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I exhale shakily. This is getting dangerous; I can’t let myself get attached to him. No matter how good it feels when we... well... you know. The man bought me, for God’s sake! But damn, if those abs aren’t distracting me from my mission then I’m Mary freaking Poppins. But then again, I can’t allow myself to take my eyes off the prize: get away and build a life outside of his control.
Outside of anyone’s control.
I slide out of bed, my body still tingling from the aftermath of our heated encounter last night. I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it, let alone enjoying it. I shake my head for the hundredth time, trying to clear my mind as I head into the bathroom for a shower. The water washes over me, but it does nothing to cool down the heat he’s ignited in me.
I step out and wrap a towel around my body. Kirill is waiting for me when I exit the bathroom, his eyes raking over my damp form appreciatively.
I can feel his eyes on me as I dress, and it makes me self-conscious. I’ve never been one to flaunt my body, and under his intense gaze, I can’t help but feel like I’m putting on some sort of exotic show.
He doesn’t say anything until I’ve pulled a T-shirt over my head.
“You know,” he murmurs, as if mulling something over. “you have a beautiful body. It is a shame to hide it under these ugly clothes.” My face burns as his eyes linger on my breasts, then lower. “You could show those tits off more… they’re fucking world-class.” He steps closer, his voice low and husky in my ear. “You’d be surprised by the effect you have on people.”
“By ‘people,’ you mean you?” I try to keep my tone light, but it’s hard to hide my crimson cheeks.
“Yes, I mean me, Tiana. But I wouldn’t be the only one.” The way he says my name send shivers down my spine, and I hurry to finish dressing as he watches.
“Come,” he says when I’m done, taking my hand and leading me out of the room. I almost trip over my feet trying to keep up with his long strides as he steers me through the luxurious halls of his massive mansion, his palm splayed possessively at my lower back. It makes me tremble. I’m not used to being touched like this; this casual possession he displays as his hand moves over me. His fingers caress the nape of my neck as we walk over plush carpets, past vibrant paintings. And through it all, I try my best not to show how much I enjoy his touch, keeping my gaze straight ahead.
He brings me to a part of the mansion I saw briefly during the tour he gave me that first night. I haven’t had much time to explore again since then - when we’re together, we’re in bed, and when we’re not, I have a team of guards shadowing me. I’d resent it, but there is something different between us now… something has changed after the night he told me about his mother.
I’ve visited her regularly since then - my only contact with another human aside from Kirill or the staff and guards who attend me. After his initial reluctance, he relented and decided that it might do her good to have some company. Me too. And a small part of me is starting to wonder if he’s such a monster after all.
Yeah, right.
Don’t forget how you ended up here.
You were bought like a piece of meat.
Either way, I can’t allow myself to lose focus on my end goal: getting the hell out of here and, for the first time ever, living a life where I’m not someone’s possession.
“What are we doing?” I ask him as we walk into the room.
“You’ll see.” He grins enigmatically.
I feel my mouth drop open as I look around us. The room - which I could only describe as a salon - is as luxurious as I remember it, except today, it’s different. Racks upon racks of designer clothes line the walls, shoes, and accessories galore laid out in neat rows beneath them.
In the center of the room, a red carpet has been laid out, leading toward a small grouping of comfortable chairs. Against the back wall is a table laden with breakfast dishes. I can catch the aroma of bacon, coffee, and pastries. As I stand there taking it in, one of Kirill's house staff comes to meet us.
“Sir. Miss.” He nods courteously. “Champagne?” Before I can answer, Kirill reaches for the crystal flutes he’s holding out on a silver tray and heads toward the seating area.
“Come,” he says without looking back at me. He stops beside an elegant blue velvet sofa facing the path created by the carpet. “Sit.” Everything he says has a way of sounding like a command, and somehow I find myself hovering beside him. I sit without questioning him, taking the glass when he extends it to me.
“What’s going on?” I’m trying not to let my eyes bug out, but it becomes impossible when an anxious-looking man with a measuring tape around his neck rushes toward us.
“Mr. Vyronov! It is an honor. Such a great honor!” He bows his head in greeting before straightening up and giving me an appraising once-over. “And this must be our guest of honor.” He smiles at me. “I am Emile, at your service, Mademoiselle.” His voice is accented, but I can’t quite make out the origins. It could be French, British, or Italian, but somehow, I suspect it’s something he’s invented. Regardless, he seems very excited to be with us because his hands flutter like the wings of a bird.
Kirill leans back against the seat. “I want her in something... more flattering,” he says casually, sipping from his champagne flute, one arm draped over the back of the sofa. My cheeks burn even hotter, but before I can protest, the little man is nodding eagerly and snapping his fingers. Music begins to play - something jazzy and sensual - and a woman emerges from a door at the end of the room, and then another.
I stare in astonishment as a parade of models strut down the red carpet, each one more stunning than the last. They’re wearing a series of outfits that range from sexy cocktail dresses to flowing gowns, and even some lingerie that leaves very little to the imagination.
Kirill watches me intently, sipping his champagne as if this is an everyday occurrence for him. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, feeling self-conscious in my oversized T-shirt and leggings. The models are all tall and slender with perfect figures, and they glide by like they belong on a runway. I, on the other hand, feel like a duckling among swans.
The first model stops in front of us, twirling around in a figure-hugging black dress that moulds her curves in all the right places. The fabric shimmers under the light, and I can't help but admire how it accentuates her slender figure. She’s followed by another wearing a flowing red gown that trails behind her like a crimson river of silk. Then comes another in a lacy negligee that reveals more than it conceals.
My cheeks burn brighter with each passing outfit, but Kirill doesn’t bat an eye. And he seems completely oblivious to the beautiful women in front of us.
“Well?” he asks casually, as if this isn’t the most surreal thing I’ve ever experienced. “Which ones do you like?” I open my mouth to protest again about how ridiculous this is when he adds, “Pick whatever you want.”
