Chapter 15
IVAN
The warehouse is still burning when I leave.
Orange flames lick at the Chicago sky, the smoke thick enough to taste three blocks away. It’s the third of Dmitri's operations reduced to ash this month.
Still, we lost Gregor tonight.
Good soldier, loyal for six years. He took a bullet meant for Misha.
Four of theirs went down, too, but the math never balances.
It never fucking does. His wife will get the payout, and their kids will be taken care of, but that doesn't bring him back.
Doesn't erase the fact that I'm the reason he's dead.
Blood and smoke cling to my clothes. I should shower and change at the safe house before going home.
Instead, I'm in the Bentley heading straight to the penthouse because I've been thinking about her all day.
About what she's been drawing. About step five and whatever creative filth her mind has conjured.
The anticipation is coiled tight in my chest.
Misha's driving, silent. He knows better than to speak after operations like this. After we've lost people.
I check my phone. A text from Pyotr, hours ago: “Girl ordered food. Gave her burner like you said, Boss. She tense for some reason.”
I almost smile. Of course she is. Spending the entire day sketching her fantasies, knowing I’ll see them. Knowing what comes after.
Misha glances at me in the rearview mirror but says nothing. Smart. He knows better than to ask where my head is. Knows the only thing that keeps me sane anymore is her.
Other than security, the building lobby is empty this late—just past midnight, the city winding down. I take the private elevator and ascend forty floors while I think about her waiting. About whether she's asleep or awake, clothed or naked, ready or scared.
The doors open directly into my home. The city lights filter through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the dark interior in shades of blue and amber. I move quietly through the space, checking rooms out of habit. Kitchen empty. Living room clear. Office untouched.
Her bedroom door is open.
I find her on the bed, surrounded by drawings.
She's fallen asleep sitting up, sketchbook still in her lap, charcoal smudged on her fingers and across one cheek. She’s wearing nothing but one of my white shirts.
It's riding up her thighs, showing the curve of her hip, bare skin, and the shadow between her legs.
Moonlight through the windows paints her silver and blue.
I watch for a moment, memorizing her face relaxed in sleep. Her blonde hair falling across her cheek in waves. The trust required to sleep this deeply in what she still probably considers a prison. The vulnerability tugs at my chest.
Then I see the drawings.
They're everywhere. Spread across the bed like a deck of pornographic cards, scattered on the floor, propped against the nightstand. She's been working all day; that much is clear. Each one rendered in careful detail, shaded to perfection.
I carefully pick up the first one, not wanting to smudge the charcoal.
It's us. She’s pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, hands splayed on the glass.
I’m behind, taking her hard. The city spreads below, distant and oblivious.
She's drawn it from a side angle that shows everything—the arch of her spine, my hand fisted in her hair, her mouth open mid-moan.
She's captured the reflection in the glass, showing both the act and its mirror image. The way city lights illuminate skin and create shadows. The exhibitionism of being fucked where anyone with binoculars could witness our depravity.
My cock goes rigid, straining against my zipper hard enough to hurt.
I set the page down, hands unsteady. The next one I pick up is wrinkled, creased like it’s been hiding secrets.
It depicts her under my desk, on her knees, while shadowy figures sit around the room. A meeting, clearly. The Bratva captains gathered while she's hidden below, making it impossible for me to think about anything except her mouth.
Christ. The audacity of it. The danger.
Another drawing: She’s bound to my bed with intricate rope work.
Not tied casually—she’s artistically bound, the rope creating geometric patterns across her skin.
Her wrists lie secured above her head, legs spread wide and tied to the corners, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
She's drawn her face in this one, and the expression is pure surrender.
My hands quake as I reach for the next.
It shows her bent over the hood of my Bentley in the private garage. I’m behind her, one hand on her throat, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises. She's drawn the car’s chrome details, the expensive paint job—everything crisp and clear.
Then a shower scene with her pressed against glass walls, water streaming down our bodies, my hand braced beside her head while I take her from behind. Steam clouds some details, but not the one that matter most.
There's one of her riding me in my office chair while I'm on a phone call. She's drawn herself with confidence I haven't seen from her in real life yet, taking what she wants, controlling the pace, using me for her pleasure while I try to maintain composure on a business call.
"Jesus Christ, Lila."
She stirs at my voice, eyes opening slowly, taking a moment to focus. When she sees me holding her drawings, she goes completely and utterly still. Color floods her face, visible even in the dim light.
"You told me to be creative," she says, voice rough with sleep.
"Creative doesn't begin to cover this." I gesture at the evidence surrounding us. "These are a fucking manifesto of depravity."
Her face flushes deeper. "You said filthy."
"I know what I said." I study the window drawing again, taking in every detail she labored over. "I didn't expect you to hand me a comprehensive instruction manual for ruining you."
"It's just—"
"Just what? Just fantasy?" I move toward the bed. "You drew yourself surrendering in every way possible. Public. Private. Bound. On your knees.”
She pulls her knees up, suddenly self-conscious despite spending all day drawing pornography. "They're just drawings."
"They're confessions." I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough that my thigh brushes hers through the sheet. "You drew yourself being claimed. Exhibited. Owned. This one—" I hold up the window scene again, "—you want the whole fucking city to see who you belong to."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe." I set it down carefully and lean closer until she can smell the smoke on me, the violence. "You wouldn't have spent hours perfecting every shadow and reflection if you didn't mean it. So which is it, Lila? Still pretending this is just art?"
