Chapter 14
LILA
I wake up naked.
Not just naked—completely bare, morning light streaming through windows that don't open. The kind of exposure that makes you hyperaware of your own skin. The sheet lies tangled around my legs.
And then I remember why.
Last night. Ivan. Everything we did.
My face heats even though I'm alone. I can still feel the ghost of his hands, the weight of him, the way he made me feel both utterly powerless and safe at the same time.
That's the part that makes my brain short-circuit—how safe I felt. How right it felt to give up control, to let him take what he wanted, to stop thinking and feel.
He doesn't make me scared anymore.
The realization presses down on my chest. A week ago, I was terrified. Now I'm lying in his bed, naked, satisfied… and already thinking about when he'll touch me again.
Maybe none of what I’m feeling is real. Maybe it's a really erotic chapter of my life—weird, intense, incredibly unsustainable—and I should enjoy it while it lasts. Like a vacation from reality. A dark, twisted, orgasm-filled vacation.
I sit up, and my muscles protest. There are marks on my hips from his fingers. A slight soreness between my legs that makes me flush thinking about how it got there.
My clothes are gone. All of them. I check the floor, the chair, and under the bed. Nothing.
"Are you kidding me?"
I wrap the sheet around myself toga-style and pad to the bathroom. My reflection looks thoroughly fucked—messy hair, swollen lips, pink cheeks.
That glow people talk about, but I always thought was made up? Turns out it's real. You really do look different after good sex.
No, great sex.
Okay, mind-blowing, life-altering, potentially ruined-other-men-forever sex.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to reset my brain.
This is fine. This is normal. Just a casual morning after being held captive by a mobster who happens to be the best lover I've ever had.
God, my life is a disaster.
I brush my teeth with the toothbrush he left—because of course kidnappers keep guest bathrooms stocked—and try not to think about how domestic this all is. Totally normal… aside from the whole being-held-captive part.
I turn on the shower and let the hot water wash away the evidence of last night. My muscles protest every movement, a reminder of how thoroughly he claimed me.
When I emerge, Ivan's sitting in the chair by the window.
I yelp, clutching my towel tighter. "Jesus! How long have you been there?"
"Long enough." He's in full suit mode, looking criminally handsome with his coffee. "Good morning."
"You could've announced yourself."
"I did. You were singing in the shower, by the way."
My face burns hotter. "I was not singing."
"Humming, then. Off-key." His smile is pure masculine satisfaction. "Cute."
"Where are my clothes?"
"Laundry."
"All of them? At the same time?"
"Correct." He sets down his coffee and stands. "I brought breakfast."
There's a tray on the nightstand I hadn’t noticed. Fresh fruit, croissants, and that fancy jam that probably costs more than my rent. Orange juice in an actual glass, not a plastic cup.
"I'm not hungry." My stomach immediately betrays me with a loud growl.
"I can hear your stomach from across the room."
"Fine. I'm hungry. Happy?"
"Getting there." He crosses to the bed, and I'm suddenly aware of how little there is between us. "You don't have to protest, by the way. The hand-feeding was a one-time thing. Probably. Who knows?" His smile suggests he's considering making it permanent. "But breakfast comes after step five."
My stomach drops. "Step five?"
"Step five," he confirms, reaching into his jacket.
He pulls out a sketchbook. Brand new, pristine white pages that practically glow with possibility. Then, a set of charcoal pencils in a wooden case, the kind I've drooled over in art stores but could never justify buying.
"What the hell’s step five?"
"Draw what you want me to do to you tonight."
The words detonate in the room's silence. I take in him, the supplies, and that face showing zero shame over this request.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Draw out your fantasies. What you want.
What you've been imagining." He sets the supplies on the bed beside me.
"Be creative. Be detailed. I want you to show me what you want without embarrassment or second-guessing. I want to crawl inside that filthy little head of yours and see every secret you try to hide.”
"You’re crazy."
"No," he leans in, cologne hitting me. "I'm inspired... By your drawings. The ones you ripped out and stashed in your duffel."
"Oh my God."
"Draw for me, Lila. Show me everything you want. Every position. Every scenario." His thumb grazes my jaw. "The better the art… the better the reward."
"What kind of reward?"
He just smiles. "You'll see. Maybe earlier than expected."
He walks away, and I'm left clutching a sheet and staring at art supplies like they're a loaded gun.
"Wait, that's it? You're leaving?"
