Page 40 of Bratva's Intern

I frowned, glancing at the racks. But how the hell was I supposed to pick something when everything here looked like it belonged on royalty? Not to mention the lack of a price tag.

I hesitated too long because Maxim sighed, stepping closer. “Fine. We’ll do this the hard way. You’ll try everything.”

My face burned. “Everything? No, I can choose.”

“Good. I want to see how they fit.”

He wanted to see them on me.

My stomach tightened.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of movement—fabric being pulled from racks, handed to me, a sharp-clipped order to go change. The dressing room was massive, more of a private suite than a stall, with velvet seating and a three-way mirror that made it impossible to avoid my reflection.

I pulled off my clothes with clumsy fingers. I’d thought the new shirt Archie had gotten me was nice, but it was nothing compared to the quality from the shop.

The first outfit was a sleek navy suit, the fabric far too nice for someone like me. I took a deep breath and stepped out, heart hammering.

Maxim sat on one of the plush velvet chairs with one leg perched on his knee. In the short time I’d gone, someone had provided him with a glass of champagne.

As he took a drink, his gaze dragged over me slowly, eyes sharp and assessing. He didn’t say a word.

I shifted under the weight of his stare. “Well?”

Maxim hummed, then turned to the shop owner. “The waist needs to be taken in. The shoulders are perfect, but the pants are too long.”

Another set of clothes was handed to me.

And then another. And another.

Every time, it was the same. I’d step out, heart racing, and Maxim would watch. His eyes never left me, never faltered, as if he was studying every inch of me.

The more it happened, the dizzier I felt.

By the fifth outfit, my skin burned from the attention. My legs felt like liquid, my throat was dry as I avoided his gaze. But I couldn’t ignore the way he looked at me. The way I liked it.

Maxim stood and stepped closer.

I froze as his fingers brushed my waist.

“He’s very slender here,” he murmured, pressing his thumb lightly at my hipbone. He turned to the shop owner. “Tailor this in more. I want it to hug this part. He has a good figure. I want to see it.”

Wait… what?

His hands skimmed my shoulders, adjusting the fabric, ignoring my face, which had to be crimson. “And take this out a bit. It’s too tight here.”

I stopped breathing.

He was touching me, hands firm but impersonal. Or at least, they should have been.

Instead, every place he touched got hot like it was burning.

I swallowed hard, staring straight ahead, pretending like my pulse wasn’t thundering in my ears.

“Understood, sir.” Etienne nodded. “You have excellent taste.”

They were talking about the clothes, weren’t they? Maxim’s eyes were on me as he said, “I do.”

There was an undercurrent to his words that made me shiver. As if it wasn’t the clothes he was complimenting. As if the excellence of his taste wasn’t in the craftsmanship ofmaterial, but something else. Something very much not related to clothes.

---