Chapter 4
IVAN
The Bentley glides through Chicago's empty streets as I watch her reflection in the window. Lila. Pressed against the far door like she might bolt at the next red light. Smart girl. She should run. Should have run the moment I walked into the diner bleeding.
But she didn't. She stayed and lied for me. To Dmitri's men, no less.
Now she's mine to protect.
"Where are we going?" she asks, voice smaller than it was in the diner.
"My penthouse. You'll be safe there."
"This is kidnapping, you know?"
"It’s about survival."
She turns to look at me, her green eyes catching the streetlights. "Yours or mine?"
Both, but I don't say it aloud.
Misha clears his throat from the driver's seat. "Boss, should I call the doctor?"
"Later." The knife wound throbs with each breath, but I've had worse. Much worse. "Just get us home."
"And the girl?"
I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. "The girl has a name. Use it."
"My apologies. Miss...?"
"Lila," she murmurs. "Just Lila."
"Like the flower," Misha observes. "Sirén."
She looks confused. "What?"
"In Russian, lilac is sirén. The purple flower. Very beautiful. Very poisonous if you eat too much."
I shoot him a shut the fuck up look, and he focuses on driving.
The rest of the ride passes in silence with Lila clutching her duffel bag like it contains everything she owns.
All metal and glass, my building rises forty stories into the Chicago skyline. A private elevator takes us to the top floor. Lila watches the numbers climb, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
The doors open directly into my penthouse. The four thousand square feet of marble and glass insulate us from the city below us. It's excessive. Cold. Mine.
"Holy shit," she breathes.
"Home sweet home."
She takes a step inside, then stops. "This place is bigger than the entire diner."
"Yep."
I watch her take it in—the contemporary art that costs more than she'll make in a lifetime, the furniture that's all sharp angles and dark leather, the wall of windows that broadcasts how we’re floating above the city. Every inch is designed to impress. Intimidate.
And it's working.
"Your room is this way."
I lead her down the hallway, passing my office and the room where I keep things she doesn't need to know about, to the guest suite that’s never been used. I don't have guests. Those who visit me usually leave in body bags or with threats to keep their mouths shut.
"This is mine?" Her eyes sweep from the king-size bed to the ensuite bathroom visible through the open door, and finally, to the view that makes the city look like a jewelry box.
"For now."
She carefully sets her duffel bag on the bed. Everything about her seems too soft for this place. Too real. Too human.
I should let her settle. Offer space to think about the mess she’s fallen into. But I don’t.
Instead, I close the door behind us.
"I need to check something."
She turns, eyes flooded with confusion. "What?"
"I need to check that you're not wearing a wire."
The color drains from her face. "A wire? You think I'm—"
"Dmitri's men could have gotten to you before tonight. They could have offered you money, threatened you, or made you a deal. I have to be certain."
"I would never—"
"Shower. Now."
She stares at me, and I can see the moment she understands. This isn't a request. This is the price of my protection.
"You're serious."
"Dead serious. The bathroom's there. Leave your clothes on the counter."
Her jaw sets, and for a heartbeat I think she might fight me on this. Part of me hopes she does.
But she just grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
I move closer to the door, listening. Fabric plops onto marble. Jeans rustle. The snap of a bra clasp makes my cock twitch.
The shower starts, and steam creeps under the door not long after.
The door isn't fully closed. Her slam knocked it back slightly, leaving a gap barely an inch wide. I should walk away and give her privacy. Be the decent man my mother raised.
But I move closer instead.
Through the crack, I see her. Just fragments—the curve of her shoulder as she steps under the water, the arch of her back, water streaming down pale skin that looks like silk.
She makes a small sound of pleasure as the hot water hits her, and my hand goes to my cock without permission, adjusting the painful pressure.
Christ. I'm acting like a teenager catching his first glimpse of skin. But any semblance of control is gone after three months of lust. Three months of watching her bite that lip while she draws, of imagining what sounds she'd make, what she'd look like wet and wanting.
Now I know she's fucking perfect.
She turns slightly, offering a glimpse of her breast. Water droplets cling to a pink nipple. My grip on the doorframe tightens until I hear wood creak.
I need an excuse. A reason to keep her here beyond "I want to fuck you until you can't remember your own name." She's innocent. Clean. Everything I'm not.
But God, I want to make her dirty.
The water stops. I retreat from the door, positioning myself casually by the window like I haven't been watching her like the perverted bastard I am.
The door opens entirely, steam billowing out, and she emerges wrapped in a towel that barely covers the essentials. Her skin is flushed from the hot water, drops still clinging to her collarbones. Her once sandy blonde updo hangs wet and dark down her back.
Fuck. She's even more beautiful like this.
"Happy?" she asks, sharp and defiantly.
"Turn around. Slowly."
She does, and I pretend to check for anything suspicious.
In reality, I'm only looking at her. Memorizing the curve of her shoulders, the way the towel clings to her hips, the delicate knobs of her spine.
A drop of water runs down her back, disappearing under the fabric, and I want to follow it with my tongue.
