The hoodie keeps slipping off one shoulder no matter how many times I adjust it. Between that and the way I have to keep hitching up the pants, I look like a drunk trying to get dressed in the dark.
But it’s better than giving his men another show. And if Leonid has a problem with me ransacking his closet… Well, he shouldn’t have kidnapped someone with such excellent taste in revenge-wear.
I’m about to leave when I spot them—a row of perfectly aligned silk ties. Black, navy, charcoal, repeat. The temptation is too strong.
Five minutes later, I’ve used one as a belt (it matches the joggers; I’m not a complete heathen), stuffed another in my pocket for later because who knows when you might need to tie someone up, and deliberately rearranged the rest in rainbow order.
Take that, you obsessive-compulsive mobster.
I do one final check in the mirror. Still drowning in fabric, still looking absolutely ridiculous, but at least now I’m decent. And if the outfit happens to smell like him… Well, that’s his fault for not providing proper clothes.
“Alright, Kuznetsov,” I say to my reflection, practicing my best fuck-you smile. “Let’s see how you like this look.”
The smile turns real when I imagine his face. After all, he did say to change.
He just never specified how.
The bedroom door creaks open, and I nearly faceplant into a wall of hard muscle.
Leonid.
He fills the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. His double-take would be comical if it wasn’t so satisfying—the almighty Bratva boss, staring at me like I’m some alien creature that crawled out of his closet.
Which, technically, I did.
“What the fuck are you wearing?”
“Your spring collection.” I strike a pose, one hand on my hip, careful not to step on the pools of fabric around my feet. The garbage bag of cashmere joggers shifts dangerously low despite the silk tie holding them up.
“I’m thinking of calling it‘Kidnapped Chic.’”
His eye twitches. Actually twitches.
His gaze travels from the rolled-up sleeves that took five minutes to arrange down to where his thousand-dollar pants puddle around my ankles like expensive drapes.
“Those are Brunello Cucinelli.”
“Really?” I hitch them up for the hundredth time. “They look more like a potato sack to me. Very slimming, though.”
The muscle in his jaw jumps as his eyes catch on the silk tie around my waist. “Is that my Hermès?”
“Oh, this old thing?” I give a little twirl, nearly tripping over the pants legs. “I had to improvise. But don’t worry, I color-coordinated. And I took the liberty of reorganizing your tie collection. Rainbow order really brightens up the space.”
His face does something complicated—like he’s trying to decide between strangling me or laughing.
“Kayla left clothes for you on the bed.”
“Did she? Must have missed them while I was redecorating your closet.”
The look he gives me could freeze hell twice over.
“Put on something else.”
“No thanks.” I start down the hallway, the pants swooshing with each step like some demented symphony. “I’m quite comfortable. Though your taste in sweats is a bit pretentious. Would it kill you to own something from Target?”
His hand wraps around my elbow, and suddenly, I’m facing him again. “You’re doing this to provoke me.”
“Is it working?” I bat my eyelashes, even as my pulse kicks up at his proximity. The hoodie slips off one shoulder again, and his eyes track the movement like a predator.
