Chapter 10
LILA
The sketchbook’s almost full.
The expensive one Ivan bought me—the one meant to last weeks. I blew through it in four days. Almost every page smudged with graphite, every corner crowded with lines and shadows, the frantic scribbles of someone who's losing it in a luxury cage.
Penthouse views from every angle. The city at dawn, dusk, midnight, when the lights blur into something that almost looks like hope.
The breakfast bar where he fed me strawberries.
The windows where he stood backlit and made me forget my own name.
The guest room door that separates my space from his, a thin line between being trapped and… something worse.
And Ivan. I've rendered him obsessively.
His hands. His profile. The scar slicing through his eyebrow.
Tattoos I've only glimpsed—Orthodox crosses, Cyrillic script, symbols from a world I don't understand.
Shirtless, clothed, in shadow, in light.
Dozens of tries. Not one of them feels like what it's like to be in the same room with him.
Then there are the fantasy sketches. The drawings I tear out immediately and shove into the bottom of my duffel. The ones showing what I want. Things I shouldn't. Things that would make the proper sketches look tame.
And now I'm out of subjects.
I sit cross-legged on the floor by the window, the blank page staring back at me. The walls feel like they're inching closer. Pyotr's by the elevator, as usual. Immovable. Silent.
Fuck it.
I start sketching him.
The angle first—looking up, making him even more imposing than he already is. Then the basic structure of his face, all harsh planes and sharp edges. The permanent scowl. The way he stands like he's carved from granite, arms crossed, radiating pure don't-fuck-with-me energy.
"The fuck are you doing?"
I don't look up. "What does it look like?"
"Looks like you are drawing me."
"Gold star for observation," I mutter, adding shadows to his jawline, making it more brutal. "Hold still."
"Stop."
"Can't. You're my last resort. I've literally drawn everything else in this place." I shade his neck—thick as a tree trunk, scarred in places. "Besides, you're interesting. In a terrifying sort of way."
He mutters something in Russian that's definitely not complimentary.
I work in silence for a few minutes, getting his proportions right. He's difficult to capture—too much mass, too much presence. The pencil moves across the page, finding the weight of him. The threat.
"You're not very attractive, you know that?" I say conversationally.
Silence.
"I mean, objectively speaking. You look like someone tried to sculpt a person but gave up halfway and just added scars." I glance up, catch his glare, and return to sketching. "No offense."
"Much offense."
"Well, you'll be in deep shit when Ivan finds his naked bodyguard in my sketchbook."
That gets a reaction. "You're not drawing me naked!"
"Why not? I drew Ivan naked. Multiple times." I flip to an earlier page and show him one of the tamer sketches—Ivan's back, cathedral tattoo in full detail. "See? Artistic study."
Pyotr looks at the drawing, then at me, expression unreadable. "Boss knows I won't touch his captive."
"Guest," I correct automatically. "He calls me his guest."
"Captive."
"Fair." I return to my sketch of him. "But still. He's the jealous type. Possessive. You think he'll appreciate me spending hours studying your anatomy?"
"You're trying to make me nervous."
"Is it working?"
"No."
"That’s a damn shame," I say, detailing his eyes—pale blue, cold. "Because I'm incredibly bored, and making you uncomfortable is the most entertainment I've had all day."
He doesn't respond, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
We fall into comfortable silence again. Me sketching, him standing guard, the afternoon light shifting across the floor between us. It's almost peaceful. Almost normal. Almost like I'm not a prisoner and he's not my warden.
Then the elevator dings.
I scramble to hide the sketchbook, but it's too late. Ivan steps out, and the air in the room changes. He sees me on the floor with drawings spread around me, and his expression sharpens into dark amusement. Predatory.
"Pyotr," he says without looking at his bodyguard. "Go home."
"Boss—"
"Now."
Pyotr leaves without another word. The elevator doors close, and I'm alone with Ivan, my guilty conscience, and a half-finished sketch of his employee.
A stupid rush hits my chest—heart hammering like I’ve done the unforgivable. Which is… ridiculous.
Ivan moves through the room like a lion after its prey, picks up the sketchbook from where I tried to hide it under the couch, and flips through it, slow and methodical. My eyes never leave him, watching, waiting, panicking.
He pauses on a page. Then another. His mouth curves.
When he looks at me, he's laughing. Actually laughing, low and rough and genuine. The sound twists my insides in a way I refuse to acknowledge.
"Couldn't find anyone better than ugly Pyotr to draw nude?"
"I didn't draw him nude."
“Yet.” He flips another page, examining each one like he’s memorizing them. “But you were thinking about it. I can see it.”
My cheeks flare. “I was bored and ran out of things to draw.”
“Lots of strawberries.”
“Well, what do you expect? Kidnapped artists go stir-crazy.”
“Protective custody.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
He sets the book down carefully and looks at me with those ocean eyes that somehow see everything. “You need a subject.”
"Clearly."
"Draw me, naked."
The words are simple and direct.
"You're nuts."
"You've already drawn me a dozen times." His hands go to his shirt buttons, undoing them slowly. One by one, they expose more muscle. "Might as well have the real thing to reference."
"What are you—" But the words die as the shirt comes off.
Oh.
Oh God.
"Here I am," he says, and his voice has dropped lower. Rougher.
"Put your shirt back on."
"Why?" He moves close. "You prefer the fantasy?"
"This is inappropriate."
"This is art." He sits on the couch and sprawls back like a Renaissance painting come to life. All arrogance and deliberate display. "Draw me."
"No."
"Why not?"
Because looking at him is one thing. Studying him, committing every detail to memory, spending hours translating his body onto paper—that's something else entirely. That's intimate in a way that terrifies me. That's crossing a line I can't uncross.
"What do I get out of it?" I ask instead, buying time.
"What do you want?"
"My freedom."
"Besides that."
"A phone call. To someone. Anyone. Just to prove I'm still alive."
He considers it for half a beat, head tilted. "No."
"Then no drawing."
"You'll draw me anyway." He shifts position, and the movement makes muscles flex in ways that should be illegal. "You can't help yourself. You've been desperate for this since the moment you saw me in that diner."
"You're unbelievable."
His smile is pure sin. "Stop the games, Lila. We both know what you want."
"Okay, fuck. You're lucky I'm practicing anatomy," I mutter, reaching for a fresh page with shaking hands.
"Sure." His smile widens. "Whatever excuse works."
He glances at the couch, then at the hallway leading to the bedroom. "You know what? If we're doing this properly, we should use the bedroom. Better light. And if I get lucky—" his grin turns wicked, "—the bed's right there."
My face burns hotter. "That's not—"
"Come on." He's already moving toward the guest room. "Bring your sketchbook."
I follow on trembling legs, sketchbook clutched to my chest like a shield. This is insane. This is crossing every line. But my feet carry me forward anyway.
The bedroom feels smaller with him in it. The bed dominates the space, and I'm hyperaware of it. Of what it means to be here instead of the living room.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the bed.
I perch on the edge, cross-legged, trying to create as much professional distance as possible. "Okay. Ready."
"Are you?" His voice is low. Knowing.
My face burns as I pick up the pencil, preparing to draw him while he watches me struggle with a desire I can't admit to.