33
Leonid
Sleep? Pah. Sleep is for the weak. And I, Leonid Kuznetsov, am not weak.
I pull out of her, my cock still throbbing, and spill my seed onto her stomach. It’s the fourth time tonight, the fourth time I’ve fucked her senseless, and she still wants more.
“Blyat, kotenok,”I groan, my body limp, my muscles spent.“I think you may have sucked the life out of me.”I flop down next to her, my body hitting the bed with a groan of squeaking springs. The mattress creaks beneath my weight, the protest of worn-out coils the perfect soundtrack to my satisfaction.
She wipes herself down with a tissue, the rustle of paper barely audible over the steady hum of the AC. The room is thick with the scent of sex, our bodies still simmering with heat.
“At least my hiccups are gone,” She rolls over, her eyes meeting mine with a mischievous glint.
I raise an eyebrow, my grin lazy and self-satisfied. “Glad I could be of service,kotenok.”
She makes this soft noise, half-purr, half-yawn, then she wriggles closer, molding herself against my side like she’s done it a thousand times before. Like we’re actual lovers instead of… whatever the fuck this is. Her curves fit perfectly into the hard angles of my body, soft skin sliding against mine, one arm draping possessively across my chest. The gesture is so natural, sointimate, it steals my breath.
I stare at the ceiling, counting the shadows cast by headlights passing outside. My body is satisfied, but my mind… my mind is in chaos. No woman has ever made me feel this…
Needy.
As if hearing my thoughts, Clara shifts closer, nuzzling into my chest like a cat seeking warmth. Just yesterday, she wanted me dead, that delicious fire in her blue eyes promising creative ways to end me. Now, here she is in my bed, in myarms—
The irony hits me with the subtlety of a Bratva initiation.
Blyat.
My hand smacks against my forehead, loud enough to startle my own demons awake.
Clara jolts up. “Who?” she mumbles, head popping up like a drowsy meerkat. Her hair is a magnificent disaster, one side flattened where she’d been pressed against me, the other side staging its own revolution. There’s an imprint of my collarbone branded pink across her cheek.
Something unfamiliar claws its way up my throat—a laugh. Not the cold sound I use to watch men squirm, but something genuine that feels like it’s been locked away since before I learned to hold a gun.
You’re getting soft, Leonid. Like a fucking teenager with his first crush. The Bratva don who brings women home to cuddle? Pathetic.
But I’m already pulling her back down, my traitorous hands gentle as they guide her head to rest over my heart. She settles instantly, her breathing evening out as sleep reclaims her.
She melts into me, her weight pressing against my chest as I keep my eyes on the ceiling. Just for today, I’ll let this happen.
Tomorrow, I’ll remember who I am and why I can’t have this.
34
Clara
Someone’s gone full Martha Stewart on my closet while we were at Katerina’s. Every fancy-ass Chanel piece is lined up like soldiers. Kayla’s work—had to be. Woman probably irons Leonid’s underwear.
I pull a towel tighter around myself, water dripping from my hair as I stand in front of the closet. The shower was quick, barely enough to scrub away the mess of vodka, sweat, and regret clinging to me, but now I’m here, staring at rows of silk, lace, and buttons that scream discomfort.
I flick through the hangers, my fingers pausing on a black cashmere sweater before moving on. Today’s underwear—red lace—itches against my hip, a choice I instantly regret. Why didn’t I grab something sensible during that Chanel spree?
Oh, right—because I was too busy grabbing red-bottom heels and leather jackets, acting like a petty diva. One second, I’m playing dress-up, the next, we’re peeling out of the parkinglot like something out of an action movie. Now, all I’ve got is skimpy, lacy, and nowhere near comfy. Perfect for a fancy hostage situation, not so much for surviving Leonid’s unpredictable moods.
I sign, grabbing a white silk dress. Simple. Basic. Unlike the clusterfuck that was last night. Unlike the three hours it took me to get from Katerina’s to here, trying to ignore the way Leonid wouldn’t even look at me. He shoved the helmet at me without a word, kept his visor down the whole ride, like last night hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t whispered “beautiful”against my skin hours before.
Instead, he was distant. Silent. And I’d spent the entire ride with the taste of vodka and remorse in my mouth, trying to forget the way his hands felt on me.
I yank the dress off the hanger, shaking my head.
