The notes stir something inside me, a memory I haven’t thought about in years.Jake.His hands on the keys, his lopsided grin as he played the same silly song over and over just to make me laugh.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little bug,”he’d sing, dragging out the notes in the worst falsetto imaginable. His voice would crackon purpose as he added ridiculous lines,“Climbed a tree and squashed a slug,”before shooting me a mischievous look.
I’d collapse into giggles every single time, my cheeks aching from smiling so hard.
“You’re awful,” I’d manage between fits of laughter, but he’d just keep going, making the lyrics worse and worse until neither of us could breathe.
I press another key, softer this time, but the weight in my chest grows heavier. My vision blurs, and before I can stop myself, a tear slips down my cheek, landing on the edge of the piano with a soft splatter.
“Can’t sleep?”
The voice is low, deep, and it sends a jolt through me like a livewire.
I whip around, and there he is, standing in the doorway like he owns the universe. Because he does.
Leonid Kuznetsov in a sharp black suit that looks painted on, the top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to hint at the hard lines of his chest. His hair is slightly mussed like he’s run his fingers through it one too many times tonight, and his dark eyes burn as they sweep over me.
“What are you doing here?” His voice is quieter now but no less intense, like every word is a hook meant to drag me closer.
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. My pulse quickens, and the room suddenly feels too small, too hot.
42
Clara
Well, shit.Of all the ways to get caught snooping—here I am with a tear-stained face. My finger is still stuck on middle C, like an idiot. Though really, if he didn’t want people playing his secret piano, maybe he shouldn’t leave doors unlocked. Just saying.
His eyes drag over me slowly, deliberately, from my bare feet to my definitely-not-tear-stained face, like he can see right through the silk robe to the barely-there nightgown underneath. The undone bow tie hanging around his neck should make him look disheveled. Instead, he looks like sin in a bespoke suit. Perfect. This is exactly how I wanted him to find me—crying over his piano while playing dress-up in his stolen clothes. Totally nailing this whole captive-spy thing.
I slowly lift my finger off the piano key, like maybe if I move carefully enough, he won’t notice me standing here in his private room.
“I…”
The softclickof the door lock sliding into place has me freezing mid-movement.
“Care to explain this little performance?” His voice is rough, rumbling, like a diesel engine on a cold start.
My head snaps toward him, my pulse a staccato rhythm in my chest. “What?” I manage, my voice higher than I’d like.
Leonid takes a step forward, and the air in the room shifts, heavy with something I can’t quite name. His dark eyes gleam, anger simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s the heat in his gaze that leaves me breathless.
“Do you like snooping, Clara?” Another step, and I swear I can feel the heat of him despite the distance still between us. “Or was this about finding something to use against me?”
His words should sting, should make me defensive, but all I can focus on is how tightly his jaw is clenched, the way his hand flexes at his side like he’s fighting the urge to reach for something—or someone.
“I wasn’t…” My voice falters, and I hate the way he tilts his head just slightly like he’s caught a weakness and plans to exploit it.
Oh, hell no.
Clara Caldwell doesn’t stutter. She doesn’t falter, and she sure as hell doesn’t let men with God complexes and jawlines carved by Lucifer himself make her knees weak.
What is wrong with me?
He steps closer. Silent. Deliberate.
The space between us shrinks, and my breath hitches—too quick, too loud. I clench my jaw, but it doesn’t stop the heat crawling up my neck. His hand skims the edge of the piano. His brown eyes look darker now, almost black in the dim light, like they’re swallowing everything in their path. They’re locked on me.
I shift my weight, willing my body to move, but it doesn’t listen. Instead, my fingers curl tighter around the edge of the piano.
