Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Elena
"Damn it, where the hell is that model?"
The photographer's roar shook the entire studio. I stood beside the light rack, clutching the shirt I'd just pulled from the steamer, my temples throbbing.
"He says he's got food poisoning." Anna's voice was tiny, like a mosquito's buzz. "But he was posting party pics on Instagram at three a.m., and now he can't get out of bed."
"That bastard." I drew in a deep breath. The studio was fully set up—lights, backdrops, props—with five or six staffers waiting around, burning money every minute. This shoot was the centerpiece for my new line's promo, and the magazine deadline was just three days away.
My spine tightened, that familiar anxiety churning up from my stomach. Four years ago, when my studio was just getting off the ground, I'd faced something like this and nearly broken down in tears. But not now. My mind was already racing through backup plans.
"Call the alternate," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Offer him one-point-five times the rate."
"I'll do it."
The voice came from the entrance, low and assured, carrying an unshakeable authority.
I turned. Igor stood in the doorway, backlit so I couldn't make out his expression, but I felt his powerful presence radiating through the room. He was dressed in a dark gray tailored suit, with tattoo edges peeking from his cuffs.
"What?" I froze.
He strode in, the air seeming to shift with his every step. "I said, I'll be your model."
The photographer eyed him up and down skeptically. "You look the part, sure, but do you have any shooting experience?"
"None." Igor's reply was curt, almost rude. His gaze bypassed the photographer and locked onto me. "But I know how to showcase her designs."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"Igor, this isn't a joke," I said, my voice tightening.
"I don't joke," he interrupted, shrugging off his jacket. "Especially about your career."
The jacket slid away, followed by the tie.
When he started unbuttoning his shirt, the studio fell into an eerie silence.
His movements were unhurried but deliberate, each one pulsing with raw power.
The shirt parted, revealing sculpted chest muscles and abs etched with tattoos that gleamed under the lights—tales of violence, power, and blood.
My breath caught in my throat.
"God," Anna whispered beside me. "Boss, your boyfriend's a walking masterpiece."
The photographer was clearly stunned. He circled Igor professionally, his doubt shifting to excitement.
"Build's incredible—way better than that damn pro. The tattoos fit the rebel vibe perfectly. Hell, you're a living clothes hanger!" He glanced at me. "Elena, what do you think?"
I approached Igor, holding the steamed shirt—the star piece of the new line. Black silk, sharp tailoring, with a hand-embroidered silver totem at the collar.
"Arms up," I said, my voice coming out huskier than intended.
He complied, those storm-green eyes never leaving my face.
I slipped the shirt over him, my fingers inevitably brushing his skin. It was scorching hot, like it could burn me. I felt the rise and fall of his chest, inhaled that intoxicating mix of cedar and danger.
My fingers trembled slightly as I fastened the buttons.
"Nervous?" he murmured, just loud enough for us alone.
"Shut up. You're the one who should be," I glared at him. "Don't move."
But when my fingertips grazed the skin over his heart, feeling that powerful beat, my own pulse went erratic.
"Perfect," the photographer's voice burst our bubble. "Let's shoot!"
Over the next two hours, I witnessed Igor's innate talent in front of the camera.
He needed minimal direction—every pose brimmed with power and intensity. Standing still, he was like a statue. In motion, he moved like a leopard poised to strike.
"Turn and look at Elena," the photographer directed.
Igor's eyes found mine.
The flash fired, and the world went quiet. His gaze was too intense, too raw, like he wanted to pull me into those green depths. My heart pounded, my palms grew slick with sweat.
"Amazing!" the photographer shouted, exhilarated. "That look! Hold it!"
But I knew—it wasn't acting. It was genuine hunger.
During the outfit change, I adjusted his collar on a deep-V tank that exposed swaths of his tattooed chest.
"Lower the neckline," I said, my fingers hooking the edge.
His breath quickened. I looked up and caught him staring, his eyes deep enough to drown in.
"Elena," he rasped, voice low.
"Just fixing your clothes," I played dumb, but my face flushed hot.
"You're teasing me," he said, grabbing my wrist, his thumb stroking my pulse. "I can feel how fast your heart's racing."
"It's work time," I pulled back, my voice shakier than I wanted. "Be professional, Mr. Vorontsov."
He chuckled low, the sound making my knees weak.
For the final set, focusing on clothing details, I knelt to adjust his pant hems. From this angle, looking up, I saw his taut jawline and the subtle roll of his Adam's apple.