"I don't know what—"
"Yes, you do. You know what you want. You're too scared to say it out loud." I pick up the drawing once more. "Get up."
"What?"
"Get up. We're making this one real. Right now."
She doesn't move, instead staring at me. "Right now?"
"Right the fuck now." I stand, extending my hand. "Unless you're having second thoughts about having the entire city watch me fuck you against that window."
Her breath catches audibly. For a long moment, she stares at my hand, and I can see the war playing out across her face—fear versus desire, should versus want, sense versus need.
Then she takes it.
Her hand is small in mine, trembling slightly. I pull her to her feet and lead her through the bedroom door, down the short hallway to the living room. The windows stretch floor to ceiling here, Chicago glittering below us in a sprawl of lights.
"Here." I position her in front of the glass, like her drawing. Every detail matches. "Hands on the window."
She obeys, trembling harder now. The shirt—my shirt—falls to mid-thigh, barely covering her. I push it up slowly, deliberately, bunching it around her waist. She's not wearing anything underneath. Not even the cotton panties I know she owns.
Of course, she isn't. She knew what tonight would be.
"Everyone can see," I tell her, pressing against her back so she can feel how hard I am through my pants. "Anyone looking up right now would see you. See what's about to happen to you."
"Ivan—"
"That's what you drew. That's what you fantasized about while your fingers worked that charcoal, while you got yourself wet thinking about it." My hand wraps around her throat, gentle but unmistakably possessive. "Being claimed where the whole world can watch."
"I didn't think you'd actually—"
"You thought exactly this. You didn't think I'd have the balls to actually do it." I grip her hip with my free hand and position myself between her legs. "That's the difference between your fantasy and me, little dove. I make your dirty thoughts real."
I free my cock with one hand, and she gasps at it against her. Already wet. Already ready. Her body announcing how much she wants this despite her hesitation.
"Look at them," I growl against her ear, entering her in one deep, claiming thrust. She cries out, the sound echoing off the glass and marble.
"All those people down there living their boring fucking lives.
Going to bed early. Following rules. Being normal.
None of them get this. None of them get you. "
She moans, pushing back against me despite herself. Her hands leave prints on the glass—charcoal smudges from drawing all day, now smeared across the window like evidence of her crimes.
"That's it. Show me what you want. What you've been drawing for me while your pussy got wet."
I set a brutal rhythm that has her gasping, that makes her nails scrape uselessly against the slick glass, trying to find purchase.
The windows are cold against her overheated skin, her breath fogging the surface with each pant.
Below us, the city continues its oblivious dance.
Cars moving. People walking. Lives being lived.
And up here, we're gods.
My hand tightens incrementally on her throat, not cutting off air, just holding. Just reminding her who's in control of this, of her, of everything.
"Say it," I command. "Say whose you are."
"Yours." The word comes out broken, desperate, perfect. "I'm yours."
"Louder. Let the city hear you admit it."
"I'm yours!" She's trembling now, so close to the edge I can feel it. "Ivan, please—"
"Please, what? Use your words like a good girl."
"Please don't stop. Please—fuck—please make me yours."
The plea destroys what's left of my control.
I drive into her harder, relentlessly, watching her reflection in the glass overlay the city lights. Her face slack with pleasure, mouth open in a silent scream, eyes half-closed in bliss. She's devastating like this. Completely wrecked.
"Come for me," I order. "Come while Chicago watches you surrender to me."
She does, screaming my name loud enough that I'm sure someone forty stories down must hear it. Her body convulses around me, hands sliding down the glass, leaving long trails through the fog and charcoal. The orgasm rips through her violently, leaving her shaking, gasping, and completely undone.
I follow seconds later, buried as deep as I can get, my own shout of release swallowed by the city noise below.
We stay frozen for a long moment. Her plastered against the window, me pressed into her back, both of us panting like we've run for miles. The glass is a complete mess—handprints, smudges, and our breath’s fog creating an abstract mural. Evidence that will be visible in daylight.
Good. Let the window washers see it. Let them know.
Slowly, carefully, I release her throat. She sags immediately, and I catch her before she can fall, turning her to face me. Her legs won't hold her weight, so I lift her easily. She wraps around me instinctively, face buried in my neck.
"Okay?" I ask, softer now.
"Better than okay." Her voice muffles against my skin, hoarse from screaming. "That was—"
"Better than the drawing?"
"So much better."
I set her down gently, steadying her until her legs remember how to function. She takes a tentative step toward the bedroom, then another, finding her balance.
"By the way," she says, glancing back at me. "I found my clothes. In the closet. There was no laundry."
"I know."
"You just wanted me naked."
"I wanted you accessible." I lean against the window frame, watching her walk away. "Don’t twist it."
She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling as she heads for the bedroom. The shirt has fallen back down, but barely covers her ass. Each step gives me a flash of skin, a reminder of what's mine.
My cock, which should be satisfied, stirs with interest.
She's almost to the doorway when I move.
One stride, two, and I have her. She yelps as I lift her, throwing her over my shoulder in one swift motion.
"Ivan! What are you—"
"Shh," I say, carrying her toward the bedroom.
"We just—you can't possibly—"
"Watch me."
Her protests dissolve into laughter, then into a low gasp of need as I kick the bedroom door closed behind us.