Penthouse views from every angle. The city at dawn, dusk, midnight, when the lights blur into something that almost looks like hope. The breakfast bar where he fed me strawberries. The windows where he stood backlit and made me forget my own name. The guest room door that separates my space from his, a thin line between being trapped and… something worse.
And Ivan. I've rendered him obsessively. His hands. His profile. The scar slicing through his eyebrow. Tattoos I've only glimpsed—Orthodox crosses, Cyrillic script, symbols from a world I don't understand. Shirtless, clothed, in shadow, in light. Dozens of tries. Not one of them feels like what it's like to be in the same room with him.
Then there are the fantasy sketches. The drawings I tear outimmediately and shove into the bottom of my duffel. The ones showing what I want. Things I shouldn't. Things that would make the proper sketches look tame.
And now I'm out of subjects.
I sit cross-legged on the floor by the window, the blank page staring back at me. The walls feel like they're inching closer. Pyotr's by the elevator, as usual. Immovable. Silent.
Fuck it.
I start sketching him.
The angle first—looking up, making him even more imposing than he already is. Then the basic structure of his face, all harsh planes and sharp edges. The permanent scowl. The way he stands like he's carved from granite, arms crossed, radiating pure don't-fuck-with-me energy.
"The fuck are you doing?"
I don't look up. "What does it look like?"
"Looks like you are drawing me."
"Gold star for observation," I mutter, adding shadows to his jawline, making it more brutal. "Hold still."
"Stop."
"Can't. You're my last resort. I've literally drawn everything else in this place." I shade his neck—thick as a tree trunk, scarred in places. "Besides, you're interesting. In a terrifying sort of way."
He mutters something in Russian that's definitely not complimentary.
I work in silence for a few minutes, getting his proportions right. He's difficult to capture—too much mass, too much presence. The pencil moves across the page, finding the weight of him. The threat.
"You're not very attractive, you know that?" I say conversationally.
Silence.
"I mean, objectively speaking. You look like someone triedto sculpt a person but gave up halfway and just added scars." I glance up, catch his glare, and return to sketching. "No offense."
"Much offense."
"Well, you'll be in deep shit when Ivan finds his naked bodyguard in my sketchbook."
That gets a reaction. "You're not drawing me naked!"
"Why not? I drew Ivan naked. Multiple times." I flip to an earlier page and show him one of the tamer sketches—Ivan's back, cathedral tattoo in full detail. "See? Artistic study."
Pyotr looks at the drawing, then at me, expression unreadable. "Boss knows I won't touch his captive."
"Guest," I correct automatically. "He calls me his guest."
"Captive."
"Fair." I return to my sketch of him. "But still. He's the jealous type. Possessive. You think he'll appreciate me spending hours studying your anatomy?"
"You're trying to make me nervous."
"Is it working?"
"No."