No wire. No weapons. Just soft skin and curves that make my hands itch to touch.
"I need clothes," she says once facing me again.
I grab one of my tops from the dresser, a white T-shirt, freshly laundered. "Here."
"That's it?"
"For now."
She takes it, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a bolt of electricity straight to my cock. She feels it too—her pupils dilate as her breath catches.
"Turn around," she says.
"No."
"I'm not changing in front of you.
"You already did. In reverse."
We stare at each other, the air thickening between us.
Then the towel slips from her hands, and the world tilts.
My breath stops.
Three months of imagination didn't prepare me for reality. Curves that belong in a museum. Skin that glows in the city lights. Pink pebbled nipples. The soft slope of her stomach, the flare of her hips, the neat patch of hair between her thighs that makes my mouth water.
She pulls on my shirt slowly until it falls to mid-thigh, making her look thoroughly fucked even though I haven't touched her.
Yet.
"Satisfied?" she asks.
Not even close. My cock is so hard it hurts, straining against my zipper like it's trying to make its own decisions. I want to bend her over that bed, push up that shirt, and show her how unsatisfied I am.
But this isn't the time. She's scared and overwhelmed. Most likely in shock.
"There's more," I say.
Before she can respond, I cross the room in two strides. My hands find the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. Not touching, but close enough that she can feel my heat. Close enough that I can smell her—soap and a scent that’s uniquely hers, like vanilla and sin.
"What are you doing?" she asks in a breathy voice.
"Making things clear." I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear. "You're under my protection now. That means you're mine. Don't leave without permission. Don't talk to anyone I haven't approved. Do what I say, when I say it."
"I'm not your property."
"No. You're my responsibility." I pull back enough to look at her. "With property, I wouldn't care if you enjoyed it."
Her breath hitches. The pulse in her throat flutters like a trapped bird. "You care if I enjoy it?"
"Very much."
A knock on the door breaks the moment.
"Boss?" Misha calls. "I have the items you requested."
I step back, and Lila sags against the wall like a marionette with severed strings.
I open the door a crack, and Misha hands me a bag—art supplies from the 24-hour store. Professional-grade sketchbook and pencils.
"Thank you. Now go home."
"You sure? With everything that happened—"
"Pyotr will be here soon. Go."
He nods and leaves.
I turn back to Lila, who's watching me with those artist's eyes that see too much.
"Here." I set the supplies on the nightstand. "I noticed you grabbed your sketchbooks. Figured you'd want better material than what you had."
She picks up the sketchbook and runs her fingers over the cover. "This is… expensive."
"Good thing you're not paying for it."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you care if I have anything to draw with?"
I could say it's to keep her occupied. Keep her quiet. Instead, I tell her the truth.
"Because in about ten minutes, you're going to realize how fucked your situation is, and you'll need a familiar anchor to hold on to."
She stares at me. "That's surprisingly thoughtful for a killer."
"I'm full of surprises, you'll see."
Another knock. This time, no voice.
I open the door to find Pyotr—a six-foot-five Russian bear disguised as a man, with a face that looks like it was assembled during a blackout. Not exactly Prince Charming material. Lila's got every reason to gulp, and she does, audibly.
"This is Pyotr," I tell her. "He'll be outside your door."
"My own bodyguard?"
"To keep people out,” I explain before considering. "And to keep you in."
“Ah,” she says, nodding slowly. "So, he's the prison guard, and I'm a prisoner. Got it."
"You're alive. Would you prefer the alternative?"
She gnaws her lip rather than answering that one.
"I need to deal with some things," I continue. "Pyotr will get you anything you need. Food, drinks, whatever. Don’t try to leave."
She raises her chin. "And if I try anyway?"
I look at Pyotr, then back at her. "Don't."
I head for the door. "I'll collect your things from your apartment. Should be back by tomorrow. Tonight, make do."
"Ivan."
I freeze in the doorway. It's the first time she's said my name. It’s different from her lips. Softer.
"What?"
"What happens when this is over? When you've dealt with Dmitri?"
I turn to look at her. Standing there in nothing but my shirt, hair still damp, she’s the sum of all my secret fantasies—and yet somehow, more. More than I was ready for.
She looks like mine.
"I don't know," I confess. "I guess we'll find out."
I leave before I slip and tell her the truth—that this will never be over. That I've already decided I'm keeping her.
In the hallway, I give Pyotr his real orders in Russian. "No one gets in. She doesn't leave. If she needs anything, get it. If anyone tries to take her, kill them."
He nods once.
I head to my office, pulling out my phone. Three missed calls from bratva captains. Twelve texts from various soldiers. Word travels fast in our world. By morning, everyone will know I killed Oleg. By tomorrow night, they'll know about the girl.
Let them know. Let them all know that I make the rules.
And rule number one: Lila is mine.
The excuse will come. It always does in this life. Someone will make a move, someone will threaten her, and then I'll have my reason.
Until then, I wait. I watch. I want.
And I feel like the worst kind of bastard for hoping danger finds her, just so I can keep her close.