♛Chapter twenty Two♛
Lola
Currently, I’m in the studio I should have refused.
I should have thrown the key back in his smug, groveling face.
But when I stepped into my apartment last night and nearly drowned in a sea of canvases, I knew pride alone wouldn’t keep me sane.
So, like the practical woman I am, I accepted the gift.
Might as well make the most of a six-foot-five man trying to buy back my good graces.
Not that I’m letting him off the hook. He broke my pride. Then, somehow, the bastard stitched it back together, right in front of the person he shattered it for.
I wipe a streak of charcoal off my fingers, and smear it across my wrist instead. Perfect . The last of my commissions are finally finished, neatly stacked and ready to be shipped out. I close my eyes as someone knocks on the studio door. Exhale through my nose. Manifest patience.
The door swings open, revealing a woman in a crisp white suit. “Mr. Volkov is requesting you in his office.”
“Requesting?” That’s a new one.
She waits, expectant, like I’m about to hop to my feet and rush into his arms.
“That’s cute. But if he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me.” Because I’m not the one chasing after him. Not anymore. Despite how it goes against every ounce of my instinct.
The woman stares at me like I just slapped her across the face with a wet paintbrush. As if the idea of someone telling Mikhail Volkov “no” short-circuited her entire system.
She scowls and gives a tight nod. “Understood.”
I watch as she turns on her heel and heads upstairs, no doubt to deliver the message.
I return to my work, but my peace doesn’t last long.
Mere minutes later, I hear the heavy sound of footsteps descending.
I don’t look up right away, even when I feel the weight of his presence settle over the room.
His fingers brush under my chin, tilting my face toward him, and my stomach does this traitorous little drop.
Mikhail Volkov looks like sin wrapped in a suit.
He takes my hand and brings it to his lips.
The kiss is soft. Deceptively gentle. It doesn’t belong to the man I know him to be.
“I have something planned for us tonight, sweetheart.”
“Funny. I was free yesterday. I’m not today.”
“What’s keeping you busy?” There’s a glint of something violent in his eyes.
“I have a date.”
“With who?” he hisses.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “With my bathtub. And a book.”
“Cancel it.”
“Oh, absolutely not. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
“I’ll handcuff us together if that’s what it takes.”
“Would love to see you try.”
The challenge makes his nostrils flare. His free hand ghosts over my waist. “You think I won’t?”
“I know you won’t.” I tap a finger against his chest. “Because, despite everything, you don’t actually want to piss me off.”
“I don’t want to piss you off,” he agrees, his lips curling. “I want to ruin you.”
Something inside me stutters, but I refuse to let it show. “Get in line.”
He groans, tilting his head back. “I should have tied you to my bed when I had the chance.”
“Who says you ever had the chance?”
There’s nothing playful in his expression anymore. Just hunger. Pure, unfiltered obsession. “Because you still wear my marks,” he murmurs.
***
That fucker actually did it.
I’m twisted in an uncomfortable angle in the car, my wrist locked to his by cold, unrelenting steel.
The bastard dragged me home, stripped me bare like I was nothing but his personal doll, and redressed me himself.
He even styled my hair, smoothing his fingers through the strands.
And now, here I am. Handcuffed. To him. Outside the goddamn Metropolitan Museum of Art.
My eyes widen to the size of saucers when I realize where we are.
“No.” I hiss.
“Yes.”
I dig my heels into the ground as he tries to lead me forward. “You booked out the entire museum?”
“I did.” His grip tightens around mine, the handcuffs clinking with the movement. “Only the best for you.”
“You’re insane.” I struggle against him, trying to yank my wrist free even though it’s pointless. “We are not walking in there like this.”
“And how do you plan to stop me? Fight me? In public? In front of all these people?” His smirk widens, teeth flashing. “Do it, then. Let them see exactly how much control I have over you.”
“Take them off.”
Mikhail clicks his tongue and slides a hand over my stomach, yanking me flush against him. “I like us just the way we are. You, trapped against me; everyone watching, knowing exactly who you belong to.”
“I promise I won’t pull anything. Just take them off.”
“A promise? From you?” His lips brush my temple. “Forgive me, sweetheart, but I trust your promises as much as I trust a snake not to bite.”
I twist against him, scowling. “You are so full of yourself.”
“And you’re full of lies,” he hums. “But that’s alright. Lie all you want. Just don’t expect me to believe you.”
Before I can come up with another protest, a well-dressed museum curator greets us. His expression is polite, respectful, until his gaze drops to the handcuffs. His throat bobs, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Everything is set?”
“Yes, Mr. Volkov,” the man answers smoothly. “You have complete privacy. Take your time.”
Mikhail gestures toward the doors. “After you.”
“After you, considering you’ve got me shackled like a fucking prisoner.”
I let him lead me inside, and the moment we step through the grand entrance, I feel the weight of it all settle over me. The silence, the history, the art—all of it belongs to me tonight.
Or rather, it belongs to us.
And that’s when it hits me. Mikhail Volkov, unhinged and possessive as he is, just gifted me the one thing I love most in the world. This man sure knows how to grovel. Too bad I’m not the forgiving type.
The museum is silent except for the click of my heels against the marble floor and the occasional clink of the handcuffs when I forget that I’m shackled to a madman.
He’s walking at a leisurely pace, completely at ease.
I stop in front of a Renaissance painting, crossing my arms the best I can with my wrist still locked to his. “This is ridiculous.”
“You wound me, sweetheart. I give you the Met, and you call me ridiculous.”
“You fucking handcuffed me.”
“You left me no choice.”
“Or you could have chosen to leave me alone.”
“If I had left you alone, you’d still be hiding from me, convincing yourself that you can resist me.”
“Resist what, exactly? Your charming ability to take no as an invitation?” I know I’m a hypocrite, because that was me at some point. But nothing stops me from talking back.
“You think this is madness? This is nothing.”
“So what, you’ll lock me in a tower next?”
“Tempting.”
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
I focus back on the painting. “You know, I’d actually appreciate this if you weren’t being so insufferable.”
“You do appreciate it. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Keep talking like that, and I might start charging you to breathe the same air as me.” Mikhail’s laugh is low, sinful. “You’d put a price on my suffering?”
“You are a millionaire,” I deadpan. “Might as well squeeze some benefits out of this whole hostage situation.”
“I’d fund your entire existence with a smile on my face.”
“You’re lucky I like art…”
“I’m lucky you like me.”
“Debatable.”
Mikhail only smirks, utterly unbothered as he tugs metoward the next exhibit. “Let’s continue our tour, shall we?”