Lev climbs onto a sofa nearby, already pulling on his headphones and opening a book about planets.
I hesitate, but Kirill leans closer, his lips near my ear. “You belong here, solnishko. Just like anyone else.”
I want to believe him, but I’ve never fit anywhere, and a place like this is a lifetime away from who I am.
“Go have fun. And I want to see everything you try on.”
“Everything?” I tease, getting brave.
The second the word leaves me, his gaze flicks to my lips and stays there just a little too long.
“Ty menya s uma svedesh,” he growls, biting my earlobe like he can’t help himself.
The reaction is immediate: my pulse stumbling, a throb pulsing between my thighs.
God, this is wrong…but I don’t want to pull away.
“I need you to go to the back now.” He steps away, a fist tightening at his side.
My face burns, suddenly aware of the way his attention clings to me even from a distance.
“And take your time,” he adds as he lowers himself into one of the velvet chairs.
His long legs stretch out as he unbuttons his cuffs and pushes his navy dress shirt up his veiny forearms, and I can’t stop picturing those arms pinning me to the mattress as he takes me roughly.
“Try everything,” he adds. “We’re not leaving until you have what you need.”
What I need is for my heart to stop racing every time he looks at me like that, but I don’t think they stock that here.
The next hour blurs. I’m ushered in and out of a dressing room easily three times the size of my old bedroom, slipping into soft blouses and perfectly cut jeans, cozy sweaters and dresses that fall just right. They put me in things I never would have taken off a hanger, and every time I step out, Kirill’s gaze moves over me, quietly assessing.
“We’ll take that,” he says when I turn uncertainly in a pale blue floral dress.
“Are you sure?” I smooth the skirt over my thighs, feeling like I’m playing dress-up. “I don’t really have anywhere to wear something like this.”
“You will,” he says simply.
A pale green wrap dress earns the same verdict. So do the lounge sets, the coats, the denim that hugs all my curves.
When I protest—because the growing pile of “yes” pieces is getting ridiculous—he just looks at the saleswoman and says, “All of it.”
“Allof it?”
Are you insane, sir?
He cuts me a look that saysstop arguingand swivels back to the staff. “She will also need gowns. Formal. Different styles. Events, dinners, charity events. Nothing overly revealing.”
One of the women nods and leads me back into the dressing room. A moment later, she returns with a rack of shimmering fabrics, rich colors, and delicate beading. My stomach flips. The idea of standing beside him in places where people actually belong in clothes like this makes me feel painfully out of place.
After I show him a few, he selects five without hesitation.
Then the saleswoman brings out lingerie and nightgowns, and my eyes widen.
“Ugh. I don’t think I’ll be needing those.”
She chuckles. “Mr. Marinov insisted you have all kinds of undergarments, so we want to make sure you have the essentials.”
“And these are essentials?”
