32. Chapter 32

thirty-two

Clara

I t's like the first conscious thought crashes into my brain with the subtlety of a freight train.

You shouldn’t be this comfortable in your enemy’s bed, dumbass.

I jolt awake, sitting up so fast the room spins. A large shadow looms by the door, and before my eyes can adjust, a familiar scent hits me. Leather, musk, and… is that fresh bread and butter?

My hand flies to my mouth, feeling a trail of dried drool. I scrub at it furiously, then freeze.

Wait, why the hell do I care?

Great.

I’m a captive of the man I failed to poison, and here I am worrying about drool.

Get your priorities straight, Clara.

Looking like a hot mess should be the least of my concerns right now.

I roll my eyes at my own vanity.

Yeah, because impressing your kidnapper with your morning glow is totally the goal here. Idiot.

“Looks like you’ve had a good night’s sleep,” a deep voice rumbles.

As my vision clears, I see him, and my heart does a traitorous little flip.

Son of the bitch.

He’s standing there in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms, and tailored pants that hug his legs in ways that should be illegal. He looks like he’s about to walk into a high-stakes poker game or maybe assassinate a rival mob boss.

Either way, it’s annoyingly attractive.

Who gave him the right to look this good at whatever ungodly hour it is? I think, irritation and something else I refuse to name bubbling in my chest.

It should be illegal to be that put-together after kidnapping someone.

I clear my throat, trying to match his cool. “Well, considering I wasn’t in a shallow grave, I’d say my standards are fairly low right now.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, a plate in one hand. “Bread and butter for breakfast,” he announces as if he’s offering me a peace treaty. And damn, it smells like heaven.

“How domestic of you,” I retort, but my stomach betrays me with a pathetic growl. “Planning to butter me up before the interrogation?”

“Do you need buttering up?” he shoots back, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Not particularly,” I snap, but then my gaze drops to the bread. “But I’ll take the bread.”

He places it on the nightstand, just out of reach, the tease. “First, tell me who you are.”

I stiffen. This is the part I dread—not because I’m scared to tell him, but because I’m terrified that he’ll figure out everything. Like the fact that I’m his baby’s mother. I laugh internally at the absurdity.

Clara Caldwell, you’re not in a soap opera.

But it sure feels like one.

“Who I am?” I feign confusion, batting my eyelashes. “I’m the Devil’s favorite demon, come to drag you to hell. Ready for the ride?”

“Very funny,” Leonid deadpans, sitting down at the edge of the bed, disturbingly close.

“You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?”

“I prefer ‘complex individual,’” I correct him, crossing my arms and trying not to notice how good he smells. Like soap and something ruggedly outdoorsy. A wave of unbidden thoughts crashes over me—memories of how those arms felt, the heat of his body.

Damn it, Clara, focus.

“So, what’s the plan here?” I ask, aiming for casual.

He’s silent, his gaze crawling over me like I’m on display.

“Eyes up, jerk,” I grumble, tossing him a glare. “You gonna kill me or just keep staring?”

He quirks an eyebrow, and suddenly, it’s like I’m looking at Elijah, all wide-eyed over a new Pokémon. Except, this is no game—I’m not a Pokémon, and he’s definitely not Elijah.

Leonid leans in, and his weight shifts on the mattress beneath him. The motion drags me a notch toward him like we’re connected by this stupid wave of movement.

“Do you want me to kill you?”

I snort. “Do you always offer death with breakfast?”

“It’s an all-inclusive package,” he quips, and I can’t help but smirk. There’s something infuriatingly charming about him when he’s not, you know, holding me captive after I tried to kill him.

I shift gears, my mind racing for a way out. “How about a walk in the garden? I hear the roses are lovely this time of year.”

“In the dress from last night?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

I shrug. “What can I say? I’m fashion-forward.”

He doesn’t move; just watches me with those eyes that see too much.

I sigh internally. Time for Plan B.

I stretch languidly, making sure the golden dress rides up just enough to be distracting. Leonid’s eyes follow the movement, and I suppress a smirk.

Got you.

Slowly, I slide my legs off the bed, letting them dangle for a moment before standing. The dress clings to me like a second skin, and I can feel Leonid’s gaze burning into me as I take a step toward him.

“You know,” I purr, channeling every femme fatale I’ve ever seen in movies, “there are easier ways to get to know a girl than kidnapping her.”

Leonid’s eyebrow quirks up, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Is that so?”

I take another step, closing the distance between us. “Mmhmm. Dinner, maybe. Or a drink.”

He doesn’t move from his spot on the edge of the bed, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

I’m close enough now that I can smell his cologne, a heady mix of spice and wood. It’s intoxicating, and for a moment, I almost forget why I’m doing this.

Focus, Clara.

“There’s always now,” I suggest, my voice low. I reach out, my fingers almost brushing his chest.

That’s when he moves, faster than I anticipated. His hand wraps around my wrist, firm but not painful.

“Nice try,” he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers through me. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

I glare at him, frustrated that he saw through my ploy so easily. “You’re like a mind reader, aren’t you?”

“Only on Tuesdays,” he replies, his thumb absently stroking the inside of my wrist before he releases me.

The brief contact leaves my skin tingling, and I step back, needing to put some distance between us. My eyes dart to the bread still sitting on the nightstand, taunting me. I make a mental note to grab it at the first chance.

Meanwhile, I need a new strategy, one that doesn’t involve failed seduction attempts or pathetic escapes.

“So, are we going to stand here all day, or are you going to tell me what you want?” I ask, trying a different tack.

Leonid watches me for a moment, his eyes unreadable. Then he sighs. “For starters, let’s get you out of that dress and into something less… golden.”

“Thank God,” I mutter, relief washing over me. Finally, something we can agree on.

But as I meet his gaze, I notice something shift in his eyes. It’s not the cold calculation of a captor or the anger of a man I tried to poison. No, it’s something hotter, more primal. Desire.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I feel heat rising to my cheeks.

He clearly wants me.

My heart slams against my ribs.

Before I can process this new development, Leonid turns abruptly and strides toward the door. “Kayla will bring you your change of clothes,” he says over his shoulder, his voice gruff.

He pauses at the threshold, one hand on the doorknob. Without turning back, he adds, “Don’t think of doing something stupid. Remember, I have eyes everywhere.”

As if to emphasize his point, he taps his temple with two fingers. Then, in one fluid motion, he steps out and closes the door behind him. The sound of a lock clicks into place.