Page 17 of Dance of Devils
“At a strip club.”
My lip recedes between my teeth again. “That…was a mistake. I shouldn’t have been there.”
“Noshit,” he murmurs under his breath, his dark eyes narrowing sternly. “I prefer my dancers in one piece, Ms. Ellis.”
I nod, my lips twisting awkwardly as I finally meet his gaze.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “Really. For…all of it.”
Kir dips his chin just barely, sitting back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of his way-too-gorgeous face. His long, masculine fingers tap together, the veins and tendons of his hands and muscled forearms rippling.
“Um…my clothes…”
“I told you: I cut them off of you to help you.”
“Well, I’d like to go home now…”
Kir takes a slow breath. “That’s not happening.”
I stiffen. “I…What?”
Kir stays exactly as he is, one ankle over the opposite knee, his face impassive.
I blink incredulously. “Am I a prisoner?”
He cocks a brow. “You’re injured, and?—”
“Am I a prisoner?!” I yell.
“No,” he rumbles.
“Then I would like to go home. Please.”
He uncrosses his ankle from his knee and leans forward, resting his elbows on the thighs of his tailored trousers.
“T-thank you for what you did for me,” I say quietly, changing tactics. “But I would like to…”
I trail off as he suddenly stands and walks from the room without another word.
The seconds tick by.
What the actualfuck?
I glance around nervously, really taking in the insanely elegant bedroom—gorgeous paneled walls, huge windows covered with heavy, sumptuous shades, a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, dimmed low and casting kaleidoscoping fractals across the floor and the duvet over me.
Heavy footsteps announce his return. A second later, the man himself comes billowing back in like a storm cloud bringing lighting and thunder.
He’s carrying a bundle in his hands, which he puts down beside me.
It’s clothes. Women’s clothes, specifically: lounge pants, a cardigan, a bralette.
Kir clears his throat, then frowns, glancing at his phone. “Excuse me a moment.”
He walks over to the windows and starts furiously typing, his sharp jaw clenched with—tension? Anger?
When I turn my attention back to the clothes, my eyes widen.
They’re…exactly my size. Like,exactly. And when I look at the labels, my jaw drops. The cardigan is Khaite. The bralette is Brunello Cucinelli. The silk drawstring lounge pants are freakingChanel.
