Page 31 of Scorch

We drive in silence until he pulls into a parking space just outside a strip mall. “Any of these places look good?” He gestures to a few boutiques. “We know someone who owns this one here.”

He points at a place with high-heeled shoes and purses in a large window. This shit’s pricey. My family was well off, but nothing like some of the families I knew. More to the point, I’ve been independent and haven’t taken their money in a very long time. I thrust my chin out.

“It looks fine, but I’m going to pay you back. Just because I don’t have money on me right now doesn’t mean I don’t have any.”

“Like hell, you’ll pay me back,” he says, shaking his head. He opens the car and comes over to my side, but I quickly open it before he can get the satisfaction of doing it for me. I still don’t trust him.

I step quickly out of the car and walk with him toward the little boutique. I’m nervous about what will happen next after I get dressed, and I want this part over with.

It feels a bit strange to be walking into a boutique with him. He isn’t the type who fits into a place like this. Men who go boutique shopping with a woman should be pretty and refined, well-manicured and shellacked. He’s so big he has to duck to walk through the door. A five o’clock shadow ghosts his chin already, and when we enter, a woman with a baby in a carriage draws in a sharp breath and takes off without a backward glance.

Yeah, he’s that terrifying.

“Mr. Romanov.” A tall, older woman, who could be my grandmother, approaches us on silver stilettos. Her hair’s trendy and short, a bit spiky, and she wears diamond studs that accentuate the crisp navy of her tank and pencil skirt. “Rosa told me to expect you. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve already taken the liberty of pulling out some clothes that might suit the occasion, as I know you’re pressed for time.” She holds out her hand to me. “My name is Opal. So pleased to meet you.”

I take her warm, confident hand and return the gesture. “I’m Lydia.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lydia,” she says with utter grace, as if I’m the Queen of England and didn’t just walk into her high-end boutique in a tattered dress covered by a man’s worn leather jacket.

“Rosa’s a family friend,” Viktor says in a low rumble.He places his hand on my lower back and escorts me to the back of the shop. “She’s the owner and a friend of ours. I texted her. She’s in Boston but said Opal will take good care of you.”

I nod, allowing myself to be escorted, as I do a quick sweep of the boutique and the kinds of clothes they have.

It’s filled with racks of beautifully crafted garments that smack of sophistication and comfort. They’re chic and timeless, with soft, high-quality fabrics and an array of earthy and neutral tones. These are not factory-made or fast fashion designed for skinny mannequins but garments that hint at understated luxury made for real women.

My kind of place, honestly.

In the back, the fitting rooms are roomy and private. There’s a small area with a coffee maker and mugs and a beverage fridge with chilled drinks. Viktor reaches in wordlessly and takes out two bottles of water. He twists the top off the bottle before he hands it to me. “Drink.”

“No wine? I’m disappointed.”

He only narrows his eyes at me. I’m not a fool, so I drink. I’ll need it.

“Please choose whatever else you wish,” Opal says. “You’ll find our clothing features a natural blend of luxury, comfort, and versatility, featuring diverse sizes and styles. I’ll leave you to it and be right outside this door if I can help in any way.”

My cheeks flush when she says diverse sizes.

We have plus sizes.

I sigh. Fine. There’s no need for me to try to squeeze into something that isn’t made for me.

I stare at Viktor, waiting for him to step out of the changing room.

“Well?” I say with a shrug. “Should I try these on or what?”

“Of course,” he says, holding my gaze with challenge in his eyes as he folds himself into a sturdy chair in the corner. I half expect it to snap in two. He looks like he’s trying to fit into a chair made for a child.

“Viktor.”

“Mmm?” He polishes off the water in the bottle. I must be out of my mind because the way his Adam’s apple bobs and the sight of his huge hand dwarfing the small bottle is so unapologetically masculine…

I look away.

“I don’t want you in here.”

I jump at the sound of him crushing the water bottle before he tosses it into a small wastebasket.

“I thought you might say that,” he says, his eyes as dark as storm clouds on a winter day. “I’ve been lenient with you, Lydia. I’ve given you lots of freedom. Unfortunately, you lost the privilege of privacy by setting a fire in our house.”

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