Chapter 7 Xander
XANDER
Iwatch Nadya emerge from the metro station at Tverskaya, scanning the crowd for my location.
She wears the same threadbare coat and worn jeans she's had on during every encounter, clothes that mark her as someone who can't afford better.
Today that changes.
"Over here," I call from the back seat window when she passes my car without recognizing it.
She approaches cautiously, probably expecting another crime scene or medical emergency.
The confusion on her face when she sees me sitting in the back seat of a luxury sedan rather than inside a crime scene tells me she hasn't figured out my intentions yet.
"Get in," I order, opening the door.
"Where are we going?" she asks while settling into the leather seat.
She looks around nervously, as if getting into a car with me is inherently more dangerous than crawling on her hands and knees through evidence with a gun to her back.
"Shopping."
I shut the door and nod at my driver who pulls into Moscow traffic.
"You need appropriate clothing for the expanded role you'll be taking in my operations."
"Expanded role?"
"Some of my men require training in evidence disposal and scene management. You'll be teaching them proper techniques."
She seems tense, and I open my coat in front to show her I'm not carrying a weapon this time, hoping it puts her at ease.
"Can't have you looking out of place when you're working with senior personnel."
The explanation is partially true.
I do need someone to train my soldiers in cleanup procedures, and her forensic background makes her ideal for that responsibility.
But the real reason I'm taking her shopping has nothing to do with operational requirements.
I want to see her in clothes that showcase her body properly, want to dress her in expensive fabrics that highlight every curve I've been appreciating during our encounters.
I want to transform her from a desperate woman answering classified advertisements into someone who looks appropriate standing beside me.
"I don't need new clothes," Nadya protests.
"What I have works fine for cleaning… And I don’t think I can train—"
"What you have works fine for scrubbing floors in abandoned buildings. It doesn't work for the environments you'll be entering now.”
My driver turns toward the parking garage.
We almost could’ve walked her from the station, but I can't have her risk being seen with me on the street openly.
My enemies are too hungry for blood and weakness.
"Higher-level operations require higher-level appearance."
"I can't—"
"Shh, Ptichka," I say, which is a nickname that I've decided fits her.
She's like a tiny little bird, scared of her environment and flitting about aimlessly.
"Do as I say, please."
Nadya sighs hard but says nothing more.
We find a spot and park, and she follows me through the entrance, eyes widening at the luxury stores that line the concourse.
No doubt, she'd never be able to afford these places on her own, boutiques that sell designer dresses and jewelry, stores that sell custom made handbags.
"This is too expensive," she says when I guide her toward a women's fashion store.
"I'm paying. Consider it a work uniform allowance."
I'm not taking no for an answer.
Once I got the idea in my head that I had to see her in something feminine for a change, I couldn’t get it out of my head.
And the idea of putting her in lingerie is even more tempting.
She pouts the whole way through the store, but she doesn’t protest anymore.
The sales associate recognizes me immediately and approaches me with a polite smile.
It isn't the first time I've clothed a beautiful woman in expensive things, but last time was more of a seduction that ended in that woman's blood on my hands.
This time is different.
I explain what I need while Nadya stands beside me looking overwhelmed by the opulent surroundings.
"Certainly, sir. We have excellent selections for professional women."
The associate examines Nadya with a trained eye, calculating measurements and style preferences.
"What type of professional environment?"
"Corporate consulting," I reply smoothly.
"Client meetings, business dinners, formal presentations."
All lies, but they provide a framework for the kind of clothing I want to see on her.
Expensive dresses that fit her figure perfectly, business suits that command respect while displaying her feminine attributes, evening wear suitable for the restaurants and clubs where I conduct business.
The associate leads us toward the dress section and begins pulling items from the racks.
Conservative business attire mixed with more revealing options, a range of styles that will test Nadya's comfort level while giving me variety to evaluate.
"Try these on," I tell her, handing her six dresses of different styles and colors.
"All of them?"
Her jaw drops, her eyes going wide.
"All of them. I want to see how each one fits before making purchasing decisions."
"When would I ever wear—"
"Ah, ah… Follow my orders, Ms. Korshin."
I don’t think I have to remind her what I'm capable of, and the last thing I want is to threaten my little bird when I have her right where I want her.
She huffs again but disappears into the dressing room while I settle into a chair positioned to provide optimal viewing when she emerges to model the selections.
The sales associate hovers nearby, ready to suggest accessories or alterations.
The first dress is conservative navy blue, appropriate for business meetings but unremarkable in its coverage.
Nadya steps out looking professional but unrevealing, the fabric concealing more than it displays.
"Too modest," I tell her.
"Try the black one."
The second dress transforms her completely.
Black silk that molds to her curves, showing the outline of her breasts and hips while maintaining sophistication.
The hemline falls mid-thigh, revealing legs that look incredible in the heels the sales associate provided.
"Better," I say, studying how the fabric moves when she walks.
"Turn around."
She complies reluctantly, color rising in her cheeks as she realizes I'm evaluating her body rather than simply approving clothing choices.
The dress hugs her ass perfectly, emphasizing curves that have been hidden beneath shapeless jeans and oversized sweaters.
