Chapter 5 Playing Dress-Up For The Devil
PLAYING DRESS-UP FOR THE DEVIL
DANI
Snow-bright light punched through the floor-to-ceiling windows and straight into my skull.
I rolled toward the other side of the bed on instinct, reaching for a body that wasn’t there. My mind felt relief this killer wasnt there, but my body felt something else I couldn’t admit. In his place was a rectangle of folded paper lying where a six-foot-plus Russian menace should’ve been.
Of course he was gone. Again.
The note was written in sharp, decisive handwriting that somehow managed to look elegant and threatening at the same time.
Be dressed. You have twenty minutes.
That was it. No “good morning.” No explanation. No emoji.
Be dressed for what? A funeral? Mine?
I was still staring at the paper, trying to decide if I was insulted or terrified, when a hard knock ricocheted through the penthouse.
I jerked upright, clutching the sheet to my chest. “Uh—”
The door opened anyway.
A small army swept in like they were storming a castle instead of a kidnapping crime scene.
Leading the charge was a woman who looked like she charged by the ounce.
Ice-blonde hair in a sleek chignon, cheekbones that could probably cut glass, red lips painted with military precision.
Behind her: three more people dragging wheeled cases and garment bags, all black-clad efficiency and dead eyes.
“Ms. Morales,” the blonde said in accented English, her smile razor-thin. “I am Svetlana. We are here to prepare you.”
Prepare me?
Not ominous at all.
“I’m sorry, there’s been some kind of mistake.” I gripped the sheet tighter. “I didn’t order—”
“No mistake.” Svetlana’s smile didn’t move, but her eyes flattened. “Mr. Zverev’s orders.”
Zverev.
File under: Things That Might Be Helpful If I Survive This.
Before I could protest, they were on me. Someone thrust a bundle of silk into my free hand. Another snapped a portable mirror open on the dresser. A third started laying out trays of makeup like this was a Vogue shoot and not my hostage makeover.
“Really, I can do my own makeup,” I tried. “I mean, I’ve been using eyeliner since middle school. I’m basically a professional disaster.”
No one cared.
They moved around me like a pit crew at the world’s most high-stakes race. Russian and English ping-ponged over my head—brands, color codes, something about undertones and winter palettes.
Fine. If you can’t beat them, spy on them.
I shut up and listened.
“The boss is tense today,” one of the assistants muttered in English while sorting lipsticks by shade. “More than usual.”
Tense. Great. Just what you want in a man who runs executions between tree rows.
“Did you hear about the charity event?” another asked, switching to English with a London-tilt accent. “He donated again. Children’s hospital this time.”
I blinked.
Children’s hospital?
“He funds that scholarship program too,” a third chimed in, dusting something glittery near my collarbones. “My nephew got one. Full ride. First in our family to go to university.”
My attention sharpened in spite of myself.
Scholarships. Hospitals. This was not on the Mafia Boss Bingo card.
“And the factory last year,” the makeup artist said, dabbing concealer under my eyes like she owned my face. “My sister worked there. They were closing right before Christmas. Boss bought it. Kept everyone on.”
This has to be PR bullshit. He probably has talking points stapled under their tongues.
Except they didn’t sound scripted. They sounded… grateful. Soft around the edges in a way people faking didn’t bother to be.
Maybe they’re just incredibly well-paid liars.
Maybe there are pieces of him I haven’t seen yet.
Maybe that’s even worse.
“Enough talking.” Svetlana reappeared with a long garment bag, snapping it open with a flourish. “Time for dress.”
The dress inside made my lungs forget their job.
Black silk poured from the hanger like liquid sin. Cut to cling to every curve, neckline plunging to somewhere dangerous, hem just this side of indecent.
This wasn’t a dress.
This was a weapon.
“I can’t wear that,” I said automatically.
“You can.” Svetlana steered me toward the bathroom with surprising strength. “And you will. Mr. Zverev was very specific.”
Specific.
Requirements. Like I was a piece of equipment being prepped for deployment, not a human being who’d accidentally wandered into the wrong movie.
The bathroom mirror confirmed my worst fears.
