body against mine. His hands hold my waist, tightening as I gasp into the kiss.

“ Ty prekrasna ,” he growls against my lips. One of his hands slides up my spine, tangling in my hair as he deepens the kiss. The other grips my hip, pulling me flush against him until there’s no space left between us.

My hands explore the broad planes of his chest, feeling the powerful muscles flex beneath his shirt. When his mouth trails fire down my neck, I arch into him, a breathy moan escaping my throat. He responds by pressing me harder against the bike, his teeth grazing my pulse point.

“We should,” I gasp as his lips find that sensitive spot behind my ear, “take this somewhere more private.”

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes dark with desire. Without warning, he lifts me into his arms. “Your wish is my command, Mrs. Soon-to-be Kuznetsov.”