"How does it feel?" I ask.
"Expensive," she replies quietly.
"Good. Expensive is the goal."
I gesture toward the dressing room.
"Try the red one next."
The red dress pushes boundaries further.
Tighter fit, lower neckline, shorter hemline.
When she emerges, I see a woman who could command attention in any room she enters.
The color brings out warmth in her skin tone, and the cut displays her figure without crossing into inappropriate territory.
It also makes my cock swell and I think I drool a little too.
"This one," I tell the sales associate without taking my eyes off Nadya.
"And the black one."
"Sir, perhaps we should consider more practical options as well," the woman suggests diplomatically.
"Practical isn't the priority today."
I stand and move closer to examine the dress from different angles, walking around her in a circle so I can admire every curve of her body.
"What do you think, Nadya?"
"I think it's beautiful," she admits, smoothing the fabric over her hips.
"But I don't know where I would wear something this formal. The salesperson is right, Xander. This isn't work attire."
Her tone is tense and rushed.
She’s feeling the heat of my gaze, and she's lucky she's not feeling my hands right now.
I'd love to be tracing those curves.
"You'll find occasions."
I let my gaze travel from her face down to her legs and back up slowly, making sure she sees my appreciation.
"Trust me on that."
The flush in her cheeks deepens, but she doesn't look away.
For a moment, attraction overrides embarrassment, and I see desire flicker in her eyes before she turns back toward the dressing room.
She senses it too, the chemistry that haunts me and makes it hard to focus on ensuring she does her job well now.
Fuck if I'm not losing my mind around her.
"Try the others," I order.
She models four more dresses, each one revealing different aspects of her figure.
By the time she's finished, I've seen enough to confirm what I suspected during our previous encounters.
Beneath the worn clothes and exhausted demeanor lives a woman who could stop traffic if properly presented.
"We'll take the black dress, the red one, and the blue suit," I tell the sales associate while Nadya changes back into her own clothes.
"Excellent choices, sir. Shall I show you our accessories selection?"
I smile and turn as Nadya emerges ready to peruse the rest of the store.
By the time we finish shopping, I've spent enough money to cover her living expenses for six months.
Dresses, shoes, jewelry, undergarments that will look incredible against her skin.
Everything needed to transform her from desperate woman to elegant companion.
"This is too much," Nadya says as we load the packages into my car.
"I can't accept all of this."
"You can and you will. Consider it an investment in your professional development."
"What will my sister say?" she hisses, and I see the tremor in her hand.
"Tell her you got a promotion, that you're management now."
I open the door to the car, and she reluctantly slides in.
I won’t let her take the train with these packages. I
'm not a fool.
Some other man would come along and taint the meal I'm preparing.
So I have my driver take her all the way home.
The drive back across Moscow gives me time to appreciate her profile while she stares out the window at passing buildings.
The new clothes will change how others perceive her, but more importantly, they'll change how she perceives herself.
Confidence comes with appropriate presentation, and confidence makes women more attractive.
Ten minutes from her apartment, I notice the black sedan that has been following us for the past several blocks.
They're following us, maintaining proper distance while staying close enough to track our movements.
It's probably not good news, and I hate that Nadya is in the car with me, but we have no choice but to lose them.
"We have a tail," I tell my driver through the intercom, then in the few seconds that follow, I manage to pull Nadya against my body snugly to brace for any sudden shift of speed or trajectory.
She gasps as the sedan accelerates suddenly, ramming into the vehicle following us with enough force to spin it sideways across two lanes of traffic.
Metal screams against metal as both cars slide toward the guardrail, sparks flying from the impact points.
Nadya clings to me instinctively, fingers digging into my jacket as she presses against my side.
Fear radiates from her body, but she has to trust me enough to know I’m safe to cling to.
So I hold her more tightly as the driver floors it to try to slip away.
"Are you hurt?" I ask, wrapping my arm around her shoulders.
"No," she whispers against my chest.
"What was that about?"
"Business competitors expressing dissatisfaction with recent developments."
I hold her closer, feeling her heart racing under my touch.
"Nothing that concerns you directly."
But it does concern her, whether she realizes it or not.
The Brotherhood knows about her existence now, knows she's connected to my operations.
Taking her shopping in public, buying her expensive clothes, holding her close during moments of danger—all of it sends messages about her importance to my organization.
Messages that make her a target.
"Get us out of here," I snap, and the car darts in and out of traffic, making us bump and sway together in the back seat.
Nadya continues to tremble in my arms and suddenly, I'm not looking at her like my cleaner.
I'm feeling possessive and protective.
I want to go back to that car and slit the driver’s throat.
"I feel scared," she admits, still clinging to me, but I feel like the danger is passed.
Whoever that was got tangled up in traffic and we're far enough away that she's safe, but they won't stop until they track her back to her roots.
That's how my world works.
And it means I have to step up my game.
If they think she's on my arm and not just an asset, it puts everything she knows at risk.
"You're safe, Ptichka," I tell her, and this time, instead of the predator stalking her, I feel like the man who will fight to death to protect her.
"I'm not letting them touch you."