She pulls the shirt over her head. It falls to mid-thigh, too big but better than the towel. "Dating now? Are we?"
"Maybe."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the answer you're getting."
She finds underwear—cotton, white, practical—and slides them on under the shirt. The movement makes the fabric ride up, and I see that mark on her hip again. The one from my teeth.
Mine.
She's reaching for jeans when I close the distance between us. My hands find the hem of her shirt.
"What are you—" But I'm already pulling her top up and over her head, dropping it on the floor.
Her face goes red again. "What the fuck, Ivan?"
"You won't need these anymore."
"I—what?"
I reach around to unclasp her bra. The white cotton that matches her underwear. I let it fall.
"Seriously?" Her voice goes high. "Right now?"
"We're going shopping."
"I have clothes."
"You have rags from your old life." My fingers trail her collarbone to her throat, feeling her pulse jump. "My woman doesn't wear Target clearance."
"There's nothing wrong with Target!"
"There is when you're going to be Mrs. Petrov." I step closer, and she backs into the mirror, now trapped between glass and me. "You'll have enemies. Rivals. Women who've been waiting their whole lives for the position you claimed. They'll judge everything—what you wear, how you carry yourself, whetheryour shoes are last season or custom-made. Designer’s not vanity—it’s armor."
She exhales. "That’s insane."
"Welcome to the insane."
I kiss her. "Get dressed. We build you a new version of yourself, or they’ll build one for you."
She studies me for a moment. "Isn't this the part where I'm supposed to be happy? Girl dates rich guy, gets taken shopping, lives the dream?"
"Most girls do."
"I'm not most girls."
"I know." I smile. "That's why I picked you."
She crosses her arms over her chest, self-conscious now that she's standing here mostly naked. "What if I like my old clothes?"
"Then we'll buy you new versions. Better fabric. Better fit. Same style if that's what you want." I pull her hands away to keep her from hiding. "But you're not wearing five-dollar shirts anymore. Not when you're mine."
I step back, forcing myself back into the moment.
"I still have a dress around somewhere,” I continue. “Came with the penthouse. The previous owner's wife left her entire wardrobe. Maybe it’ll fit."
"How do you even know that?"