"Don't look at me like that," he said suddenly, his voice strained like a taut string.
"What?"
"On your knees, staring up with those eyes," his fingers raked through his hair. "Keep it up, and I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you to the changing room—right in front of your staff."
I shot to my feet, my face burning.
The photographer called it. "That's a wrap! Great work, everyone!"
The staff began packing up. Anna sidled over. "Boss, the pics are incredible! This line's going to explode. And your guy? Total vibe. Ever think about signing him as a brand ambassador?"
Before I could respond, a large hand encircled my waist from behind.
"No," Igor's voice rumbled in my ear. "I model only for her."
Anna grinned knowingly and slipped away. The studio emptied out, leaving just the two of us.
He turned me to face him. Those green eyes burned with something dangerous.
"Thanks," I said, trying to keep things normal. "You really saved the day."
He took my hand and pressed it to his chest—right over his heart.
"Here," his voice was low and earnest, his gaze so intense it stole my breath. "I want your name tattooed."
I blinked. "What?"
"Or 'Property of Elena,'" his thumb rubbed my knuckles. "So the world knows I belong to you."
My brain short-circuited for a few seconds.
"Are you insane?" I tried to pull back, but he held tight. "Tattoos are permanent—you can't just—"
"It's not an impulse," he interrupted, his eyes deadly serious. "I've thought about this for a long time. Since you said you're not my property, I realized—I can be yours. I am yours."
My heart clenched tight.
"Igor."
"I know it's crazy," he continued, his voice laced with a rare vulnerability. "But I need this."
He pressed my hand harder, his strong heartbeat thudding against my palm—thud, thud.
"I'm yours, Elena," he leaned in, forehead against mine. "Completely yours."
My breathing turned ragged. This man who controlled New York's underworld, the Bratva Don who made so many tremble in fear, was looking at me with an almost humble gaze, begging me to mark him as my own.
"You don't need to do this." My voice trembled.
"I do," he insisted. "Let me do this, Elena. Please."
That "please" broke through my last defenses. I nodded.
I watched as Igor opened my desk drawer and pulled out a professional tattoo kit—I had no idea when he'd stashed it there.
"You planned this," I accused.
"Yeah," he admitted without shame, starting to set up the tools. "I had the best artist teach me the basics."
"So you're doing it yourself?"
"No," he looked up, his gaze steady. "You are."
"What!" I jumped back. "I can't! I'll ruin your skin!"
"Even better," he said, stripping off his shirt. "It'll be your marks on me."
Bare-chested, he stepped closer and placed the tattoo gun in my hand.
"Hold my hand," he said. "I'll control the pressure and angle. You just follow my lead."
My hand was shaking.
"Igor, this is insane."
"I know," he gripped my hand firmly. "But I want to be insane—with you."
In the end, I gave in.
He sat on the sofa, and I straddled his lap. His large hand enveloped mine on the gun, guiding it to trace the letters on his skin.
"P-r-o-p-e-r-t-y..." I whispered.
Each letter, each line of ink, came with the buzz of the needle piercing skin. He didn't make a sound of pain, just watched my face intently.
"Does it hurt?" I asked, my voice tight.
"No," he said, though I felt his muscles tense. "Keep going."
"o-f..."
We were so close. His breath warmed my forehead, his scent making me dizzy. One of his hands steadied my waist, his thumb circling gently.
"E-l-e-n-a."
As the last letter finished, I set the gun down, my hands still trembling.
"Property of Elena," he read it aloud, his voice thick with a reverent satisfaction.
The black letters were etched permanently above his heart, the surrounding skin slightly red and swollen.
Something burst open in my chest. I leaned in and kissed him. He froze for a second, then exploded into action. His arms tightened around me, pulling me close, his kiss fierce and urgent, like he wanted to consume me.
"Elena," he gasped against my lips, voice hoarse. "I want you."
I responded with my own kiss. His hands slowly undid the buttons of my shirt, each one revealing more skin that he kissed tenderly.
"You know what I was thinking while you tattooed me?" he asked, his voice raspy.
I shook my head, my breathing already erratic.
"That these hands were marking me forever."
My clothes were completely removed. He laid me back on the sofa, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin. His gaze swept over my body slowly, so intense it made me want to hide, yet I couldn't look away.
"Perfect," he murmured, his thumb tracing the skin under my ribs. "Every inch is perfect."
"Igor," I whispered his name instinctively.
"I'm here," Igor said, sliding off his pants and boxers, his huge, rock-hard cock springing free.