Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Lily
Even after a cold shower, I’m still burning up.
I’ve checked my makeup three times, curled my hair twice, and changed my earrings even though no one else would notice the difference. The blue sundress hugs me just right, with silver sandals that make me feel a little braver than I actually am.
I’m nervous as hell about stepping back out there.
Not because he scares me, but because I want him so badly, it feels dangerous, and I don’t want to come across as desperate.
I don’t want to ruin this before it’s even begun.
Because this feels like the first good thing to happen to me in a long time.
Where my brain isn’t constantly scanning for danger.
I’m not waiting for my emotions to take hold of me. All I am thinking about is him.
When I open the door, he’s already looking at me. His eyes drag over me slowly, and he bites down on his lip like it takes actual effort not to touch me. “In-fucking-credible, Lily.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I cross the space between us, taking him in properly for the first time. Dark navy shorts sitting low on his hips, sneakers, and a tight white T-shirt that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. His muscles strain beneath the fabric when he shifts.
“You look handsome,” I say, and I mean it.
Something soft flashes across his face, gone almost as quickly as it appears.
“Shall we?” he asks, holding out his hand.
I place mine in his palm, and the contact sends a jolt straight up my arm, like my body has been waiting for permission to react. His fingers curl around mine, protective and possessive all at once.
“What are we doing?” I ask, tilting my head, looking up at him through my lashes.
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Exploring,” he murmurs. “Fine dining. Seeing some art. A stroll along the beach. Ice cream.”
I smile before I can stop myself.
“That sounds perfect, Drago.”
“Good,” he says, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles. “And then later, I’d like to take you for dinner, baby.”
“I’d love that,” I reply without hesitation.
We head down into the garage, his hand never leaving mine, like letting go isn’t an option. He guides me toward a sleek, glossy McLaren.
I stop short.
“Is that yours?”
He shakes his head, opening the passenger door for me with a small, knowing smile.
“Nope. Borrowing it from a friend. I’ve been instructed to take good care of her.”
I slide into the seat, heart racing, pulse loud in my ears, not from the car. But from the man who closes the door gently, like he already knows how much control he needs around me.
I’m almost wanting to see how far I can push him. See if I can tempt him to break faster.
The art gallery is modern and bright, with white walls and soaring ceilings, sunlight pouring in through massive windows. My chest tightens the second we step inside. It feels like home. Like breathing deeper without realizing I’d been holding it.
Drago notices immediately.
“You relax here,” he says quietly. “Your shoulders drop.”
I smile. “Art does that for me.”
We move slowly from piece to piece. Abstracts. Sculptures. Mixed media installations that make my brain buzz in the best way. I stop in front of a large canvas, blues layered over blacks and silvers, sharp strokes cutting through softer ones.
“This one,” I say. “This feels like survival.”
I turn to explain what I mean.
He isn’t looking at the painting.
He’s looking at me.
Openly. Unapologetically. Like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.
“Drago?” I say softly.
He blinks, like I’ve pulled him out of something. “Sorry.”
“You haven’t looked at a single piece since we walked in.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Not true.”
“Oh yeah?” I tease. “Which one’s your favorite?”
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him.
His voice drops, just for me. “The one right in front of me. She makes me feel like every evil thing I’ve done in my life can be redeemed.
She makes me believe that breaking my rules for her will be the best damn thing that's ever happened. That I no longer survive without purpose, I do it for her.”
My breath catches.
“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper, sliding my hands up his chest before wrapping them around his neck. “But also incredibly cute.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by violence. And now I’m standing in a room full of beautiful things, and all my attention keeps coming back to you.”
His hand lifts, brushing my curls away from my face. “I don’t understand art to this level, only the paintings I do at home,” he continues quietly. “But I understand you. The way you see the world. The way you feel things deeply and still keep going.”
“You’re staring,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “I can’t seem to stop.”
The gallery hums around us, distant voices, soft footsteps, but it feels like we’re suspended in our own pocket of time.
“Has it always been art for you, Lily?” he asks.
My stomach drops, and the truth falls out of my lips. “My art was ballet. Since I was just a kid, right up until my early twenties. I loved it, with every fiber of my being. I’ve never quite found happiness like it since.”
His jaw twitches subtly. “You gave it up?”
“Things happened. I fell out of love. The memories hurt me too much to even put my pointe shoes back on.” I tell him and look away.
I’ve tried a few times. Each time, I didn’t get very far.
I couldn’t even walk into the ballet studio.
Because whenever I’m reminded of dance, I’m reminded of what happened.
I feel a pain so raw that I want to rip my own skin off.
And I hate that. I hate that it’s ruined what once brought me joy.
His hand slides down, gripping my waist. “Would you ever dance for me, lastochka? I’d love to see you in your element once more.”
For a second, I contemplate it. For some reason, with him, I feel like I could take on the world. If he can stand here and go against everything he stands for, his friendship with my father, the man who saved him, just to be with me. Then maybe, just maybe, I can do something scary too. For him.
“Maybe when you show me your paintings, I’ll give you one dance.”
He smirks. “Just one?”
“That is all I can offer right now. One.”
“I’ll take whatever you will give me, Lily.” He presses his lips to mine, and I almost forget we’re surrounded by people.
“Lunch or ice cream?” He asks.
“Ice cream and a walk? I’m too distracted to sit and eat.”
He chuckles. “I know what you mean,”
With every new layer he reveals to me, the deeper our connection becomes. It’s not just about wanting him. It’s about wanting to become a better version of myself, not just for him, but for me too.