"That’s a damn shame," I say, detailing his eyes—pale blue, cold. "Because I'm incredibly bored, and making you uncomfortable is the most entertainment I've had all day."
He doesn't respond, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
We fall into comfortable silence again. Me sketching, him standing guard, the afternoon light shifting across the floor between us. It's almost peaceful. Almost normal. Almost like I'm not a prisoner and he's not my warden.
Then the elevator dings.
I scramble to hide the sketchbook, but it's too late. Ivan steps out, and the air in the room changes. He sees me on the floor with drawings spread around me, and his expression sharpens into dark amusement. Predatory.
"Pyotr," he says without looking at his bodyguard. "Go home."
"Boss—"
"Now."
Pyotr leaves without another word. The elevator doors close, and I'm alone with Ivan, my guilty conscience, and a half-finished sketch of his employee.
A stupid rush hits my chest—heart hammering like I’ve done the unforgivable. Which is… ridiculous.
Ivan moves through the room like a lion after its prey, picks up the sketchbook from where I tried to hide it under the couch, and flips through it, slow and methodical. My eyes never leave him, watching, waiting, panicking.
He pauses on a page. Then another. His mouth curves.
When he looks at me, he's laughing. Actually laughing, low and rough and genuine. The sound twists my insides in a way I refuse to acknowledge.
"Couldn't find anyone better than ugly Pyotr to draw nude?"
"I didn't draw him nude."
“Yet.” He flips another page, examining each one like he’s memorizing them. “But you were thinking about it. I can see it.”
My cheeks flare. “I was bored and ran out of things to draw.”
“Lots of strawberries.”
“Well, what do you expect? Kidnapped artists go stir-crazy.”
“Protective custody.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
He sets the book down carefully and looks at me with those ocean eyes that somehow seeeverything. “You need a subject.”
"Clearly."
"Draw me, naked."
The words are simple and direct.
"You're nuts."
"You've already drawn me a dozen times." His hands go tohis shirt buttons, undoing them slowly. One by one, they expose more muscle. "Might as well have the real thing to reference."
"What are you—" But the words die as the shirt comes off.
Oh.
Oh God.