The dress fit like it had been tailored on my skin. The silk hugged my hips, nipped in my waist, cupped my breasts like it had been waiting just for them. It was the kind of thing I used to see in magazines and screenshot for fantasies that did not include murder charges.
When did my life turn into a knockoff of a dark romance novel?
When I stepped back out, they all made approving noises in Russian that sounded suspiciously like the noises people made around luxury cars.
Then came the hair.
Fingers in my dark strands, scissors snipping some ends, curling iron hissing. They turned my usual messy ponytail into loose waves that fell around my shoulders like I’d woken up that way instead of being engineered within an inch of my life.
Makeup followed. Smoky eyes that made my gaze look darker and more dangerous than I felt. Lips painted a deep red that looked like I’d been drinking wine or blood or both.
They dusted shimmer over my collarbones, my shoulders. Each brushstroke made me feel less like Dani Morales, mall elf and ramen connoisseur, and more like someone else entirely.
When they finally stepped back, I caught sight of myself in the big mirror beside the tree.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
Heavy. Measured. Familiar.
My heart jumped into a sprint that had nothing to do with cardio and everything to do with the man who’d wrecked my body against a wall.
Here we go.
He filled the doorway an instant later.
Snowflakes clung to the shoulders of his dark coat, melting slowly in the overheated air. He’d traded yesterday’s shirt for a crisp black one, open at the throat. No tie. Cuffs rolled once, revealing strong forearms and the hint of ink.
His eyes traveled from my heels up.
Slowly.
Taking in the hem of the dress, the curve of my hips, the way the silk hugged my waist, the slit that flashed thigh when I shifted my weight. Paused at my bare shoulders, the red of my mouth, the smoky eyes Svetlana had carved for me.
The silence stretched.
Heat crackled between us like static.
His throat worked, like he’d just swallowed something that didn’t go down right.
“You’ll do,” he said finally, voice rougher than I remembered.
You’ll do.
That was it? After they turned me into a Bond girl who’d eat men alive, all I got was a grudging “you’ll do”?
Something snapped. Something small and stubborn and made of all the pieces of me that weren’t his to command.
I turned fully toward him, letting him see the whole effect head-on. Tilted my head. Smiled sweetly enough to rot teeth.
“Careful,” I said. “If you compliment me any harder, I might actually fall for you.”
I wasn’t expecting anything.
His expression shifted anyway. For a second, the corner of his mouth did something almost like a real smile. Then it was gone, replaced by that predatory focus that made my skin too tight.
He stalked closer with that lethal, controlled grace that never failed to make heat slip through my veins no matter how many bodies I’d seen him stand over.
Up close, the air around him was still cold from outside. Snow and December night clung to the wool of his coat. Underneath: the familiar scent of dark cologne, soap, faint coffee.
He stopped so close that the edge of his coat brushed the silk hugging my thighs.
“You look like mine,” he said quietly.
Not “beautiful.” Not “stunning.”
Mine.
The word should’ve lit me on fire with rage. Should’ve made me shove him, claw his face, remind him I was a person, not property.
Instead, my body did that annoying thing again where it misinterpreted possessiveness as foreplay. Heat rushed low and fast, traitorous and hot, and my palms itched with the urge to curl into his shirt.
What is happening to me.
When did I start craving his claim almost as much as I craved my freedom?
His hand came up. Fingers brushing a stray curl back behind my ear, the same way he had that morning. Only now there was lipstick and highlight and a stranger in my skin.
“Where are we going?” I asked, proud that my voice sounded steadier than my pulse felt.
“Dinner.” His gaze didn’t leave my face. “Work. Both.”
“Do I need to know who’s on the menu?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You are here to be seen. Heard if I say so. That is all.”
“I love a man with clear expectations.”
“You will love me in many ways before this is over, kotyonok,” he said, almost absently, like stating the weather. “Tonight we start with looking like you belong.”
His eyes dragged over me again, slower this time. Approval and ownership in equal measure.
“You do.”
The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. It landed anyway.
Behind him, the elevator dinged softly. The sound was civilized, the way everything here was—quiet, understated, full of teeth if you knew where to look.