“I spared it. You’re welcome.”
He folds his arms, like this is some noble act of mercy. “The fridge, though. That was criminal. I was genuinely concerned about your nutrition.”
“Let me get this straight. You picked my lock, invaded my home, and now you’re… judging my grocery habits?”
“I’ve seen war zones with better nutritional balance.”
I blink at him. Then at the bags.
My brain tries to form a sentence, but it’s stuck somewhere betweenare you kidding meandis this a stress dream?I walk over to the table, slow, like the bags might explode if I breathe too hard.
Prada.
Aritzia.
Theory.
Vince.
Brands I usually scroll past while eating off-brand cereal in my pajamas. One of the shopping bags is matte black with subtle gold lettering and tissue paper so thick it could be legally considered upholstery.
I glance up at Boris. “You broke into my apartment… to judge my groceries and then buy me clothes?”
“And underwear,” he adds helpfully.
JesusChrist.
I look down at the bags again. They’re justsittingthere, like it’s normal for a kidnapped woman to be given a mob-sponsored Nordstrom haul. Like this is some Bratva version of a makeover montage.
I reach in and pull out a pencil skirt. Dark charcoal. Tailored. Gorgeous. It feels like sin and competence had a baby.
It also looks a lot like the one I saw at Target last month, and told myselfnobecause it was $29.99 and I still had rent to pay.
This one still has the tag.
$875.
I do the math in my head automatically—because that’s what I do—and nearly choke. That’s…twenty-eight hours of after-tax pay. For one skirt. One.
“Nope,” I say. “This isn’t happening. This is a hallucination brought on by trauma and MSG.”
But my hands are already moving. Pulling out a silk blouse. A pair of jeans thatmightactually fit my hips without giving me circulation issues. A soft green sweater that I would’ve tried on at the mall, stared at in the mirror, then quietly put back because I couldn’t justify it.
The clothes are perfect.
It’s like he crawled inside my head and pulled out my ideal wardrobe.
I catch my reflection in the penthouse windows, standing in a luxury apartment, surrounded by armed men, holding expensive clothes that were bought for me by someone who commits murder for a living.
I don’t recognize the woman in the reflection.
“Try them on,” Lev suggests, grinning like this is brunch and not a hostage situation.
Anton’s head shifts. Just slightly.
But it’s enough.
That side-eye has the same effect as a loaded gun. Maybe worse.