"I have business. People to threaten. Territories to defend." He pauses at the door. "You have one job today. Make it filthy."
The door closes.
I sit for a solid minute, processing what just happened.
My first instinct: refuse. Throw the sketchbook across the room, demand my clothes back, and request a shred of dignity.
My second instinct—the one that's apparently hijacked my brain—is to reach for the charcoal.
The truth? I have ideas. Too many ideas. Three months of fantasies, sketched in secret, and hidden like evidence. Only now, he's not only giving me permission… he's demanding it. Commanding me to put every private thought, every forbidden desire, onto paper where he can see it.
The thought makes my toes clench.
I grab a croissant and eat it while I stare at the blank page.
Okay. Start simple. Work my way up to the filthy fantasies.
The first sketch comes easily. Us in bed, basic missionary. Safe. Intimate. I can almost feel it as I draw, reliving the memory—the weight of him, the stretch, the way he filled me so completely I couldn't think.
I stare at it.
He said filthy.
But what's filthy? Where's the line between "creative" and "too much"? Does he have preferences? What if I draw something he finds weird or—
I shake my head. I’m overthinking this. Classic me.
I tear out the page and start again.
Sketch two: Ivan at his desk, in a meeting, maybe. Men in suits surround the table discussing... I don't know, crime stuff. And me under the desk, hidden from view, making concentration damn near impossible.
My face burns as I sketch the scene. I can imagine how it would feel—the hard floor against my knees, the taste of him, the thrill of being hidden while he tries to keep his composure. The power in making him lose control while his men sit across from him, oblivious.
I pause, charcoal hovering over paper.
They'd notice. Of course, they'd notice. Men don't sit there stone-faced while getting head. His voice would change, his breathing, something. This isn't realistic.
And more importantly, would I do this in front of other people? Even if they can't see me directly?
I tear it out.
Third sketch. Back to the bedroom. Back to privacy. The shower. That's a classic. Water running down our bodies, steam billowing.
I start drawing, imagining the scene. The hot water, the slick tile against my back, his hands gripping my thighs as he lifts me—
Wait.
Shower sex is terrible. Everyone knows that. Water is the opposite of a lubricant. It would be uncomfortable at best, painful at worst. Plus, the logistics of not slipping and cracking our skulls open.
What if it doesn't satisfy him?
I catch the thought mid-spiral.
Why do I care if it satisfies him? This is supposed to be about what I want. My erotic chapter. My fantasies.
Except I do care. I want him to look at these drawings and desire me the way I desire him. I want him to make them come to life. Want to—
Fuck.
I tear it out.
Fourth attempt. I need a different approach—one that carries real meaning, as ridiculous as that sounds.
I'm a waitress. Shy. Ordinary. The girl who blends into the background, who smiles politely and doesn't make waves.
What's the opposite of that?
Complete and utter exhibitionism.
The window.
The massive floor-to-ceiling windows that make up an entire wall of this penthouse. The ones overlooking the city, forty stories up.
My hand moves before I can second-guess the decision, drawing us against the glass. Him behind me, my palms pressed to the window, the city below us like we own it. Like we're claiming each other in full view of anyone who might look up.
I can imagine how it would feel. Cold glass against my overheated skin. His heat at my back. The exposure, the vulnerability, the thrill of being seen—or thinking we might be seen. The way he'd hold me, forcing me to watch the city while he takes me, makes me his in the most primal way possible.
My thighs clench. This one. This is—
Wait.
I stare at what I've drawn.
This is also insane. We're forty stories up. No one can see us. But also, what if someone can? What if there's some creep with binoculars, or a security camera, or—
And I wrote "being claimed by my captor" in my head like it's romantic instead of weird.
FUCK.
But I don't tear this one out. I set it aside and start the next page.
Hours pass. I draw and redraw, each sketch exploring a different fantasy, another position. Various ways of giving him control. Some are explicit. Some are suggestive. All of them feel like handing him pieces of my soul.
My hand is cramping when I hear footsteps outside the door, followed by a knock.
"What?"
The door opens a crack, and Pyotr's massive hand extends through, holding a plate. "Lunch."
I take it, and he's already turning away when I see what's on it.
A poorly made sandwich. The bread’s already getting soggy, and the cheese isn’t even centered.
"Are you kidding me?" I call after him. "This is the saddest sandwich I've ever seen."
He stops and turns back. "Is food."