The anticipation is coiled tight in my chest.
Misha's driving, silent. He knows better than to speak after operations like this. After we've lost people.
I check my phone. A text from Pyotr, hours ago:“Girl ordered food. Gave her burner like you said, Boss. She tense for some reason.”
I almost smile. Of course she is. Spending the entire day sketching her fantasies, knowing I’ll see them. Knowing what comes after.
Misha glances at me in the rearview mirror but says nothing. Smart. He knows better than to ask where my head is. Knows the only thing that keeps me sane anymore is her.
Other than security, the building lobby is empty this late—just past midnight, the city winding down. I take the private elevator and ascend forty floors while I think about her waiting. About whether she's asleep or awake, clothed or naked, ready or scared.
The doors open directly into my home. The city lights filter through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the dark interior in shades of blue and amber. I move quietly through the space, checking rooms out of habit. Kitchen empty. Living room clear. Office untouched.
Her bedroom door is open.
I find her on the bed, surrounded by drawings. She's fallen asleep sitting up, sketchbook still in her lap, charcoal smudged on her fingers and across one cheek. She’s wearing nothing but one of my white shirts. It's riding up her thighs, showing the curve of her hip, bare skin, and the shadow between her legs.
Moonlight through the windows paints her silver and blue.
I watch for a moment, memorizing her face relaxed in sleep. Her blonde hair falling across her cheek in waves. The trust required to sleep this deeply in what she still probably considers a prison. The vulnerability tugs at my chest.
Then I see the drawings.
They're everywhere. Spread across the bed like a deck of pornographic cards, scattered on the floor, propped against the nightstand. She's been working all day; that much is clear. Each one rendered in careful detail, shaded to perfection.
I carefully pick up the first one, not wanting to smudge the charcoal.
It's us. She’s pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, hands splayed on the glass. I’m behind, taking her hard. The city spreads below, distant and oblivious. She's drawn it from a side angle that shows everything—the arch of her spine, my hand fisted in her hair, her mouth open mid-moan.
She's captured the reflection in the glass, showing both the act and its mirror image. The way city lights illuminate skin and create shadows. The exhibitionism of being fucked where anyone with binoculars could witness our depravity.
My cock goes rigid, straining against my zipper hard enough to hurt.
I set the page down, hands unsteady. The next one I pick up is wrinkled, creased like it’s been hiding secrets.
It depicts her under my desk, on her knees, while shadowy figures sit around the room. A meeting, clearly. The Bratva captains gathered while she's hidden below, making it impossible for me to think about anything except her mouth.
Christ. The audacity of it. The danger.
Another drawing: She’s bound to my bed with intricate rope work. Not tied casually—she’s artistically bound, the rope creating geometric patterns across her skin. Her wrists lie secured above her head, legs spread wide and tied to the corners, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. She's drawn her face in this one, and the expression is pure surrender.
My hands quake as I reach for the next.
It shows her bent over the hood of my Bentley in the private garage. I’m behind her, one hand on her throat, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises. She's drawn the car’s chrome details, the expensive paint job—everything crisp and clear.
Then a shower scene with her pressed against glass walls,water streaming down our bodies, my hand braced beside her head while I take her from behind. Steam clouds some details, but not the one that matter most.
There's one of her riding me in my office chair while I'm on a phone call. She's drawn herself with confidence I haven't seen from her in real life yet, taking what she wants, controlling the pace, using me for her pleasure while I try to maintain composure on a business call.
"Jesus Christ, Lila."
She stirs at my voice, eyes opening slowly, taking a moment to focus. When she sees me holding her drawings, she goes completely and utterly still. Color floods her face, visible even in the dim light.
"You told me to be creative," she says, voice rough with sleep.
"Creative doesn't begin to cover this." I gesture at the evidence surrounding us. "These are a fucking manifesto of depravity."
Her face flushes deeper. "You said filthy."
